• Remember tonight for it is the beginning of always.

Throughout all of this I have journeyed through guilt which initially began as guilt that the kids playlist had finished when we were listening to it in the car and ‘Dalmatian Plantation’ ran into Azealia Banks’ 212 (aside from’ Smack my Bitch up’, you could not find a more inappropriate track, but why is it so damn good?) before I got to change it. I had visions of them repeating the most shocking lyrics at their Catholic school the next day. I even have guilt that ‘Daniel in the Den’ is Flynn’s favoutire song and I know it’s only because it has the word brothers in it, what he so desperately wants. I harbor guilt about this too.

My guilt was strongest in those few days at the hospital. Should I have lied to the ambulance and told them James had stopped breathing and somehow got him to hospital quicker?

Guilt that I’d told him off when he was late, guilt that I told him he couldn’t ‘pull off’ skinny jeans with his insane calves. Guilt that I said- I really like you too- when he told me he loved me, which he seemed to actually find funny. So much guilt.

I went on a quest soon after he died, demanding answers from everyone who’d even looked at his brain. I demanded meetings and consultations with those who treated him initially, those in the wake of the devastating trauma, his oncologist; really anyone I could get my hands on. I wouldn’t say I’m alone in this, it’s probably textbook stuff but it’s purpose is only to torture and there’s really little point to it. The situation is dire enough, you really don’t need guilt as a co-pilot.

My guilt travelled further, it began to really pick up its pace. It went turbo when I went over and over the last thirty six hours of James’ life.

I had been in our cellar the night before James began to feel sick. I found the old Wii player, we used to play it after dinner when our mates came over- Wii sports. James had created a Wii character on screen which looked insanely like him. Sometimes when he came downstairs after getting ready for a night out I would say- “wow, you really look like your Wii character tonight”- which was a compliment. I was so excited when I found it and all our memories of fun times in the old flat came flooding back. James plugged it in instantly. We thought the kids would like the dance game but when it came on we elbowed them out of the way and took over. The purpose of Wii dance is to follow the image of the dancer on the screen and copy exactly what they are doing. The more accurate the mimicking, the higher your score. We were set, James was up first but the track he’d chosen, because it was the easiest, was ‘Call me Maybe” by Carly Rae Jepson. He proceeded to follow the very difficult routine on screen, which consisted of girly hair flicks, flirtatious hip wiggles and waacking. To see a bearded ‘beautiful beast of a man’ (Victor’s words, not mine) pulling off, or at least trying to pull off these flirty moves at great speed was too much for me. I couldn’t breathe I was laughing so much. Then I was up. I knew all these moves too well, it’s exactly the sort of chorography dancers hate but that we were always given in music videos. I was determined to beat James otherwise I’d never be able to live it down. Problem was, the routine absolutely destroyed me. I am clearly not very fit because I was in pieces afterwards. It slowly dawned on me that this was not a good thing to be doing with someone who the previous day had his first rap of radiotherapy.

So I organised a meeting with world renowned brain surgeon, pioneer of awake craniotomy, Henry Marsh CBE, to ask him this: Did my husband die because of Call me Maybe?

I did actually take him out of his working day, saving lives, to ask him this. Such was my guilt. When he told me the dancing wouldn’t have had any impact I was happy, for ten minutes. But I emailed him a week later to reaffirm that it was true.

For months afterwards, I really couldn’t tolerate that song, and it’s hard to avoid, it’s bloody everywhere. Man I had a problem with that Carly Rae Jepson. Then weirdly on my wedding anniversary I had my sister, her husband and her kids staying with us. The kids had managed to hook the whole thing up and when I came down for breakfast there it was, that song, and they were playing the dance game. It made me happy that it was filling the room again and not sad. This must be what progress sounds like, maybe?

I got 99 problems but that bitch ain’t one.

For Lexa

• Dante Alighieri

• “Between the wish and the thing the world lies waiting.”
  ― Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses

When you are a teacher, you’re not really supposed to have favourite students, but you do, well I did anyway. I remember one, she was in my Dance class rather than my English class and she was an angel. She told me her father was an artist and so I checked out his work. I loved it immediately, I showed to to James who did too but it was definitely out of our price range. However I never forgot about this artist and secretly coveted his work, or maybe not not so secretly when James happened to be around. The problem was that he had become so successful that he’d stopped taking commissions and was involved in huge projects like the liberty window at christmas, so I satisfied myself with postcards of his work stuck around our flat.

After we returned to the flat post honeymoon, James presented me with the most enormous box. With trepidation I opened it. It was an original Rob Ryan, right there. He had contacted him, gone round to his house, sat at his kitchen table (only James) had a cuppa and a bacon buttie with him! He wasn’t doing commissions but somehow James persuaded him to do just one more. He asked James: what does Odharna love most in this world? James answered: Books and our flat. So much like the above, our piece was pages of a book and with both of us sat on the roof, gazing at the night sky.

I looked at this papercut a lot after James died and I see that we are separate in it and only connected by the stars that shroud us both on that rooftop, and I wonder did the hand that guided Ryan’s knife to cut all those pieces on some subconscious level know that  there were only a couple of chapters left in The Story of Us? The story is over now. I know that. I know that it was a shorter tale than anyone could ever have imagined, even the most gifted storyteller.

The Story of Us is woven into my past. The sequel is The Story of Me. Me after you.

For Mel

James used to joke that I dressed our son like an extra from ‘O brother where art thou’ (one of our favourite films). He would call Flynn the fifth member of Mumford and Sons and ask whether I’d remembered to apply his Dapper Dan. I guess I knew what he meant as when it was world book day and I decided he’d go as Oliver Twist, I looked to his wardrobe for his costume and not the dressing-up box.

But really it was James who oversaw his musical influences. I worry that he’s already becoming more of a Major Lazer Lad than a Bastile boy. And that’s just music. I do so worry about how to inject a whole dollop of masculinity into his life. I’ve never been a girly girl but he is missing not just a Dad in his life but a man. He’s already asking me which football team is better Chelsea or Arsenal? All I know about Chelsea is that I used to live next to the pitch and they used to piss on our doorstep after a match. The fans that is not the players, but who knows. And that a Chelsea smile is not a good thing. So I say: Tottenham. But what if I’m wrong, it won’t be the first time, after all I used to want Bill Cosby as a dad. It’s a real worry.

For all my Soggy Bottom Boys who are trying to help me raise a boy and not a man of constant sorrow.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=meCZ5hWNRFU

A footnote entitled: Friends in High places.

Last night at about 9.30 came a knock on the door. I leapt to my feet like Mrs Lovett “Wait, a customer!” from Sweeney Todd. My friend Vicky arrived on my doorstep bearing these gifts. She had just read EAT SLEEP RAVE REPEAT, yesterday’s post.

“What’s the bravest thing you ever did?
He spat in the road a bloody phlegm. Getting up this morning, he said.”
― Cormac McCarthy, The Road

One of James’ most annoying lines, and always before I was about to tuck into my evening meal, was: don’t leave your broccoli. I would proceed to stuff as many stalks as I could into my mouth and put my face no less than an inch away from his and say “ I am, look, see?” with bits of floret spitting out as I did so. He tried really hard not to laugh or be disgusted. But left to my own devices I find that I do not eat my broccoli, I don’t really even cook it. I now find that for the first time in my life I have cold sores, it’s like a physical manifestation of neglect; emotional scurvy if you will. I’m like a malnourished pirate looking for pieces of B eight………………..aarrraggghh.

We have always had a blackboard wall in our kitchen, it’s handy for lists and reminders. We would often write slogans or favourite quotes on it. After children arrived it was: ‘And now cried Max, let the wild rumpus start.’ In time this changed to our new moto: Eat. Sleep. Rave. Repeat. We liked the track. It’s not that we were doing any raving, but for us it meant living and doing it to the full. Making every day count. It’s still there, I don’t have the heart/courage to rub it out but RAVE was definitely the first to go, then SLEEP departed, EAT went on its merry way too with the broccoli and vitamins.

After James died, I got so many emails and beautiful letters, one of my favourite ones was from an artist friend Mila Furstova. In it she said this; ‘ Breathe deeply darling Orna…..just breathe and hold your children…….for now that is enough.’ REPEAT

For Mila.

When planning James’ funeral I was challenged to my limit. I wanted to make it beautiful but I didn’t want to be doing it at all; nobody my age should be planning their husband’s funeral. There were lots of tiny agonies around this time and hideous decisions to be made but I knew I wanted the below on the order of service.

Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,

Take him and cut him out in little stars,

And he will make the face of heaven so fine

That all the world will be in love with night

And pay no worship to the garish sun.

And so when we want to ‘see’ James we look up to the sky. I’m not sure what the kids think they are looking for but Flynn came rushing through the front door last week; “quick Mum, get out here right now.” So I followed him out the front door whereby he lead me to our neighbour’s house. It was being repainted. I then saw what had piqued his interest. His voice turned to an almost inaudible whisper. “He’s fallen”, “who’s fallen?” I asked “that one, look Mum, look!” he said and then I saw the wings.

And so it had to be that  quote. Those who know me well, know all about my long standing love affair with a certain William Shakespeare. I’ve never met the man, personally but I feel like we might have had a good chat he and I.

I once taught at a school where there was an intake from a huge spectrum of society. The pupils came from such diverse ethnic and cultural backgrounds. Some came from some of the most challenging and unprivileged of backgrounds. For reasons unbeknownst to me, I was always given the most challenging ‘youth’ or the ‘naughties’ as we referred to them. It was a worry, I’ll admit: how do I get these crazies to understand, appreciate, even love me Will I AM. The above never failed. Because any human heart connects to love.

When I read this aloud I could have heard a pin drop, they just wanted more of it. Some voiced their appreciations with mutters of “ I’m not being funny yea, but that is well good.” Others would lean back on their chair ‘til it was balancing on two legs and offer “S-I-C-K!” as a five syllable word. I realised that they appreciated these words and the true meaning more than my other classes and I would often wonder why this was.

I came to realise that it was because they had been challenged, or suffered in some way. They were not nicer, or better people than my other students…… but they were more interesting and they felt on a deeper level.

For Nathalie and Clèmence who look up to the sky at night and search for the Gumby star.

*In the middle of the journey of our life I found myself within a dark woods where the straight way was lost

In the initial days it was impossible to retain any kind of information. I’d forget things instantly. It was impossible to remember things like cash for teacher’s gift collections at school or any fees that were due. I had to write everything down and the house was covered with Post-its. Unlike their romantic predecessors these said things like: Ruui from Barclays is coming at 12, or the cat needs to have his manhood chopped. The tiny heart-breaking commonplace.

The new Pod was in full swing. They were like cabinet ministers. Minister of travel and transport, minister of cat. They sat me down and premised all their questions with- it doesn’t matter if you can’t remember but- who is your motor insurance with? And did Gumby have a pension? And where do you keep your car permits? There were so many forms, information about our old life, a hundred agonies in black and white.

I didn’t really know. Then Gautom would say, “there’s an A.A. file in the filing cabinet.”

We have files… who knew?! I was pretty redundant and offered no answers. They were there to fix things, make things better and they did. I did what I could to help them but I did think- now is probably not a good time to mention that when we first moved into this house it had stone floors which were very cold to walk on in bare feet, so James would meet me at the Kitchen entrance and I would climb aboard his feet and he would ferry me over to my seat at the table with buttery toast in mouth as he was holding my hands for balance, dizzy and drenched in happiness- this I kept to myself but wondered who might be in charge of fixing this particular problem.

Or might they like to come back , once the paperwork was sorted, to let me give them a fashion show after a day of shopping and tell me which dress to take back and which to keep. Or could they possibly return some evening when the mood so took me, or the right FUNK track came on the radio, to show them what five years under the tutelage of Jimmy Williams at Pineapple dance studios looked like. Or could they come back in a year to teach Flynn how to ride a bike or teach Celeste to tie her shoelaces? I don’t think they have ministers for that, but they really should

For Grainne.

• Inferno

For James

On your birthday.

Since you died we have had two sports days, a piano recital, an assembly and Celeste’s birthday.

Flynn now likes salami and I know you would love this. Celeste has grown two inches. Every new inch more  painful because you are not here to see it. Celeste won her race at sports day and Flynn has won -star of the week- several times, the Head Teacher’s Award and the Easter Bonnet Award; you win a lot of stuff when your dad dies.

I know the embarrassment I would have felt being stood beside you at Celeste’s sports day as you boomed “come on Celeste”, so much louder than other parents. You did everything louder. I’ve had to stop including you in headspace in everything we do. Every time there is an assembly, a sports day. I wonder where you’d sit, what you would say, how loudly would you clap. There is no good to be got from this and it just makes the absence worse. I am famished by this empty air. And anyway *No sadness is greater than in misery to rehearse moments of joy.

I look for you everywhere. I look for you at festivals and parties, even when I’m walking home in the dark. I look for you on underground escalators, in passing cars and in supermarkets. Who took you and why won’t they give you back? I would offer them anything/everything. I would strike any deal with your captors.

Didn’t they know who they were taking? Wouldn’t someone else have done? Sated their greedy appetite. Someone ordinary or someone nobody would miss. Or was it because you were so good? Is this twisted cosmic punishment?

I would give them every limb, my sight, my hearing. Anything they demanded just to get you back. All I ask is that what is rightfully mine is returned to me.

Flynn has been asking me so many questions about heaven. Today I spied him in the kitchen. He was summoning SIRI on the ipad. He thinks SIRI has all the amswers. He asked it two questions:

• What happens if you go up and up and up?
• Where is my Daddy?

He then told me: There are 151 angels in heaven and asked if you were naked? He followed this with – I can’t wait to be one hundred because then I can be with Daddy in heaven.

Tom from next-door says that when his friend lost his wife, he used to put a candle in the window to guide her back to their house. I do this now every night but I never even get a sense of you but I do it every night all the same and when the times comes to blow it out I do so with the same mantra: * I repeat it till my tongue stiffens: I love you, I love you, I love you. I love you.

*Dante Alighieri/Wuthering Heights.

Reader, I married him.

For Celeste

Oh where to start my little one. I met your daddy on a sunny, Sunday, September afternoon. I was meeting Laura and Weezie for lunch at a pub in Chelsea near our flat. It was a bit of a set-up really but I didn’t know that at the time. I was the last to arrive and poor daddy could barely lift his head to say hello to me because he was close to dying with alcohol poisoning from the night before; I’m not entirely sure he wasn’t still drunk.

He was wearing a faded black T-shirt with some cool logo on it I didn’t recognize, jeans and a frown. It was love at first sight. Honestly it didn’t matter that he was too hung-over to speak, he was just so pretty you see. It was like that scene in Mary Poppins where the Banks children write a list of everything they want in a nanny and it goes up that chimney. He ticked every box. I knew within an hour or so that I would marry him, all the same I tried to play it cool.

Laura leaned in and whispered into my ear- “ So what do you think?” “I’m not sure, he wears glasses”, I told her, “Yes darling, but they are Dolce and Gabanna” she winked.

He lived in an amazing flat on Wandsworth Bridge Road above an interiors shop. We all headed back to his flat post lunch to rent and watch a video (you will probably need this translated). And that was that.

But that night I didn’t get a wink of sleep and spent most of the night on the phone to Laura.

Sure enough your Dad asked for my number and true to form took his sweet time in calling me. He then proceeded to cancel our first date as he had a tummy bug. “What’s wrong with him?” I asked Weezie with indignation. “Well I think he’s ill,” she said. “No, what’s wrong with him?!” I asked.

We went on a date the following Friday night after Weezie pleaded with me to give him a second chance. Your dad took me to a restaurant on the Kings Road where romance goes to die. Of course he was very late and to announce his arrival, he poked me. Yes with his index finger, he actually poked me in the back, then when I told him what I did for a living he said – “It’s easy to get stuck in a rut”. I’m not sure how there was ever a second date. To be honest the first one never finished. I saw him all that weekend and every other one from then. I moved in shortly afterwards much to his flat mate’s annoyance. Within a month of dating he had told me he loved me. He told me this every single day for the next ten years. His love was free and wild, like you.

Despite initially giving the impression of having no skills in romance, it turns out he just so happened to be the most romantic man I have ever met. He would come pick me up from work or nights out if he could. Made me breakfast in bed, stocked his fridge with all my favourite foods. He always listened to me and held my hand wherever we went.

When I was looking for a new job he would type up and post all my applications and he was always planning surprises. He used to leave treasure hunts for me when he went away on a shoot. These would keep me entertained for hours and they always ended in a gorgeous present of some sort. He used to put a dog-ear in my book if I fell asleep while reading it. When it was my birthday your dad would really go all out; he went big. He later did this for you and Flynn.

One of the best surprises was two years later, while up the Atlas Mountains. He got down on one knee, the sun was setting, he opened a black velvet box with a diamond ring and he said- “Will you marry me?” “Yes” I said “But please can I have more diamonds?”

A year later came the most glorious wedding on the seafront in West Wittering, a month long honeymoon in Africa and then there were three. Three years later there were four.

Once you were born he continued these surprises for you too. Opposite his favourite brasserie is a shop that sells girls clothes. Sometimes he would ‘Nip in’ and get you a hat or a dress. I can safely say I do not know another 36 year old man that does this. You were wearing one of these purchases at your third birthday party.

After you were born Daddy had developed a bit of a habit of taking an annual fishing trip for ten days somewhere off the coast of Somalia with Harry. To lessen the blow, he would plan treats and surprises for me. As he left I was usually handed 10 envelopes only to be opened the morning of the corresponding day. One might say – Be at Turnham Green Tube after dropping kids off- I would get there and find Tara and Laura waiting for me at the station and they would tell me –Today we were going on a Spa day.

I remember one envelope had a voucher to the Curzon cinema had the note said- I have a sitter arranged for the whole day. Go and watch a ponsy arty film. He put so much effort into everything. It was so much fun being married to your Dad. Even when he wasn’t away for long he would do similar. He would track my day and put chronological post-its on my route. I’d find the first one in the shower, then in the fridge and then the butter dish, then on my bike on my way to work and under my pillow was always the last one.

I didn’t realise that I’d kept all of these, so many over the years. I found them while Granny and I were trying to organise his funeral. I found them in the filing cabinet and I couldn’t contain my sadness because I knew that that was all over now and could never be again. I know one day I will be glad that I had all of this, but right now its absence just makes me sad. Not all husbands are created equal. But if Carlsberg created husbands……….

My one wish is that one day, when you are grown, that you will meet a man like this and be treated like this because it’s just wonderful and you deserve it.

36 years of James in 29 minutes.

https://vimeo.com/123976648

So Tom Odell should be shot.

He seems to have taken it upon himself to write a song named “Grow Old with me” and yes it does exactly what it says on the tin. That’s just rude.

Problem is, I had no idea this song existed and it just came on the radio when I was having a relatively happy moment (thinking about the 80s band 5 star and their first track System Addict, which I tried to re-enact in our garage (the video that is)) and there it was. I then found myself lunging towards the radio to change channel in a frantic panic akin to that of Lady Macbeth’s sleepwalking disclosure, to wash my hands of it. Serves me right really for listening to Radio 2.

Go fuck yourself Tom Odell. I hope you end up like King Duncan.

For Tom Firth.