You have my whole heart. You always did. You’re the best guy. You always were.

― Cormac McCarthy, The Road

For Flynn

Today you said “Mummy, you are a very foolish Chicken”, then you presented me with today’s dram of magic. It was a picture of all of us together before the total destruction. There we all were perfectly preserved, on the page, on a pirate ship, with you in the Crow’s nest and you had even included Balthazar as a crew member. It was so beautiful. You drew pictures like this for months. On your birthday you said “Mum it’s really sad I’m the only kid in year one who doesn’t have a dad.”I feel terrible that you need to even consider these things.

But what a dad you did have. Just before he died he bought you some artist pencils all contained and wrapped in a beautiful piece of Italian linen. It was wrapped up in his T-shirts, he must have forgotten to give it to you but I do remember when he bought it for you. It was after you heard that Julia had gone to university. I told you that Julia wouldn’t be able to babysit for us anymore because she was going to a university called Cambridge where she was going to learn how to be a Doctor. You said  “Is there one for people who want to be artists?” I told you that was Art School and you could go there if you worked really hard on your art; for the next few weeks you asked me daily- “How many more days until I get to go to Art School?” You have looked after those pencils so well, I’m so pleased.

A while ago we took you camping to Arundel Castle with a massive gang of friends, not long after Daddy died. It was  posh camping really. There were yurts and bell tents and they provided us with a hearty stew and endless red wine upon arrival. I knew it would be good for you and Celeste and lots of fun; but mostly I knew this was what Daddy would want me to be doing instead of sitting at home and letting life pass me by. I promised your dad that I would continue as we had started and I wouldn’t waste a single second but this trip might have been a bit too much too soon. You seemed to sense this and as I was loading up the car you said- “Are you struggling Mum?” You had obviously heard this word from another conversation. I told you I was a little bit because there was an awful lot of packing to be done. To which you replied “I can help.” I said that that was very sweet of you but we needed to drive from there to a christening and I needed to choose a dress and they were all hanging up really high, too high for you to reach. So you told me to choose what dress I wanted to wear and the you would “just get a ladder.”

After the trip you and Alfie decided that you could handle all the loading of this stuff into the boot. It took you ages but you carried load after load on the trollies and loaded up the car. Someone heard you saying to Alfie “don’t pile it too high in the boot, otherwise my mum won’t be able to see through the window.”

I’m not sure how old you will be when you will stumble across this blog. Maybe they will have removed it from the internet by then because of all of the swear words and terrible analogies but once you do find it, I hope you will be proud that even at 6 you were able to perform miracles.

You can perform magic; you can heal with a single look. And you really make me laugh. In the car the other day Kanye West came on the car stereo system with ‘Last Call’ and you said ” I think it’s going to be a ‘No’ for him” Have you been watching X- Factor on the stairs again, instead of going to bed? Then you said “He sounds like a D.J., he’s okay but he’s definitely got a D.J. voice,” then you asked if he would be the D.J at your upcoming school disco in the Chiswick Catholic Centre Parish Hall. You carry my heart.

But I know a wizardry
Can take a wisp of sun-fire
And round it to a planet, and roll it through the skies,
With cities, and sea ports, and little shining windows,
And hedge-grows and gardens, and loving human eyes.

A falling star fell from your heart and landed in my eyes
I screamed aloud, as it tore through them, and now it’s left me blind.

I took the stars from my eyes, and then I made a map

And knew that somehow I could find my way back
Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too
So I stayed in the darkness with you.

 – Florence and the Machine. Cosmic Love.

Dave, the carpenter and I sat at the kitchen table today, drinking tea and drawing up the plans for all the woodwork to be done in the kitchen. As always the conversation got onto James and his “very pretty face”, as Dave put it. Some might have said that James was ethnically ambigeuous, one of the very few people I know who when bearded could have passed for both Jewish and Muslin. We all quizzed him on his race but he never really did give it away. It seemed weird that it was just Dave and I drawing up plans when it had always been the three of us, the drawing part was always James’ contribution.

When he died, I went a bit mad in trying to freeze things as they were. I refused to wash some of his clothes for fear of loss of smell. I went to Cuter and Gross and had his sunglasses lenses replaced with non-prescription ones so I could wear them. (Who buys their sunglasses from Cutler and Gross?). I found some photos on his phone  that he’d taken in Locke, of hats he was trying on and would buy once his hair had fallen out, so I bought one of these hats in some grand gesture of belated support, but every time I wear it it just makes me sad. I went to Toywatch to have his watch shortened so that Celeste might wear it, as Flynn will have his proper one. I took the Pashley Governor to the local Bike shop for a make -over and the owner said “Oh Mr Anderson’s Govener, has he had the saddle nicked again?” I tried nodding in an effort to keep him and this possible scenario alive as if this might be true, as it would have been a couple of weeks earlier.

Then when that didn’t work I went shopping, this too was lacking in appeal as there was nobody to hide the purchases from or shock with the amount. When I had been very badly behaved and ‘borrowed’ James’ card, I would often try to hide the crime/purchase or somehow make it blend in with all the other stuff so that he wouldn’t notice. In response to this, for the response was always the same, he would tell me my supper was ready and I would hear the cork being pulled from a nice bottle of red. Then instead of my meal between my knife and fork, there would be my purchase. I would proceed to sit down as if I hadn’t seen a large new with tags handbag between my knife and fork. “How’s the food?” he would ask-‘Amazing, worth every penny. I think I’ll have seconds’. Once the purchase was a hugely expensive plaster bust from an artist who lived nearby. I’m not sure how I thought I could make this blend in, it took him a few days but there it was on my plate. I just laughed when he put that one out and so did he. So after he died shopping and weirdly even stealing lost all the fun.

One of the things that I’ve noticed since he died is how much people like to tell you  about their friends who have lost their husband. I hear very useful comments like- ‘She was knocking a bottle of wine every night’ – or ‘it’s been five years and she’s only now resurfacing’. Out of respect to my husband, that will never be me. We gave our children the most idyllic start in life; a life filled with fun and laughter and love and dancing and I promised him that I would restore that in full and that is exactly what I plan to do.

Some things will take a bit more time to restore than others, I do feel so guilty that I no longer dance around my kitchen; The Changeling can’t dance and anyone who has ever given George Michael an ear knows Guilty feet ain’t got no rhythm. But this will be the first thing to be restored. In the early days, there was breathing to be done before dancing could even be considered.

In those same early days, I got a text message from my Friend Alex, it said : ‘Pipsy just asked me if I was a bee and my bee husband died, whether I’d just keep buzzing or whether I’d sting someone so I wouldn’t have to keep being a bee. Just wanted to say well done for keeping on buzzing.’

Also during this time Victor sent me a letter the first line read -‘They say you can count your true friends on one hand, I have lost a finger.’

For Victor. Just keep Buzzing andI will too.

 

“You have to carry the fire.”
I don’t know how to.”
Yes, you do.”
Is the fire real? The fire?”
Yes it is.”
Where is it? I don’t know where it is.”
Yes you do. It’s inside you. It always was there. I can see it.”
― Cormac McCarthy, The Road

I get the: “Is it helping?” question a lot about  punting  this blog along through my river of grief. If it’s moving me along nicely and honestly it hasn’t helped me, but that was never the point.

I felt such a compulsion to do justice to memory and story. It is testament to what a dark individual I am that rather than diving into all the self-help books that were given to me when James died, I found that most solace was to be found in Dante’s Inferno, Frankenstein and Wuthering Heights. The Only book that was to provide any help was C.S. Lewis- A grief observed. In it he recounts a memory of meeting a man he hadn’t seen in over twenty years. He had somehow reconfigured this man over time,so much so that he was unrecognisable as the man who stood in front of him. The man had not changed at all but he had been transformed by the unreliability of memory. I didn’t want this to ever happen to me and so this blog was born.

The blog has not helped me. What the blog has done for me or rather to me, is hurt me, because I am no longer able to swipe left. When I sit down at my computer and plunge into my pain, there is nowhere left to hide, and it’s hideous.

So why do it? Well the answer in on my T-shirt in the photo above.

Love.

Love for my son and my daughter, love for my husband, his love for my son and my daughter, their love for him, Really there’s nothing else. And I do not love lightly.

I won’t always been experiencing this level of pain because honestly it’s unsustainable. It’s humanly impossible to navigate through this amount of pain and truly one really needs to find some, if any way out of it. Grief is like Anthea Turner, you can take it in bits, but I couldn’t eat a whole one.

This blog originally set out to chart my progress in terms of the skills I’ve never had, nor needed, but needed to require. But the truth is I haven’t learnt to do anything. I’m still pretty useless. I can’t swim and I never did learn how to blanch a tomato. But I have learnt some things.

I’ve learnt how to spell the word lose, thanks to Gautom telling me “but you wrote it at least five times in that post!” Apparently it doesn’t have two os. I’ve learnt that Dave our  carpenter thought I “went on a bit” in my ‘What to do” post.

I’ve learnt that some people are still uncomfortable when I mention James’ name and squirm a bit, but I haven’t learnt why this is. I have learnt though that when this does happen that I want to shout it over and over again in a manner akin to that bloke in The life of Brian who shouts: “Jehovah, Jehovah”

I have learnt that like Sia, I’ve got an elastic heart. I’ve learnt that I really do love a beard and that doesn’t seem to be going away. I’ve learnt to treat time with the respect  that it deserves and that Reindeers are not better than people.

 I can’t believe what I did for us. Crash and we burn into flames. Stitch myself up and I’d do it again. I can’t believe what I did for love. – David Guetta

For Claire Harwood.

My friend Jan has been taking me to see lots of dance pieces at Sadlers Wells of late. She’s convinced that my healing is to be done through the medium of dance. Last week I rocked up a bit late and said,  “So what are we seeing tonight?” She told me a bit about it and I think the word ‘experimental’ was used. The programme description said- ‘An evening of new work featuring three wildly different takes on intimacy, passion and the banality of love….’ I preferred Jan’s description.

She brought her friend’s daughter along too. It was amazing I must say. A bit of Drum n’ base mixed with Capoeira. And then just before the interval came the experimental piece. Five dancers stood in a line, men and women, all completely naked. One had a beard and a bun. Yep that’ll do it. They moved a bit, mostly small shuffles and hand movements but they mostly stood still, just in a line for about five minutes. We sat with raised eyebrows and dry smiles and had much to discuss at the interval. As we sat on the tube that evening heading West, I thought, surely you only see that kind of thing in London.

This city is one of the greatest loves of my life. I’m of the Samuel Johnson school of thought, always. A few weeks ago my old University mate Jenny came for a visit, she was staying with another friend in Dalston, but she hadn’t been there for years, so I told her it had changed a bit. As she left I said, “You’ll probably see a lot of bearded men in Top hats and monocles.” When I text her that evening to see if this was the case, I got the following text: “I watched two grown men roller skate down Dalston High street (at different times). One was holding a horned goat’s skull to his face-looking through the eyeholes.” Ahh London.

I love that when I’m finished getting high on the fumes from all the 4x4s in Chiswick, I can simply pop into ‘Oxygen’ in Acton for some fresh air. It’s a place, roughly the size of a football pitch where you can free jump, trampoline (they have around thirty) or brush up on your tightrope walking skills. It’s an amazing place, and very good for making you feel good.

And then there are London neighbors, surely also superior. When I moved into our home, our next-door neighbor was a very glamorous divorcee with two daughters. The youngest ended up babysitting for us over the years. During the summer her mum asked if she could spend some time living with me, as she was worried she might be up to all sorts in her absence; she wasn’t. It was such a joy having her and we stayed up chatting ’til the wee small hours. Some of the best advice and really the only bits I’ve really taken onboard are from my sixteen-year-old neighbor Maddie, and it’s working out quite well. They moved not long after, not far and we still see each other but I am lost without them.

The other night I got into my car, I felt an urge to listen to my music really loudly, and I just drove. I travelled along the river into town past Cleopatra’s needle, Sir Thomas Moore and one beautiful bridge after the next. I basked in it and it was divine. Past Roman ruins, shrines and breathtaking buildings, all solitary and majestic. The beauty was astounding. This is therapy. If anything can get me through this, it’s London.

Everyday I’m shufflin.

For Maddie, because I know how much you miss this place.

“The man watched him. Real life is pretty bad?

What do you think? 

Well, I think we’re still here.

A lot of bad things have happened but we’re still here.

Yeah.

You don’t think that’s so great.

It’s okay.― Cormac McCarthy, The Road

Being an inferior  cook to James came with its advantages, mainly that where choice was offered, the kids would always choose for him to make and serve their meals. Sometimes it’s glorious being rubbish at stuff. So as a joke when he was at work and I was doling out their gruel, I would accompany this with a ditty of some sort, like a condiment as it made the food more fun. I usually sang ‘The Worst pies in London’ taking care to really slow down and time the line: ‘Is that just revolting? All greasy and gritty. It looks like it’s molting and tastes like… well pity”, Just as I was dishing out what was actually pretty good cottage pie.

If I had enough energy I would add an entrée in the form of a dance and so the kids forgot that they were eating something from the understudy, as their mother was dancing like a dervish around the kitchen swaying invisible rolls of my Victorian cloth to the tune. They loved this. It seems like my last performance was quite some time ago as Flynn asked me the other day -“Why don’t you sing that disgusting song anymore Mum?” I thought long and hard about this. I’m still thinking about this. It may have had something to do with not feeling strong enough at the time, in the early days.

A few weeks after James died, I took the children back to Ireland for the first time, I did it by myself. I think we can now all assume that James had always previously booked the flights, got us to the airport and taken control of the passports. (The one time I took over we went to the wrong airport minus the passports, see being rubbish at stuff rocks, you don’t even have to hold your own passport).

I didn’t realise that I needed to check bags in on-line so I got a shock when I was told at the Aerlingus check in desk that I now had to pay £80 for the tiniest suitcase in the world. But my shock was nothing compared to the poor desk clerk when she saw my reaction to the news. I cried…. a lot. I mean full on sobbing, even I was shocked and I couldn’t stop really and truly. I have no idea why this wounded me the way it did but I felt like the whole world was out to get me.

Poor Flynn and Celeste had seen my tears before this- I felt it was important that they always see my grief and more importantly that I recover from it- but this was on another scale. I had done most of my grieving in private. I think I cried for a solid hour. They stood beside me like sentries, one on each side. They were like dragons. I felt like Daenerys Targaryen. The poor girl was apologising like her life depended on it and begging me to stop crying.

At Heathrow baggage reclaim we waited, not for long. The first case that came out was mine, with this massive sticker on it. There’s a lesson here somewhere.

The reason I don’t sing The Worst Pies in London anymore is because it would have made me sad, as sad as I was in that airport. The reason being, that is part of my past. We need to create new traditions now, ones that don’t hurt. New songs. That must be our new priority.

For Julia Simons.

If I could write words

Like leaves on an autumn forest floor,

What a bonfire my letters would make.

 If I could speak words of water,

You would drown when I said

I love you.’

Spike Milligan (Dead Irish Poet)

 Nothing prepares you for the finding of things. Now I really know what Tori Amos meant when she sang “I’ve got a bowling ball in my stomach, got a desert in my mouth” it does feel like you are being crucified.

The first thing I found was the Sat. Nav. history. The last entry was Chelsea and Westminster. I found that most odd. My friends joke that I could easily pass ‘The Knowledge’. I know almost all the streets in London and could advise the best route to most of them. So I have no idea why I needed to be directed electronically to a hospital next to my first marital home.

Then I came home and found other things. I found that my front door was no longer my front door where I agonised over which shade of grey (my friends call my house 50 shades of grey) to paint it; It was a door that my husband would never walk through again. I found his favourite mug, and his addidas Mc Queen high tops by the bed. I found whole cupboards of toxic and non-toxic pills and potions. God, I thought, we really were in for a hell of a ride. I found a photo of his first car, a fiat Punto. The only car in London that was so rubbish that when it was stolen was returned soon after by the thieves. I found a card with a picture of a tiger on it because James used to say that I had tiger-eyes. In his wallet I found a tiny piece of paper where I’d written a note from a two-year-old Flynn announcing the coming of a new sibling. This was presented in a ring box with a pea, the size of the baby (Celeste), on James’ thirty second birthday. He’d kept it since then snuggled away between his bankcards.

On his phone I found a photo he’d taken of the kitten he would present to us on Christmas morning, which he’d been hiding for weeks at his mother’s house. More photos of him and the J. Walter Thompson Shell team caning it daily at Christmas time. Weirdly, I  found a text from ‘whinging neighbour guy’ asking him if he’d like to go cycling around Richmond park, so even he liked him in the end. I also found all the things on the sky planner that he was recording, mostly master chef.

But the worst finds were to come.

I found all the photos from my hen night and a book that the chief hen had made. In this book was a printed version of some questions that she had given James. This game is called Mr and Mrs and I had to guess James’ answers to questions like:

What was Odharna wearing on your first date?

Not a great deal.

If Odharna were famous, who would she be?

George Bush! (My very worst person)

What will Odharna avoid like the plague?

Rare meat and mice,

What would Odharna grab in a fire?

A blanket, her books, the Conran lamp, her St Tropez.

In that order.

What is Odharna’s best feature?

Her incredibly good nature.

What is Odharna’s worst habit?

Becoming irritable and grumpy if she hasn’t eaten, much like a child.

What’s Odharna’s most endearing quality?

Assuming the position.

What do you love most about Odharna?

Her tummy, her strong opinions, her curiosity, the way she dresses and her sense of style.

How many pairs of shoes does she own?

16, although some of them are so small I’m not sure they technically count as shoes.

Three words you would use to describe how you feel about marring her.

YEAH, YEAH, YEAH!

Then came came the worst. In the filing cabinet as I was looking for the order of service for our wedding, I found a note that James gave the driver of our Karma Kab to give to me on the way to the church on our wedding day. It said:

My silvery fish. So if all goes to plan (which it might well not) you should be reading this note on the way to the church sitting in your Karma kab. I just wanted to say before everything goes a bit manic how much I love you and how much marrying you actually means to me. I just can’t believe how lucky I am that I get to spend the rest of my life with you. Anyway, I better let you enjoy the journey. See you in church. Your husband to be. James.

When you Love someone who is terminally ill, it is a life less ordinary, not just because of all the consultations, pills and potions. You never get to talk about the future because for you as a pair, that doesn’t exist. And so you need to love this person in a more compressed way, almost more densely. On James’ last day in this world, we were in a friend’s garden drinking champagne at sunset as our and Alex K’s children ran around with head torches chasing fleeting foxes in the woods and I told James we needed to leave. He said that he wasn’t ready to leave because it was so beautiful. That same morning he said to me “I’m just so happy” and I thought–I did that- I’m responsible for that. Loving James to within an inch of his life was the greatest achievement of mine.

For Laura Graham.

Every Christmas I was given a yearly subscription to a design magazine. This was a staple in my stocking, one year it was missing and I said- “Dude, where is my subscription to Living etc?” It followed shortly, with the profussest of apologies. These magazines feature some really beautiful homes, mainly in London and there’s a bit about the owners, usually pretty smug interior designers and architects. They give a sort of interview and say the profoundest things such as: “ I just love how the light streams through the glass ceiling in the morning when I’m having my coffee” or ‘We wanted a home that connects totally with the elements outside” Or “We just love serching the flea markets of Paris for that special find.” Barf. We we we we we we we. we. Fuck off!! So I’m bitter, who knew?

I made an error back in May; I thought it might be a good idea to go on the Living Etc. tour. I must have worried that I have not been punished enough and must somehow penalise myself further. This tour involves going to see all those amazing houses featured in the magazine. The houses were amazing but all I could see was the perfection of those lives. Wifes with husbands (who were alive), perfect children and prefect crockery and gardens were they entertained their perfect friends. Perfect light that came through their perfect glass ceilings to caress them as they sipped their perfect coffee- fair-trade organic Guatemalan, obviously. My stomach was in knots as I toured these houses. On the way out of one, I bumped into one of the mums from school. She was chatting to the editor who was standing guard at the doorway of this house. She said to the editor that she should take a look at my house and feature it. So this editor was keen and took my email address. I panicked, our house could never go into one of these magazines because it would need a blurb. As an introduction to the houses they always add a blurb about the owners, who they are, sometimes how they met.

I was so worried about the ‘Blurb’ that would be added that I never emailed her back. Our house is featured on a website where people can come and stay while on holiday when we are away.. The blurb for our place on the website is “He works in T.V. adverts, she’s a dancer-turned-teacher of literature, and as a perky family of four they like to visit their holiday home at the seaside.” It’s almost worse than the special find in flea market comment. I  decided- Lovely home in Chiswick owned by young widow in unimaginable pain, anxious and avoids large crowds might not give off that cool, hip sexy look they are going for. So I declined. She somehow tracked the photos down off the website and has asked if Celeste and Flynn’s bedrooms could be featured in the upcoming edition.

I have a passion for design, more of an obsession really. I’m a regular at almost all the design shows or Art fairs that London has to offer, well at least I was. James used to want me to do this for a living but I have no interest in making other people’s homes beautiful, I only ever wanted to make ours so. Now I bin the magazines without ever even opening them; they don’t hold the same appeal now that there is no more nest to create. Even so, I do still want to tell James that the kids rooms will be featured. I also want to tell him that despite the fact that I hate the cat, that I drove all the way to Belgravia to get him an over-priced Mungo and Maud collar, because the ones in the local pet shop weren’t up to scratch (obvious yet unavoidable pun) even though you can’t even see it under all the hair. I want to tell him that I regularly tell this same cat off for just coming and going as he pleases, staying away for whole days sometimes.When I hear the cat flap flip,  I have even heard myself uttering : “Balthazar, what time do you call this? We have been out of our minds with worry, you just can’t keep this up.” And I really want to tell him that Saul from Homeland is actually Inigo Montoya from The Princess Bride. But I can’t because I’ve encountered a design fault.

Vorsprung durch Technik.

I come from a very big family. To be honest it’s huge. I have never met anyone with a bigger family than mine. Where to start….. Well my father is the eldest of eighteen children. Yip. No twins and all born from my astonishing grandmother who is always in my head when I am silently annoyed that our nanny is running an hour late. God she was a woman. I have thought of her so, so much since James died, I believe any strength that I have, even the tiniest shreds, have come from her. Her own daughters are no wallflowers either. So last count I have, on this side of the family forty two cousins. We, the next generation, are now having or are starting to have our own children so the numbers may go over the hundred mark soon. Years ago there was a family reunion and we all had to wear nametapes. When I first met James, someone in my family, I can’t remember who said- “What do you mean he’s an only child?”

It’s not all been plain sailing in this clan as you might imagine. There is a twenty  five year age gap between my father and his youngest sister. His sister is almost the same age as my eldest sister. And throughout their lives they have been dotted all over the globe even to the furthest reaches of Equator and Japan. They are a very interesting lot. There are often referred to by number they come in the family rather than name, which I love. My most effective drunk test is to list them in order of appearance. Weirdly I hardly know any of my cousins, what they do or what their children are called and it’s such a shame. At James’ funeral I met lots of them for the first time!

I knew I had a large family when I was about twenty. I was working for a summer in London as an Au pair for an Irish family living in South Kensington. They were bankers and worked long hours. They needed me to take their children to the local Catholic school. One morning while running this errand I saw a man in the playground playing with his son. I then heard him call his son’s name to get him to line up. I watched him for a while- There’s a Cassidy if ever I saw one- I thought, but had never met this man before. I decided to find out. I nervously approached him and said, “Hi, I’m Odharna, I think you are my uncle?” Anyone else might have found this odd to say the least. Not a Cassidy, because they have come to realise that the chances are that the bearer of these lines will be correct. I was. He was my Uncle Lonan. I didn’t see him again for another eighteen years. But I did do a stint teaching at the London Oratory where his son studied and I’m sure I must have taught him unbeknownst to the fact that he was my cousin. He assures me this can’t have been the case, as he would have remembered my name. But I met him again along with his sister and their mother who I had never met. They had all of us over for Sunday lunch a few months after James died. Lonan’s wife cooked a beautiful home cooked meal and it was wonderful being surrounded by this much family.

A few weeks later my sister came over and we had another cousin to dinner with her gorgeous Fiancée. We had the best time but I did think- this wouldn’t be happening if James were alive. James loved to hear stories about this massive family. One of his favourites was about an American cousin I have who was the only survivor from his battalion (Engine 3 Ladder 12) of N.Y.F.D. and was attending the carnage after the first tower was hit on September 11^th. An image of this cousin’s back has become iconic. He had the scene encapsulated with the names of his comrades tattooed onto his back.The whole thing took 9 long months and was his own therapy. I weep every time I see it, even more so now. I am achingly proud to call him my cousin.

One good thing that has come out of this unholy mess is that I’m now getting to know my cousins which is a small consolation but it’s still something good. The irony is that James would have loved to have met them too.

For Jenny Conlon- Cousin number 22

We have this cat called Balthazar. He looks sweet in the photo but he is the feline version of Idi Amin

I am plagued by this cat, I sometimes think it’s J’s final joke to me. He’s also a misogynist and will only now deal with Flynn now that James is gone. He is trouble and strife like the most nagging wife. The neighbours now know me as crazy widow lady who runs like the wind after him, across the street in an effort to save his sorry ass. I owe him nothing but must keep him alive for at least a while longer so that Flynn doesn’t think that everything just goes and dies. The cat knows this, I know he bloody knows this.

He waits until I have children in bed and I’m getting cozy on the sofa and he then jumps on one of the kids heads and bites them. There are screams and when I get into their darken room usually Celeste (because Balthazar will always choose to punish a female) tells me “Balthazar bit me”. In this time he will have positioned himself as far away from the crime as possible and be sitting purring and looking at me with “Yea? Do one!” eyes.

A few weeks ago I took the kids to our place in West Wittering. I left Balthazar in London, with lots of food and a neighbour to feed him. My mother in law loves him and feels he is being neglected so she came to check on him.We were only away for a couple of nights but he wasn’t happy.

He woke that morning as Balthazar but by noon had morphed entirely into Bobby Sands. He made his own political dirty protest and my poor mother in Law was left with this almighty mess on our very light grey carpets. There has been a lot of clearing of shit up over the years in this house. A year or two ago, a naked Celeste came into my bedroom, stood in front of me, squatted and just did a shit on the carpet there and then. Then she just left. I was sitting on my bed with the laptop and was in such shock that I dropped the Mac. Well it more slid off my knee, straight onto the turd and it fell on its side, you know, the side with all those tiny holes for cables and firewires. The shit had squeezed into these. So I’m clearing shit of my computer, literally, I had a collection of tiny long lego poles covered with baby wipes , bespoke tools if you will. And there I sat, one baby wipe at a time. That laptop’s never been the same. There really is an inordinate level of shit clearing. My friend has the phrase ‘Boys do bins’, I agree whole heartedly and I feel the same way about shit clearing.

Shit, I can handle but this week we reached new lows.

Balthazar has fleas. Our house is infested apparently, so I have had to fumigate the place. I never thought that when I decided to chart my new skills development in this blog, that flea catcher and fumigator would be another I could tuck under my belt. Fumigating is hard work, and makes you very hot so while doing the living room I stripped off into my underwear and put on the attractive white mask supplied, (think Jason’s girlfriend from Friday the 13th) except I forgot to close the shutters and it was dark outside, and the lights were on inside and I look up and ‘winging neighbour guy’ is just standing there, looking in, with his son. I was so embarrassed that I didn’t know what to do, so I waved. Shit happens.

For Vicky and Margo Brinton,

 Where you come from is gone, where you thought you were going to never was there, and where you are is no good unless you can get away from it”
― Flannery O’Connor, Wise Blood

I was astounded with the level of dark humour that went on at the time, and after James’ death, especially as it was such a shock and such a devastating tragedy. Things got pretty dark, even by my standards. But at least I was in good company. As my beautiful husband was lying attached to numerous hideous machines, my friend Tara sat with him and when no one could see she leaned in and said to him….” Finally Jimmy Anderson, I get you alone.” When the doctor was discussing organ donation round the bed one of the boys muttered, “what about the calves, who’s gonna get those?”

My first weekend as a widow (ouch, there’s that word again) was horrendous, although I don’t remember much about it. I do remember that on the Sunday, four days after James died, there was a meeting with the inner ring of the Pod at my mother-in Law’s house. I don’t remember what was discussed but it must have been funeral arrangements, bills, money, the fucking cat. I do remember Gautom had red eyeballs throughout and that there were hot cross buns.

After this meeting I came back to my house with my mother-in –Law. There were so many people there. All the Goldsteins I think, my friends Tom and Josie and maybe Zubin but definitely Matt, my best friend’s husband. He’s a chef and was cooking up a storm in our kitchen for all these people. I think it was mother’s day too, to add insult to injury. If James had been alive I would have been horizontal in some spa or other or maybe it would be him cooking up a storm in our kitchen. I couldn’t handle everyone being there but a much, much worse thought was that they might leave. I have always pretended to be in Love with Tara’s husband. It’s gone on for the entireity of their eight year marriage so I thought it might be appropriate to say: “ Matt, now James is gone we can finally be together……. I done him in.” Testament to my choice of shameless friends they were crying with laughter.

When my mother in Law and I sat with the funeral director in my kitchen and he left to get something from his car, we discussed her Husband’s funeral which was six months earlier. I told her that the pall bearer in his top hat was like something out of a Dickens’ novel. Then I though it might be appropriate to stand in front of her and re-enact this for her with my very own impression of this limby, scrawl of a man tipping his top hat and bowing at the coffin.

I was in full swing singing a Les Miserable/Fiddler on the roof version of :‘ Master of the ‘ouse, keeper of the zoo” in my thickest cockney accent with all the actions when the other funeral director came back in to see us giggling.

Perhaps the weirdest and most inappropriate thing was the day James died, or was declared dead. Some pretty awful doctor came to do a series of tests both medical and legal I expect. They have to prove that there is absolutely no brain activity. The tests are barbaric. They need to do them twice and you need to be there to witness the whole thing. After the first set, I could stand it no longer and had to get out of the hospital. I took the 94 bus and sat on the top deck right after going to Diesel as I realised I really needed a new pair of jeans for my now shrunken frame. This seemed perfectly normal behaviour and so I sat right  at the front.

I realised I was sitting on a folder belonging to one Jośe Callejon barista extraordinaire. Inside the folder was his CV; he was looking for a job. He had been chief barista at no less than eight Pret a Manger cafes and was looking for the next lucky number nine. I looked for any contact details and found none; I siphoned further and found his passport! – ‘Jośe!,’ I saw myself reprimanding him, if we were ever to meet, ‘I know my husband is currently lying in a hospital bed waiting to be told he is in fact dead, but you’re never going to get your next job with this careless attitude.’ I searched further and saw that he had representation at the Job Centre on Uxbridge Road under the supervision of a Kiesha Jackson. So I called Keisha, there and then, told her my problem…… Jose , obviously. She asked if it would be possible for me to pop in with the folder. I thought long and hard about this. I told her not today but possibly tomorrow? I eventually found Jose’s number on something and I called him. I told him I had his passport. He was more than a little grateful so we arranged to meet at my house fifteen minutes later. I really hurried up the Avenue, once I got off that bus…. Mustn’t make Jose wait, that would be rude. I got in, our cleaner was putting the dishwasher on so I told her: James has died and Jose will be arriving shortly to get his passport. I can’t remember her response. Jose arrived. The exchange took place and he said ‘Thanks”. I went back to the hospital bed and said goodbye to what was and would never be.

For Brett Goldstein…. And Jose of course… dah.