A bit older and hopefully wiser

Well now, it has been a while. Plus ça change and all that... 

I won't try to play catch up, but if anyone is reading this: hello from the other side.

I can't quite remember how this works but I'll give it a go. A decade older and all that, but I'll figure it out.

So soon we're too old to carry...

This is a fine song by the Maccabees (here are the lyrics). I've posted this particular link to the video, as it has no adverts. It makes S melt. A bit like the John Lewis advert from a couple of years ago for me that shows a baby girl growing older (though the Maccabees does elicit similar feelings). And yes, I know it's sad to be moved by an advert, but there you go. 

However, this beauty is in a different league. I struggle to get through it: 

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

William Butler Yeats

Now, then

I'm reading a book based on memory (SJ Watson's brilliant debut, Before I Go To Sleep) and wondering what life would be like without the capacity to recall one's history (a theme that I think is covered in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, which I haven't seen yet). There are things I suspect I would (should?) like to forget – things that I had in fact blocked out for a while – but if I did properly erase all of that stuff, would I be doomed to repeat mistakes and wonder why it was I feel X about Y? 

The clincher for me would be the lack of being able to experience the warm glow – and sadness – that comes with nostalgia, something that I am wont to feel with a vividness that can knock my breath from me. There are places that are so evocative that just being there is time travel. The old, the gone, the usually-forgotten, spring back into life if I mentally or physically 'go back', and I can be 5, 10, 15, 20, 25, 35 years younger, in the switch of a synapse. It happened several months ago, as I walked near a place in which I had worked during my late 20s and 30s. Everything seemed to rush back, a waterfall of memories and feelings, wonderful and wretched. A lump formed in my throat as the trees, pavements and some of the still-standing businesses, bars and shops wove a silent web around me and threw me hurtling back to when my life was something entirely different. Time didn't stand still; it came back on itself, looping so unexpectedly by making me relive situations and conversations that I was taken aback. How did I get here from there? I still wonder. When recalling the not-so-good times, it's not triumph over adversity that I feel, but a sense of cautious relief.
Visiting my childhood home also gave me a powerful burst of nostalgia. I clearly recall the 70s wallpaper (most people would find it unforgettable, to be fair); the paint better suited to a curry spice kit than walls, the sunlight streaming into the front room, the relative darkness of the back. The thud of a tennis ball against a wall, a large orange Spacehopper bouncing on the hard ground, a slippery paddling pool, a Wendy house where I secretly gorged on soft brown sugar (don't ask), a 'blue moon' rose bush my parents sourced for my birthday, a light grey trim phone, the sound of the early morning milk float, two deliveries of post before noon, a serving hatch, an Austin Allegro (apple green), a beautiful ginger cat who grew with me and made me cry for months when his mouth swelled with a tumour; the huge radiogram with its SW, LW, MW and possibly FM wavebands... The ability to keep facts and conversations in my head, when now I have to stop and calculate to know what day it is and how old I am. That kind of thing.

The childhood house has changed beyond recognition; the saddest sight for me was seeing that the previously tenderly-kept front garden, home to the beautiful blue rose bush and myriad flowers and shrubs, had a new lease of life, if you can call it that, as a dirty concrete driveway. The house was an unkempt mess. The road was littered. I have mentioned this in another post, so won't repeat it. Nostalgia, in that case, was replaced by intense disappointment and sadness, plus a measure of anger. 
There are many songs written about the past, about fond memories and regret (notably the one written by Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails, covered so poignantly by Johnny Cash, as per my post on March 6)... It's Cash's delivery – the fact he is talking about himself, his life, albeit through someone else's words – that gives it such intensity. Without his memories, the song would be just lyrics; the video, showing him at his prime and as a frail dying man, would be just pictures. Instead, it grabs the listener/viewer with its stunning rawness. Long live nostalgia. I'm certain it helps to make us – and keep us – human.

They're not just for Easter...

Is it just me that believes Cadbury creme eggs were available all year round in the 70s and 80s? They aren't Easter fayre, are they? Do I have false Cadbury's memory syndrome?

Swear box savings plan

OK, so some of you may know I am with child. And some of you may know that I sometimes swear. Badly. Not often, but it would appal my mum. She'd be seriously shocked if she could hear me in a proper rage...

Anyway, S and I have both (separately) seemed to conclude that we (as parents-to-be) swear too much at times. So, I would like suggestions for mummy-friendly curses, such as the following:

Golly-gosh willykins [S has actually used this]
Whoopsadaisy
Bobbins [love this, another S special]
Fudge
Sugar
Crivens
Gosling [mum once told me it was ruder than 'fuck', which I had picked up off some oafish boy, so I called several kids in my infant school playground 'goslings' - no one questioned it]

Suggestions, readers?

Woolworths, old pal

While I waited for the pharmacist at Boots to prepare my penicillin to treat my chest infection (so that explains why the cough has gone on and on...), I wandered over to Woolworths, just for old time's sake (old times' sake?)... Anyway... I went in and had a look around. There was the familiar array of children's toys and games, all bright colours and exciting boxes. Then, there was, of course, the famous wall of Pick'n'Mix with its trays of colourful sugar. I looked at it. It was the same as ever: cola bottles, cola cubes, fudge, toffees, liquorice, chocolate mice, chocolate raisins, fizzy lemon sherbets, pink and yellow twisty things... lots and lots and lots. The rest of the store was nearly bare, stripped of most goods by those eager to get their hands on sale goods before the stores disappear, thanks to the credit crunch, or possibly, due to stupendously bad management. It was sad. It looked neglected, like a home where the residents are moving out swiftly and carelessly.

Visiting my now-local branch of Woolies made me feel somewhat nostalgic, but it is my memories the store in the northwest London high street that I used to visit as a child that evokes a powerful feeling of a time long gone, a largely carefree time. I don't know whether that store is still there but in my mind it is. It had racks of singles – seven-inch and 12-inch versions, albums (on vinyl) and cassettes, too. I used to look at the neatly arranged records and bought my first vinyl disks from there. Woolworths used to be filled with interesting items, the shops were clean, big, organised with items for the home, garden, crockery, books, children's clothes (Ladybird) and games. There was even a cobblers and key cutting service that re-heeled and re-soled shoes for less than £2, not the mad tenner charged in the City these days. It was cared for, it was reliable and you could always go in there for that elusive item. I recall Dad buying blakeys to mend our frequently-worn heels, and tubes of Araldyte, plants, and paint brushes and Cadbury's selection boxes and and and...

People's reaction to Woolworths closing has been largely a sense of sadness that it has to close its doors (and that thousands will lose their jobs). It's one of those stores that has always had a place on most high streets, and has been feature of most of our lives due to catering for children's wants (toys, sweets, music) so well. So, yes, it is like waving goodbye to an old childhood friend with reluctance and a heavy heart. I doubt I'll venture back into Woolies now. I'm all grown up and its shelves are bare. We must go our separate ways.

PIC: PA

Hovis triumph

The new Hovis TV advert is superb. S and I watched it in unexpected silence and after it had finished said: "What a brilliant ad." And then, after a moment of silence, we confessed that we both felt tearful (in a good way, filled with nostalgia for times that we had never even lived in being in our mid to late 30s).

I have just found a clip of the advert – it was aired this evening (with Coronation Street made shorter for the first time, to accommodate its length). It charts the Hovis Boy, the one we all know so well, going through streets of more than a century ago and track him running through the 20s, 30s, 40s... and on and on through evocative moments. You see Suffragetes, the Blitz, the miners' strikes, 1966 (football of course), the Millennium and on it goes until the boy runs into his warm 2008 kitchen with a loaf of bread. I felt choked watching it.

Absolutely fabulous work, ad folk. You did well. I think it is one of my favourite adverts of all time – and I have seen it but once.

Domestic therapy

When I was younger, I baked regularly. From about the age of eight, I blended cake mixture (and licked the spoon and scraped the bowl), pounded pastry for delicious fruit pies, rolled out biscuits and generally did kitchen-esque things that would make Delia proud.

The art of making food – the textures, aromas, anticipation, salivation – have always been therapy from the stressors that have bothered me. I felt warm and safe in the kitchen, where I had my own corner of the counter as my mum went about making a Sunday roast. (I was tidy, showing early signs of Monica-from-Friends tendencies that have stayed with me, but it was a useful trait when dealing with flour and eggs...)

I especially enjoyed serving my creations to my family and friends. In fact, when I was in my twenties, I used to bake banana bread every Sunday for my colleagues. There was never much left by Monday lunchtime. Sometimes, I'd have a slice myself.

So, this afternoon, following a week where I felt churned up and deeply upset for a variety of rather heavy reasons, I Googled for a recipe for scones (as I knew I'd already have the necessary ingredients) and voilà...



The scones tasted good. Even if I do say so myself. And my headache disappeared as the smell of baking emanated from the oven. I can see myself spending a good few hours in the kitchen as autumn (lovely autumn!) approaches.

Remember me?

The other day on the train, I saw a woman who looked oddly familiar. She had longer hair than when I had last seen her six years ago. She had also added a few lines to those that had already formed on her face, but she wore exactly the same expression, which I can only describe as a half smirk/half sarcastic purse of the lips coupled with disapproving, hooded eyes that you only usually see when a sneer is on the cusp of someone's next facial movement.

I had to suppress the urge to make sure that the woman saw me as well as a powerful desire to make sure she didn't see me. This conflict of instincts made me stand up taller while also making me want to step backwards (though I didn't). We had been seated on either side of the train doors and now, at the final stop, we would inevitably clash at the doorway. There were plenty of people around but the rush-hour crowd was not so thick that we would be shielded from one another. I looked at her again and again, smiled to myself, and knew that I had more drive in me now than I had had when I first knew her (and back then, when she and I fought, I gave her hell). I was daring her to look up, to meet my gaze. But she did not, lost in some inane thought, no doubt. Or maybe she had seen me.

This woman, with her beige bag and beige hair and face (and personality) is the last person I worked for before going freelance [I am so tempted to name her here...]. Let's call her Linzi [she'd like to think that that would suit her]... So, Linzi. A bully in a beige suit. A bully who made me vow to never work for a company, to be tied to any one place for my income (after I woke one day with blood all over my pillow and duvet) was there, right there... I thought I had an ulcer but I didn't – there was a bizarre amount of blood over my chin and mouth, and I have no idea where it came from – there were no cuts in my mouth or bites caused by teeth-grinding.)

Linzi was a bastard and probably still is. I know where she works because me and my ex-colleagues (now friends – oh, how we bonded!) sometimes Google her. I know which train she takes now, and where she sits. And that she still wears beige. Not much changes.

Suffice to say that this woman tried all manner of means to get me and my colleagues to leave so that she could replace us with her cronies. I came off badly because I stood up to her. In time, the office ended up as a Linzi version of Friends Reunited. My colleagues and I eventually left because, frankly life was too short to put up with the evil idiot who embezzled a load of money and somehow got away with it – due to an incredible police mess-up with the case notes.

By the time Linzi's computer was seized, I must have been a distant memory, and had left only a legacy of my fury and defiance (I started cases against her – just to teach her a lesson – and I got the unions involved, though they were largely useless, but it gave Linzi something to worry about...). I remember when a friend called me to tell me that Linzi had been arrested. I was in M&S buying tights at the time and yelled with delight and laughed for about 15 minutes. Shame she didn't get to spend some time in jail.

If I see her again, I'll grin. She'll probably fall over on her beige shoes with shock.

Fate... up against your will...

In starlit nights I saw you
So cruelly you kissed me
Your lips a magic world
Your sky all hung with jewels



Beautiful...

Wet eye mask

I cried and cried last night. I have no idea why, but melancholia took over and I started thinking about certain conversations and events from my childhood.

I'd always tried to do my best. I tried. I was always the second cleverest in class. That my friend was better than me made me competitive but I could never reach her. I eclipse her in terms of what I can now do (I work with words; she is best at numeracy). But I was never quite as good at school, and that's where we are made. Will I ever be good enough? Good enough for me?

It was one in the morning when my sadness got worse, and I cried quite loudly, not caring if GFG heard through the floor. My life seemed to be flashing in front of my eyes. I switched on the lamp and reached for a tissue, feeling tiny. My eye mask was soaked with tears; I still wear it even though these last few mornings have not been madly sunny.

This morning, there are shadows beneath my eyes.

Narrative

Ever since I can remember, I have had a narrative going on in my head. I recall making observations, such as "Mell D plans to get on her bike and ride fast through the mud, to get splashed and really dirty, and then enjoy getting all clean and reading her book upstairs while drinking strawberry Nesquik and spying on Vernon and Graham playing football in the road" and "Mell D sneaked up the garden path, no one could see her. She looked at the biggest, fat red roses and felt the velvety petals"... and on and on. Even when I was 22 and had had far too much to drink at a work party and was slumped on a bar, on the verge of passing out, I could hear "Mell D was found slumped on the bar after drinking eight black Russians and three beers"... and in my head I could see the front page and imagine my parents' shame at how their daughter had ended up.

It extended to everything. It was almost as though I was writing headlines and then a story to accompany it. Putting the most mundane into story form has always appealed to me, and it is something I've been lucky enough to do for a living.

Sometimes my childhood narrative would have me at its centre and at other times, I put everyone around me into the ever-growing tale/account of life as a young girl in northwest London. I used to do it so much that I worried that I was odd. Maybe I was. Perhaps I still am. I am constantly observing and soaking up what's going on around me, sometimes exhausting myself in the process. I have to stop myself at times: I close my eyes on the bus and train to stop some of my senses from becoming saturated. I have to plug in my iPod so that I don't tune into all of the conversations around me (I learned at a young age how to listen to more than one conversation at a time, keen to know everything). Too often, I see or hear something and think: "I must remember that" but on top of all the things that I really do need to recall, my brain becomes overloaded and it tires me, and I forget.

I think I need to learn to meditate. To switch off this unending stream of thought, planning, noticing, analysis. I am interested in seeing what happens in the 'silence' that you allegedly experience when meditating. That in itself will be something to write home about...

Kneed and the city

Kung fu has left me with an injured ligament in my knee. In fact, I have a proper sports injury: runner's knee. It hurts – a sharp, stabbing sensation – when I move in certain ways, and, as you can imagine, kung fu demands plenty of moves. The solution? Rub with tiger balm and rest. Argh.

I feel frustrated at yet again having something wrong with me that stops me from going for it, all guns blazing (well, fists). One of my classmates is up for a competition and I would have liked to have started training for the one after. Instead, I have to mainly do stuff that involves standing on the spot. It's driving me mad. Well, at least I had the chance to hit pads at the end of class.

I'm not a violent person. It's funny when people say: "Ooh, you do kung fu, you must be sooo violent." Er, no. It's not quite like that. We sure as heck don't go out as a mob, duffing up members of the public as we are so pumped up. Sure, some of us could do serious damage, but when you can, you tend to be able to keep a lid on it. You couldn't be any good at kung fu without learning self-control. Also, once you have taken a martial arts class – just one – you'll find the police will automatically assume that you mean business if you get into a fracas. Silly, but true.

But, having said that, it is deeply cathartic. When I've had a stressful day, or have been dealing with things that have been rather heavy (such as those that pertain to the reasons I have suffered from insomnia for so long), kung fu is brilliant. If you can do it properly... I was doing some fairly easy moves at the end of class but nevertheless felt a sharp pain – back to square one with the knee. Damn.

Anyway, I tried a couple of classes, which I found frustrating, and then came home, still not quite warm enough. S was at a football match, so I stuck a pizza in the oven, poured myself a glass of some award-winning chardonnay I'd bought from Marks and Spencer (now 20 per cent off all wines and spirits, if anyone's interested), and waited for Sex and the City to start on one of the satellite channels. Not the healthiest meal in the world. Oh well...


Ah, Sex and the City. I love it. I have said it before: it isn't worthy (and why on earth should it be?) and it sure isn't dull. It made me laugh and I coveted some of the clothes. I have no idea which series I was watching but I recalled parts of some of the episodes from seeing them years ago. Still, the lines were sharp. They won't appeal to everyone but for me and my friends the programme was a must-watch when it first came out, and I have fond memories of discussing what had happened, interlacing chat with stories from real life. We laughed and laughed, on the phone or at restaurant tables, inevitably with a glass of wine or mojito in our hands, as we chatted about the escapades of four fictitious women (as well as our own, much more sensible lives).

The combination of exercise and relaxing afterwards was a good one and I slept well until the alarm clock went off just over an hour early, the dratted thing. My leg aches today and I have a snuffly cold... if I had my way, I'd sit on the sofa and watch SATC all day. I could order the DVDs... Online shopping is such a temptation when you're working at home and can't walk around the shops. What's a girl to do?

Goodbye Grange Hill

Admittedly, I didn't know Grange Hill was still on television (long gone are the days when I have time to watch TV so early in the day), but it is to be axed this year, 30 years after it began.

They're replacing it with 'the Grange' and aiming it at those aged 10-11, basing it in a multimedia environment. It's a shame that it has to change but the Beeb has shifted its editorial policy and that's that.

It was an engaging programme, groundbreaking at the time. It was gritty (though those who can remember 'Just Say No' may laugh with me about just how gritty it was compared to life today). But it did raise issues that needed to be aired and good on it for so doing. I can't say I'll miss it, as I don't exactly watch it now. But 30 years? That's a hell of a good run.

Beadle's not about

I feel sad that this entertainer – who was best known for playing pranks on people – has died. It was pneumonia that got him; he'd survived two bouts of cancer. He was only 59.

Jeremy Beadle was often berated. I don't know why, but I suppose it could be that he sometimes looked as though he was smugly enjoying others' mishaps (even though they were harmless). I grew up in the 1980s and recall finding his television shows funny – they attracted around 15 million viewers. Game for a Laugh was good entertainment – my family sat around and laughed together at the antics on screen, and that's no bad thing. He was a good radio presenter, too.

But whether people liked him or not, you cannot argue that the loss of a man who quietly raised a mind-blowing £100 million for charity is indeed tremendous. He was awarded an MBE for his good work, and rightly so.

Photo: PA

Paris plus S

S is in Paris. It is quiet without him. The familiar turn of the key in the lock, his footsteps coming up the stairs to my study, and our happy hello, before he ruffles the rabbit M's head is a routine when I am working at home. I keep thinking S is in the living room and then I remember that he isn't here. A friend popped in earlier and I commented how strange, that I had once lived alone for seven years or so, and how I then relished my aloneness and, yes, I liked it very much, thanks. But things, they change. Life's funny.

He went earlier this evening, though I did not see him leave from shiny new St Pancras, as he went straight from work. I was invited to go with him (to see family who are staying in Paris for a while) but at first, money problems made this impossible for me (S offered to pay but I said no, and I can be very stubborn), and then work piled in and there are the practicalities of not being able to lift much at the moment thanks to my cracked/bruised ribs.

So, S is in Paris, the wonderful city of light and romance. We went there two months into knowing each other. I went there last year to visit my friend, Inz, and to have a break from my sleepless London bed. S was unable to come with me due to work madness. The air was fresh and cold. The oxygen and the delicious cityness of the place seeped into my being, waking me in a good way, giving me energy. S is there now. I am there, too, if only in my mind. It's not quite enough but it will have to do for now.

It's Christmas, be happy!

My supermarket visit today was not relaxing. Sometimes, when I am working at home and can get there early, it is fairly quiet when I arrive. On such occasions, there is time to read the labels and scan shelves. Weirdly for some, I enjoy doing this.

But today, the place was packed with people impatiently pushing trolleys down aisles populated by those who hadn't had the foresight to make a list and loitered annoyingly, oblivious to the dozen people stuck in their wake of indecision. I carried a basket and a small shopping list but managed to fill it so that I could only lift it if I used both of my kung fu-strengthened arms.

All the checkouts were open so I put my basket down behind a grey-haired woman who was buying a feast's worth of goods and remembered that I had forgotten to but the stuff you pour down the plughole to get the water to flow faster. In the minute I was gone, the feast-buyer still had plenty on the conveyor belt but a youngish woman had wheeled her trolley up. When I slipped in to where my basket was – in its legitimate place in the queue – she snapped: "You shouldn't do that!" And thus ensued a ridiculous conversation where this sad, lumpy woman, who looked as though she sucked lime for pleasure, kept on and on about it. How, oh, the world would end if everyone did that. And, oh, how it would stop global warming if I hadn't left my basket there for sixty seconds. (Almost.)

I told her to stop being so rude and added that I couldn't be bothered to speak to her. I was amazed that such a non-happening could arouse her pique. She really must have a life devoid of any real problems if she could spare the energy to act like such a silly fool over nothing. The most ironic part was when she said: "It's Christmas, be happy!" with a scowl on her face.

I shook my head in disbelief and she changed aisle. A lovely old man with sparkly eyes and a smile then unpacked his things behind me. The woman watched from the corner of her eyes as we enjoyed some banter and laughed.

* * *

This song sends shivers down my spine. It makes me cry, every time.

RIP SS's mum. RIP Kirsty MacColl.

Broken finger, mended friendship

It's called a comminuted fracture, which means that S's little finger – which he fractured back in May, and has broken again this weekend thanks to cricket – is in pieces. He's on strong painkillers and won't be swinging a bat or catching a cricket ball for a while. Work will be tricky, too. And so is bathing (I showered him today and yesterday as he sat in the bath, his poorly hand draped over the side).

Anyway, this latest mishap (all sustained while S was fielding or keeping wicket) follows the breaking of another finger (keeping up?) a few weeks ago. That break was a hairline fracture.

So, in summary: we have finger A, which was broken in May, then healed (albeit at a strange angle), then was broken again, badly, at the weekend, and finger B on his other hand, cracked a few weeks ago but now OK. That, hopefully, will be the 'three'. Finger A is blueish red and very fat. Thinking about the shattered, twisted little bones inside makes me feel queasy. He chuckled as he told me about it.

* * * * *

My friend, P, who I have known for 20 years, drove us to have a lovely cream tea at the weekend. We had lost touch for more than five years for various reasons (I had things going on; she went abroad) but I realised in the course of our latest conversation that the good bits of P are very, very good, and that the not-so-good bits (as I had perceived them while not in a great state of mind) were really not at all not-so-good (double negatives necessary, I'm afraid). Perspective is a great thing.

Not one of us is perfect, and it became apparent to me as we chatted and ate scones slathered in jam and clotted cream that we have both grown up a lot during the hiatus. Certain insecurities are not there any longer, confidence has replaced what were growing pains, but most importantly, what made us friends as teenagers hadn't changed a bit.

I don't know anyone who hasn't said something that, if I so choose, I can perceive as hurtful. And I know I can be sharp at times (especially this summer with my insomnia, but the people who genuinely care see past my fug of deepest, darkest exhaustion; those who choose to see the negative, such as my ex-friend R, focus on themselves only, saying things like, "You aren't the only one with problems"...). Hmm, yes. Whatever. This isn't a fucking contest.

If I turn this thing round on its head, maybe P could have chosen to feel victim-y and cast me as a bad person... At the last meal we went to – a meeting of friends – weeks before she took a job abroad, I barely spoke to her despite her best efforts, and I walked away at the end of the evening, putting in place the first brick of a gap in our friendship that was actually quite damaging to me, as I added it to my feelings of being wronged. I remember it clearly. My breath rose in the air as I marched back to my car and drove to the flat I lived in alone. I'd said goodbye to everyone bar her. I don't blame myself for behaving that way, as I had stupefying things going on, but it's not a happy memory.

Anyway, when I contacted P at New Year after discovering her new mobile number (well, I'm not a journalist for nothing), I wasn't sure if I would receive a response. But I did, and when she remembered my birthday, months later, I suggested we meet. She called me up immediately and we met a week later. It was a little odd talking about big events such as my wedding to S. But it was also not odd, not painful, not embarrassing. It was OK, it was really OK. And that spoke volumes.

Fighting fit(ish) and a birthday

This week has been rather too busy. Sleep has been a friend for a few nights and a foe for the others, which hasn't helped in the light of the amount of work I've had to do lately.

I woke up yesterday with a scratchy sore throat, feeling drained and dizzy. My head is blocked this morning – I doubt I recovered from the virus thing last week. The scratchy throat thing has extended to my left ear today – you know that feeling when you have to wiggle your ear as the sensation is so deep in your eardrum? I shall ignore it. Pah.

Anyway, I am now allowed to fight. Yes. Fight! I passed my kung fu grading (though when I attended class recently I was very uncoordinated and felt about as worthy of my new belt as Britney Spears would be if she were crowned mum of the year). I was embarrassed and frustrated at my ineptness and my instructor joked that he thought me passing the test must be a mistake. I smiled but I felt bad. Maybe I should have just stayed at home and rested. But I'm not that sort of person. Even when I should be.

* * * * *

One of my dearest friends, Inz, celebrated her 40th birthday yesterday. It was a lovely gathering of people she'd collected from various times in her life. I rarely see her as she lives in France but when I do it's great. We met at a writing class in the early 90s, and clicked immediately. She is funny, lovely, caring, warm, and as cute as a button.

The music – which was courtesy of the radio – was an appropriate mixture of 70s, 80s and 90s tunes. The food, provided by Inz's mum, was delicious. It was an evening of easy reminiscing, devoid of angst, as it should be.

I got home post-curfew and walked past cars covered in condensation. Everything was that bit quieter, stiller and there was ice in the air. Autumn has definitely arrived. The ivy that was green and red is now blazing scarlet.

Do you realize?

I didn't really know much about the Flaming Lips. They were one of the support acts at a wonderful Massive Attack concert in London's Hyde Park a year or so ago... They performed this and rendered me speechless.

I cried my eyes out behind my sunglasses.

Do You Realize - that you have the most beautiful face
Do You Realize - we're floating in space -
Do You Realize - that happiness makes you cry
Do You Realize - that everyone you know someday will die

And instead of saying all of your goodbyes - let them know
You realize that life goes fast
It's hard to make the good things last
You realize the sun don'-go down
It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round

Do You Realize - Oh - Oh - Oh
Do You Realize - that everyone you know
Someday will die