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. 

Will you cry if I die?

When I was a little girl, at night when we were falling asleep, I would often to say to my sister three years older than I, 'would you cry if I died?' She would get really annoyed with me and refuse to answer my question and I would try and find different ways to ask the same question, hoping to trick her into an answer. Knowing that we were close, I simply wanted confirmation that she felt the same level of affection for me that I felt for her. I think it came from knowing even at that young age that we all experience loss differently. I wanted my sister to cry many tears if I were to die that night or the following day but I knew that she might not show her sadness that way. She was more likely to shut herself away and immerse herself in a really thick novel, her means of escape. I was thinking about this a few weeks ago when I overheard several conversations between my two boys, who just like my sister and I are three years apart in age. I heard them exchanging 'I love you's' a few nights in a row and I have been struck by the ease at which these words spilled from their lips.

A few weeks back my eldest boy went away on his first school residential trip, four nights away in Wales at the infamous Redridge. As the days grew closer to his departure, the younger brother said to his elder brother 'I'm going to miss you when you go away'. The elder  brother responded with a tender smile and reassured the younger one with words like 'I'll be back before you know it!' and 'but you get our room to yourself for 5 days!' The younger boy then looked his brother straight in the eyes and quietly and slowly said: 'I'll really miss you' and then they embraced. My youngest boy was really quite lost without his shadow nearby. it took him some time to adjust to being the only child in the house. We found ourselves talking about our missing family member all of the time, recollecting favourite stories and happy times shared with him.One night he chose to sleep in the top bunk, in his brother's bed but by morning I found him back in his own bed. At breakfast he told me 'it just didn't feel right!'. Another night, my husband and I took him out to dinner to try and take the edge off the sting of missing his brother. Fried chicken did the trick, although even then he pointed out which bits would be his brother's favourite. It's the crispy bits by the way.

Reunited! their embrace was like a Hollywood film, just perfect. I was almost a little jelous. I got a hug but only after little brother. Five days away, canoeing, kayaking, rock climbing, abseiling, mountain biking, archery, caving, paddle boarding, orienteering, night walks and he loved it all! And, he kept his clean and dirty clothes separate! I am so proud of my boy. When he stepped off the coach and his dad went to meet him, apparently husband nearly walked past him as he didn't recognise the tall kid with cornrows. Then, finally, that smile. That smile. I'm sure, like every other parent there to collect their child, that space in your heart with a shape that's a perfect match for your children's smile, slotted into place like a jigsaw puzzle and all was well again.

Sometimes, it's only when the journey is over that you realise the magic of the build up to it. I loved watching our friend Sadie braiding Zach's hair, I loved hearing them chatting so easily, exchanging excited thoughts and comments as they watched Jason and the Argonauts. I was so excited that he enjoyed the ritual of having his hair braided. It felt like an important initiation. Many, many times, I have told him stories of having my hair braided as a child. The pleasure and pain of it, the comfort of feeling strong knees either side of you, usually your cousin's or Aunt's and the pain of having your fro combed through. Of course, it took me back to my childhood, to those days spent kicking dust in the air. Right now, my younger one is having a bit of a hard time with friendships and communicating and making himself understood. Not an uncommon thing for dyslexics. Watching him struggling to navigate, as a mother makes my heart bleed. His father tells me, he'll be just fine. I know it to be true but still it stirred me in the night last night. All I want  is to see those boys endlessly, effortlessly, kicking dust in the air. Making noise, sweet to taste. Kicking dust in the air, making noise, sweet to taste. Sweet to taste. I want it all to be sweet to taste.

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!

  

True Love

Our first year of marriage, he was 21 and I was 20.

It's in the memories. Like the first time that he saw me and I waved from the car my friend was driving and he was riding his bike and although I didn't see, he was so flustered that he took a corner and fell off his bike! It's also like the time he rode home on his bike whilst carrying lilies like the ones I carried on our wedding day and how they were a little smashed from the journey which made me love them all the more. Like how when he doesn't want to forget something he writes a note in pen on his hand. It's in the way he touches my hair on the rare occasion that I wear it down. In the way that he looks across the room at me sometimes when it's just us two. It's in the way we fight and drive each other crazy and know that we're in this thing forever. Like when there are quiet times and hard times and not-on-a-wave-length times and your hearts bleed a little, but still, you know. It's present in the simple things, the shoulder rubs and favourite meals, the warming of cold toes against warm ones, watching stuff that you just don't find that funny to keep the other one company, it's in looking up from your phone and saying you care. It's in the letters we wrote each other twenty years ago and in this picture that I found right amongst the stash of letters today. It is in remembering how you felt at the beginning and knowing you want that forever and fighting to keep it a part of you always because that's the spark. That's what started it all and no matter what, you just don't want that ever to go out.

Linking up to:

Everybody hurts sometimes

Big sis, my big brother and my mama almost out of shot. 1973 I think.

At this seasonal time of year, the question often comes up 'what are you doing for Christmas?' It seems a simple and innocent question and yet it is one that often throws up so much tension and emotional turmoil. I was asked the question a couple of days ago and gave my response and then cordially returned the question. At first, the person I was speaking with responded generically, visiting her mother-in-law, seeing her sisters family etc but then quite quickly she began to unravel her family story, the troublesome dynamics, the split in family structure, the issues, the problems, the dysfunction. She was describing both her family and all of our families, yes, even yours, in all their splendid dysfunction. Before I knew it she was sobbing, her sadness and her burden and her grief spilling out of her. It was unexpected and brave, so very brave, all that she shared with me. I admired her and thought of her for the rest of the day and I felt honoured that her words had fallen upon my ears. 

Sometimes it feels like such a risk to share our darker side, our imperfections whether our very own or the impact of others around us that we hold dear. I know that feeling. I get a restless, sad sort of feeling often at this time of year, when I think of absent family and friends. I think of a widow, my favourite widow in the world. She's the sort that should have many books written about her, for her bravery and hard work and absolute selflessness. She is probably the only one I know that makes no demands or requests at Christmas, the one who says she'd happily spend time alone if that means others doing what they want to do, and you know, she means it. My mum is a very special lady and sure I'm a mummy's girl but these are true words. I can say that here and in a week or two I'll tell her I wrote about her again and she'll say 'for goodness sake Katy-Anne, whatever do you find to say!' in that humble slightly bemused way of hers. 

I think of her when I nurse my own sadness at yet another year passing without contact with my brother. I miss him. And I wonder if a time will ever come when his cup is half full? I wake up in the middle of the night in a sweat having dreamt that we were meant to meet and somehow our wires get crossed and each of us is at the wrong meeting place and we miss each other. Just like that, we miss each other and I have no clue whether I will ever see him again. No clue, either in the dream that I awake from nor in real life, there is no ending. It's not often that I speak of him these days, in bursts really. Recently my boys have been asking questions about him and at the week-end my lovely niece Jessica was asking of him too, carefully navigating the subject with the sensitivity of someone much older and wiser than her teeny nine years. I love sharing these tidbits with the little ones in my life, like little bites of our family stories passed down, ready to evolve and be re-told by new generations like folklore gone before us. It makes me feel better to think of it in this way at least, rather than bundles of devouring sadness that come out from the loft alongside the dusty christmas tree box. Where there is sadness there is also happiness and there is much joy to be had in the simple pleasures of this world, that's what inspired this christmas wish list. It was also pure joy watching those boys of mine decorating the tree this year and even more fun to watch my mother squirm as they haphazardly hung decorations. I loved seeing her itching to spread out a few of the baubles! The baubles were of course perfect - those boys of mine share my haphazard aesthetic!

During this festive season I will raise a glass of something alcoholic to my big brother. I will play 'friggin in the riggin', his original 7" vinyl copy which I believe I have stowed away in a cupboard in my bedroom. I will think of how utterly awesome we thought we were when we would listen to that record as kids. I will think of Cindy, my brother's dog from childhood and my great companion, who I took over caring for when he went to boarding school. I will think of all of the sweet things I whispered in Cindy's ear about my big brother, her owner. I will cross off another year and then I will carry on as before. I will also be thinking carefully before I ask the question, what are you doing for christmas?

My three siblings with Grandma Peppermint. Before I was born, probably christmas 1974. 

My big brother, the eldest of my siblings and my big sis, the second eldest.

Me with my big brother, I was three and he was ten. 1978

Grown Ups

My driving instructor used to say to me 'THINK IT, DO IT'. What a great metaphor for life and what a huge challenge it is to live out those words fully, for me at least. I've been having some restless nights and restless spells in the day thinking about certain relationships of mine that for one reason or another are a little strained. It has been the kind of situation where you really want to blurt out your true feelings because you know it would be such a relief and it would make you feel so much better, but you hold back because you have no clear sense of what the other person might feel. You speculate about their reaction in your head, you consider all the scenarios, you consider the mutual friends that you have, you think about what your hubby's response is, you think, think, think but you just don't DO IT! 

This morning though, I did it. I woke up and I muttered under my breath 'THINK IT, DO IT' and I sent a friend an honest message about something a little sensitive, a little uncomfortable. It felt so good, the relief. It was immense. It was the same kind of relief I experienced after I sent a heart felt message of apology to a girlfriend of mine after a spell of not being in touch. I'm embarrassed to say we had a grown up falling out. There was a stormy meeting that kicked it all off, followed by a meeting that was seemingly calm on the surface although we both knew a storm was brewing deep within. And so we parted after that meeting and consequently, silence followed. After I had played out all of the drama of what had led to our 'fall out' over and over again and we'd both had some time out to cool down, to cower, to sulk and then to sulk some more. And then I could bare the silence no more. Eventually I realised that regardless of all that had taken place and been exchanged, I simply missed her. I wanted her back in my life and so I told her so. In fact I may even have been a little quasi romantic and quoted Joni Mitchell ... 'Don't it always seem to go, you don't know what you got till it's gone'. It worked and she told me that her eyes were filled with tears as she read my words and replied 'It's not gone'. I learned a lot from that experience a few months back. I learned that I don't always express myself clearly and that sometimes it is simply better to 'THINK IT, DO IT' and deal with the consequences rather than falling in line with something you either don't want to do or don't feel morally right about doing because you feel you 'ought to' or to avoid confrontation. It's tricky stuff but it feels good to put things right whichever side of the fence you happen to be on in life's varied and challenging scenarios. 

My hubby and I were talking about how hard all of this grown up stuff is, you know grown up relationships and friendships. I was explaining to him that as a teenager I always refused to be pulled into any nonsense that demanded either picking sides or picking friends, even if that led to my friends dismay or on occasion meant that I ended up alone on an island separated from all the complex conditions of friendship and the various friendship groups. It never left me afraid, it never made me want to compromise on my position. Maybe that was the greatest gift that I received being the youngest of four children, that early understanding that however well things were going at some point it would be your turn to be on the outside whilst the rest of the tribe clung together in union on the inside. I wish that I had that same clarity now as I had back then. Now, in spite of my knowledge of the state of man,(by that I mean all of us, the human condition, behaviours that are universal) I am still utterly befuddled by that person (this is not an individual so much as a 'type') at the school gates that yesterday was literally licking my face with an eagerness to talk and gain my attention but that today barely makes eye contact and when our eyes meet they look on as if they don't recognise me? I am befuddled too by the woman at church that clearly does not like me, the one that seems to smile at everyone but simply gives me an elvis curled lip as recognition of my existence. And yes, I will admit that I now see this as a bit of a challenge and yes I have over thought it a little although even hubby said that she definitely gave me the elvis curled lip and not in a good way! 

Grown up relationships, they're funny things. All of those things that you say to children about not hurting the feelings of others, not being insensitive, never letting others feel left out, playing nicely, sharing your things, saying you're sorry, making things better. I'm not sure how good we are at it when there aren't a couple of grown ups alongside making sure (or perhaps forcing, perhaps ensuring) that it's all sorted out before we part ways. And maybe it doesn't matter since there's always one that delivers a heart felt apology and one that says 'I'm sorry' through clenched teeth and with an accompanying eye roll. Maybe you're like me and you relate to each of these characters on different days, at different times, in different situations. I have no great revelation to impart today, sometimes it just feels so good to 'THINK IT, DO IT'. I think I've covered my quota for today after sending one friend a message first thing, so explaining to another friend how unhappy her drink driving makes me is definitely for another day or maybe not, I need a good night's sleep! In any case today I will be drinking tea. Lots and lots of tea.

NB Sincerest thanks must go to my hubby who forced himself to stay awake at 1.30 in the early hours of this morning as I shared my thoughts about the subject of this blog post.  

Aunty Gita

I always begin her story by telling people that she taught herself to speak english by reading many, many mills & boon novels. They lined the bookshelf in her sitting room and had titles like 'Forgiven but not Forgotten', 'The Darkest Seduction', 'One Breath Away' and 'Temptation Island'. She trained in fashion in Czechoslovakia. She made pretty much all of the clothes that my three cousins wore and even made the skirt in this picture. She could make the most ornate and decorative and complicated styles but always chose the simplest for herself. She named her alpha male cat 'Ugly' and would tell him what an arrogant, pushy male he was whilst serving him a three egg omelette. She once hung a dead rat up outside of her building because she said it was too pretty to bury. I knew then that she was no ordinary woman and I stared at her admiringly as she smiled at me and said in her heavy czech accent, 'you understand katinka, yes?'. She would make a pineapple cheesecake every sunday and I would often be playing in my garden just next door and would smell its sweetness from afar. If she could hear me she would shout an invitation for me to make my way round through the blue painted iron gates that formed the entrance to my second home. She taught me to play 'Halma' and once spent an entire afternoon filling the underside of each individual pawn with a little cement so that the pawn's wouldn't blow over when we played the game outside, which we would often do for hours upon end. She always said that coffee was not a drink for the young and that it was something for adults, so when I do have a really strong shot of the dark stuff, in my mind I raise my cup to this great lady. I knew back then that life had not worked out quite as planned for this woman with so much passion, so much of the utterly indescribable but delicious 'something something' but even then as a five, six, seven, eight, nine and ten year old I knew she was making the most of each and every day, each and every moment. She couldn't help it, she was just built that way. I still think of our last day spent together, where I had her all to myself. She knew I was returning to England and took me into Accra just the two of us. We had never had such an outing before, we were always safely behind the blue painted iron gates. I knew then that it was a day to remember. That day she lavished me with attention and gifts that blew me away. Fan ice was not something I got to experience day-to-day, it was pure disneyland stuff! I kept catching her eye, she was just staring at me and smiling. She seemed so happy to be spoiling me but I remember feeling slightly anxious that she was spending so much money when I knew it didn't come her way easily. Now, as a grown up I realise that she was saying goodbye, she was drinking me in. I'm sure she knew then the seriousness of my father's illness and perhaps even that he was going to die. I imagine now that the sadness that she was tinged with was with knowing all that was to come, both for me and my family and in particular my mother. I think I have shared some of these memories of Aunty Gita here before, it's hard to know though because these memories come in waves with such gentle yet blurry regularity that I may have just imagined I wrote it here. It could be one of the times I've told those boys of mine 'things I remember from when I was little', which is a title of a game we play whenever they are restless at bedtime and need some extra time with mama. I still feel her so close, I can hear her words, how she talked all the time under her breath in Czech, how she would talk me through things she wanted me to do, still in czech but gesturing wildly to help explanations along. She was one of those warrior women, like the kind you read about in amazing books you find in charity shops unexpectedly. I like to call her 'Gita the Warrior', her story is pretty amazing.

Jungle Fever

When I was a young girl there was a couple that I was fascinated with, Aunty Perpetua and Uncle Peter. They were friends of my dad's originally and then became family friends and so they were not blood relatives. Once we moved to Ghana when I was four, as far as I know we lost touch with them but I always remember looking time and time again at a few pictures we had of them on their wedding day which we had in a family album. I don't recall if I asked my parents questions about Aunty Perpetua and Uncle Peter but I do remember wondering if anyone was ever going to mention the fact that Aunty Perpetua had married ... wait for it ... a white man! Did she realise I asked myself quietly? I just wasn't sure what the rules were about that kind of thing or how it even happened. I knew that my parents had met at a hospital where they were both working, nurse alongside doctor amidst romance. I also knew that my parents stood out at times and that lots of people had to get used to the idea of them being a couple but they were my parents so these things still felt normal. In Ghana my parents knew three other couples who were mixed couples where the man was black and the woman white. This certainly wasn't common place but more common place than the Aunty Perpetua/Uncle Peter combination, in my eyes at least.     

For many years I would unconsciously pull out that family photo album and look at the pictures of Aunty Perpetua and Uncle Peter, still with this curiosity and fascination much like the one I had when I discovered a black woman smoking in a public place. I had overheard some grown ups nearby talking about 'those kind of women' and had wondered what that had meant. Again I remember thinking, so what are the rules about black women smoking? If they could smoke, could 'those women' also marry white men? It was very confusing, especially because my own mother was white and had married a black man and she also smoked cigarettes and even though her smoking made my dad cross, she still did it as often as she could! 

At age 20 and 21 my boyfriend and I decided to get married after a year together but geographically apart much of the time. I didn't know anyone from my peer group that had been married or was even planning marriage and so making decisions about the ceremony, the dress, the vows and all those weddingy details was neither familiar or of particular interest. But there was one familiar image that kept coming to mind in those eight weeks leading up to getting married, the image of Aunty Perpetua and Uncle Peter on their wedding day. A number of people asked me then and still ask me now, how I decided on what to wear on my wedding day. Well, it was easy! I owned one dress and I asked a friend from church with sewing skills to replicate it in cream and then I dug out that familiar family album and found the picture of my black aunty with her white husband and told my mother that I wanted to look 'kind of like Aunty Perpetua' which is how I decided on a plain head wrap. My hubby and I still often talk about this couple, this picture of them on their special day, these role models of ours who we do not know or socialise with or even see and yet who have had such an impact on my life and now our life together. I was reminded of Aunty Perpetua and Uncle Peter once more recently when hubby and I watched 'A Bronx Tale' for the first time. Regardless of the fact that I am a huge fan of gangster movies, a huge fan of biopic movies, a huge fan of Robert De Niro, what blew me away most was the depiction of a young black woman and a young italian man, a 'mixed' couple, falling in love amidst all the stuff good and bad, simple and complex that runs alongside mixed relationships. Just the other day my littlest one pointed at the tv and said 'she's like you and he's like daddy' referring to a couple on screen, he looked slightly bemused for a second and I wondered ... am I his Aunty Perpetua or someone else's?    

Filling Gaps

Not much has occurred since I was last in this place. First I was ill, then the littlest of the family and now my other two family members have succumbed and full circle I now have an eye infection. We are a family on comedy roller skates passing the baton of illness along to one another with a few drops in between, this is NO fun ride!

Yesterday was the first time in just over two weeks that I have ventured further than the ten minute walk to the kids school and the nearby shops, such has been the basic living due to illness. My mother laughed and laughed yesterday when I described my excitement getting onto the smelly bus for my first trip into the city in a long time! Oh the excitement of being out of the house, out of my immediate surroundings and in and amongst commuters and people with 'proper' jobs, observing everyone with places to go, people to see. I sat and imagined living the life of the solicitor sat behind me, who was on his phone the whole of the twenty minute journey, ferrying information from one group to the next, calling people back to cancel and confirm meetings, sounding increasingly panicked whilst all at once professional. I can't imagine that life anymore. 

 Life has felt a little blurry for a while but for the last couple of days it has felt all the more surreal because I have been wearing sunglasses to deter myself from scratching my irritated eyes and to prevent people from being traumatised by my 'new look', they call it 'pink eye' for a reason! When you wear sunglasses during the day when the sun is not present, people are confused and generally find you quite pompous it would seem. I got followed in several shops, an eye roll from a woman serving me, a giggle from some school girls and a look of pity from a fair few who I presume thought I had a hang over! So, in summary not only do I not feel great but now I feel judged too. Awesome! 

I do enjoy the sifting that seems to come from these quiet days, sifting through old letters and photographs and old art work and journals. Watching favourite films and being instantly transported back to times gone by, the Rocky Boxset triggered a lot of that. Suddenly I was thinking about my first kiss with my first boyfriend, picturing myself so clearly outside the front door of my mum's house. I began recollecting moments spent with 'Panay', a boy who made school all worthwhile! He would follow me around school flattering me, enjoying watching me squirm with shyness and embarassment, calling me 'Whitney' and telling me to always wear my hair down like my namesake. I was suprised by these sudden floods of clear memories, only to realise that both of these boys were 'Rocky Balboa's' in their own right, both strong characters with a few rough edges and a focus and desire to live a good and ambitious life. Both of these boys hugely shaped my sense of self worth, they made me feel attractive, told me I was clever and beautiful and certainly made me feel that way, all at a time that my identity was really awakening. I will be forever grateful to these two men who played such a part in my young life and who built such confidence in me during my teenage years. I am of course forever grateful to Mr.Stallone too, for creating a character that I was so drawn to and for making me believe that love was all about filling gaps! I still believed that when I met that man of mine, I still believe it now seventeen years later - he fills gaps, big time!

On being a mummy's girl

A rare photo of mum and I when I was little - child no.4 didn't have many taken! 

I would never ever think to describe myself as a mummy's girl. I'm just NOT one of those people. I do not think of mum as my 'best friend'. I do not tell her everything ... well ok, I do, but not because she is my best friend but because she just somehow brings that out in me. I simply feel much much better after I have spoken to mum, particularly if I am feeling a little upset or overwhelmed. My mum is very funny you see. She is very no nonsensey and very to the point, sometimes abrupt (that's the nurse in her). My mum thinks I am really funny. Apart from my hubby, I'm not sure that anyone thinks this is the case. I can guarantee however, that each time I have a conversation with mum she will say at least once 'Oh Kate, you are funny!' Sometimes she'll add 'you've such a wicked sense of humour' and when she says either I swell with pride, I love and enjoy the compliment. I am however NOT a mummy's girl, I couldn't be one, I don't have the credentials.

When I was a young girl living in Ghana, there came a time when all three of my older siblings moved away to their boarding schools and I was home alone with my mum and dad. I remember those times when I both longed for my siblings whom I missed terribly and at the same time treasured that time alone with my parents. As one of four siblings I was used to sharing my parents and despite my siblings 'always' begrudgingly telling me how I was spoilt by my father as I was his 'baby', I still relished this one-to-one time with my parents. When I was about eight perhaps a little older my father began to fall ill, being a doctor it never occurred to me that he would not know how to cure his own symptoms, yet alone admit to them. This phase was the beginning of me spending precious time with my mother, time that would ordinarily have been spent exclusively with my father, for I was a daddy's girl. Between the ages of eight when my father became ill and age ten when he passed away something extraordinary happened between my mother and I, something that I don't believe I will ever really be able to put into words. This period was of course at times undeniably sad, tense and fraught and yet when I think back to this time sadness is not what clouds it. It was a time of getting to know my mother, the real her. She revealed many of the layers beneath the surface that had up until that point been covered by dusty and general labels like dressmaker, cook, food shopper, daughter, dog owner, busy bee, head shaker, tutter, secret smoker, ex-pat, wife of a doctor.

Over the years, the peak of her faults have been a) never grounding me b) telling me she trusted me and knew that I'd make the right decisions c) supporting me financially through my education d) supporting my husband and young family and being an incredible example to my children e) listening for hours and I mean hours about anything and everything that will flow from my head to my mouth!!! Today I must salute this humble warrior mother of mine, who shows such strength, such dignity, such support, for which I am very grateful and for that I will buckle and admit that perhaps, on occasion, I just might be ... a mummy's girl. 

Painting the town Red

Finally some time alone with that man of mine. The boys taken care of and away for the night and that leaves enough time for an impromptu dinner at a lovely restaurant nearby, deep fried tofu and rambutan duck washed down with a bottle of wine. We clinck glasses at least six times, twinkling with joy at this time alone, time together. The night still young, we move on to a pub close by and enjoy a few drinks there too, all whilst talking excitedly about music, film, travel the same old, same old. Oh how we have missed this! We amble home, cosying up to the cold night. Once home, another drink to complete the scene and onto the Bourne Trilogy, which we are happily remembering. The european film locations quickly stir our wanderlust and we talk and talk about our plans, our hopes and we laugh, really laugh! We fall into bed with me promising to take that man of mine out for breakfast - a favourite past time of his.

We potter around before heading out to the delightful Cherry Reds Cafe Bar for pancakes and syrup and a fabulous veggie breakfast, where I savour the time on my hands and take a few shots of that man of mine ordering breakfast and of the lovely space at Cherry Reds. We talk, of course about those boys of ours and how they make us both scream and smile, we talk about the days when it was just us two, the many breakfasts alone that we had before our two became four. I suddenly pay attention, real attention and you know, that man of mine is a keeper, a real keeper.