50yearsofhurt

Sun dappled trees ….. As I got out of my car in the...

Tue, 04 Jun 2013 17:47:00 +0100

Sun dappled trees …..

As I got out of my car in the railway station car park at 5:15 this morning my eye fell on this scene while all around me the only sound I heard was birdsong. Not a voice, car, train or plane. I couldn’t resist taking a photo in some vane hope of catching the moment. A little bit of magic in a mundane place at the start of a routine day. Yet, a new day with new beginnings. Just like every day.

I’m glad I took a fleeting moment to stop and stare.

Reflections of Rome

Fri, 10 May 2013 06:36:35 +0100

Reflections of Rome

Great piece by Bruce Schneier : The Boston Marathon Bombing: Keep Calm and Carry On

Tue, 16 Apr 2013 20:38:24 +0100

Great piece by Bruce Schneier : The Boston Marathon Bombing: Keep Calm and Carry On:

It is easy to feel scared and powerless in the wake of attacks like those at the Boston Marathon. But it also plays into the perpetrators’ hands.

A Mother's Day retrospective

Mon, 11 Mar 2013 12:56:42 +0000

Yesterday was Mothering Sunday in the UK, the traditional day on which children of all ages are supposed to recognise the contribution their mother makes to their lives.

My mother died almost three years ago to the day so this Mothering Sunday I thought I would recognise what she meant to me.

Despite telling myself at the time of her death that my mourning for the ‘death’ of my mother began some years ago, when she slipped into the fog of Alzheimer’s, I now realise I was somewhat wrong in that. Her physical passing was an absolute, and an absolute that over the years has triggered far more memories of her than I expected. I always felt that my father was the biggest influence on my life but having had a chance to reflect I now realise my mother was equally so.

In life, my father was the ‘larger’ presence in many aspects of my upbringing. As a natural storyteller, he could ‘command’ social events, his wit drawing gales of laughter from his audience or his scarier stories drawing gasps. His was a forceful personality, both physically and emotionally. You always knew where you stood with him or where he stood in his opinions. For all that, he was a very generous man, both in spirit and in material things.

I did learn much from him in my brief knowledge of him as an adult. Long before these days of ‘modern men’ he understood what it was to be a single parent and even after his marriage to my mother he still contributed somewhat to domestic chores (mainly cooking it has to be said). However in his demeanour, his values and his opinions it was clear that he both respected women as women and did not see them as simply an adjunct to being a man. A good job really given the woman he married.

I now realise that my mother’s influence upon me was more subtle, although I don’t think she meant it that way, and it’s not so much what she told me I should be, it was in the stories of her own life and in her relationship with my father that her influences came through.

She was her own father’s favourite, named after his lost love whom he met while recovering from his grievous wounds from the First World War. Because of that, I think her relationship with her mother was somewhat fractious. I know little of my mother’s very early years other than that there wasn’t much money around and it was only of her teenage years in the early days of the Second World War that she shared some stories.

She seems something of a flirt who enjoyed the company of men and she always would say she had a, “good war”. However, she was also a very brave young woman. She had wished to join the army but her flat feet made that impossible so she volunteered to work in the munitions factory making shells and bombs. In later years she was very proud of that and still became impassioned when she recalled the conduct of those in safer occupations who cast dispersions on the ‘factory girls’. Never one to stand on ceremony was my mother.

Her first marriage failed and in truth, she never talked about it much, other to say that towards the end, her husband tried to break her, psychologically and then physically. She eventually left him and took refuge first with her sister and then her parents. Her strength of character comes out, in that she then decided on divorce rather than to patch up a broken marriage. This was in the late forties when a divorced woman carried a stigma and yet her own sense of herself drove her on through the two years and several court cases (in those days people did actually go to a court room and argue out the divorce case in front of a judge) required to secure her freedom. Throughout it all, she once told me, her father was always a great support and she loved him even more for that.

After the war, she worked as a carer in a young people’s home. She was head of the boys department overseeing the health and welfare of a dozen or so boys up to the age of 16. Some children were orphans but in some cases, the children’s parent or parents placed them in the home because they couldn’t cope. Despite her youth (she was in her mid-twenties), I suspect she was good at the job given her robust personality, suited to looking after boys. If the evidence of one visiting her many years later to say thank you (I must have been about 8 or 9 at the time, so that would make it 20 years later) is anything to go by she certainly made an impression.

I am not convinced my mother and father wed out of love. I am sure there was affection between them and they had known each other a long time. My mother recalled being terrified of my father whenever he served her in the butcher’s shop that he ran in my home town before he joined the Fire Service and that was when she was around 10 years old. All she remembered was his bad temper!

Anyway, whatever was between them, along I came after just one a year of marriage. I don’t know if it’s true but when I was younger my mother told me her main motivation for having a child was to see what, “one would look like”. No wonder I have the problems I do when it comes to relationships!

My mother was not a tactile person but despite this, I can’t say I had an unhappy childhood. It was a no nonsense upbringing, with a clear structure and if you remained within it things were fine. If you wanted breakfast, you had to be up by 7:30, in fact even if you didn’t want breakfast, as I seem to recall you had to be up by 7:30! My mother was not a morning person and it was advisable to leave her very much to herself first thing. When a small boy I would wait until she got up on weekends and then I would go into my parent’s bedroom and lie in bed ‘chatting’ with my dad. During the week, my father and I would rise first and he would make me breakfast before he went to work and I went off to school. I would arrive at school very early, but fortunately, there was always someone to play football with or with which to sneak into school if the weather was bad.

My mother loved all animals although her favourites by far were dogs and her care and affection for an animal seemed at times to far outweigh that she offered other people. One of the foibles she and I share when it comes to animals is not being able to watch anything that shows cruelty to an animal, even if it is a Hollywood epic such as Lassie. Yes, we both knew it isn’t real and the animals come to no harm but both of us felt such films were unnecessary and not our choice of viewing.

In my early teenage years my mother was a great confidante when it came to girls and the most important lesson she taught me was never to be domestically ‘dependant’ upon a girl. As well as being able to cook, she taught me about washing, ironing, sowing, and even knitting. More than that, she taught me about girls as people and about how to talk to them as individuals rather than potential conquests. It meant that as I grew up I had girls as friends as well as boys as friends, which also helped me understand my girlfriends a little better. Moreover, when things with girlfriends went awry my mother was always there with some words of philosophical comfort and a nice meal to ease the pain!

After leaving home, I saw little of my parents. They visited London once in 1975 and I probably visited the northeast no more than 4 or 5 times before the death of my father, two years later. The main contact in those years was by letter and as my mother was no great letter writer the news I received on her was always second hand from my father. One thing that I do recall is that she decided in her mid-fifties to take up metalworking, creating two fantastic knives. I know my father was very proud of them and her skill and workmanship, writing fulsomely of them and even adding a sketch in his letter.

After my father’s death, I worried that my mother wouldn’t be able to cope. Not so much with the grief, but managing her finances (never her strong point) or the administration of the house with all the different things like insurances etc. to look after. My father had looked after all of that when alive and my mother didn’t even have a bank account. I shouldn’t have worried. When she finally got over her fear of being in the house alone (she loved horror films and yet until my father’s death was terrified of being alone in a house) she soon sorted herself out.

As my kids got older, the visits to the Northeast would more often than not involve a trip to one pub or another and my mother would return from these very ‘mellow’. The kids used to love this, as it was such a contrast to their other nanny, who while sweet, followed the classic stereotype of caring grandparent. My mother appealed to the devil in them and she intrigued them too as she didn’t really treat them as children, but more like little adults.

She always liked a drink and anecdotally did end up being rather the worse for wear on a number of occasions, much to my father’s amusement as he would recount a tale or two in that regard. My mother always took this in good spirit and even told the stories herself after his death. She was never afraid to laugh at herself.

I will not dwell on the last 5 years of her life through which old age and confusion diluted the strong personality she possessed. There were still sparks of that personality at times but overall senility and infirmity had a firm grip. Yet even her carers could glimpse at times something of her character and they responded to it just as others who came into her life always did.

When she died I felt a little bit of character has been lost to the world. In my own way I loved my mother but more importantly than that I respected her as a woman and not just because she was my mother. I have no rose tinted view of her life, she had failings as we all have failings but she was also kind, humorous, and caring in her own way. She lived a full life not just in the number of years but also in what she put into those years. Above all else, she remained her own woman.

"You don’t love someone for their looks, or their clothes, or for their fancy car, but because they..."

Fri, 22 Feb 2013 11:21:17 +0000

“You don’t love someone for their looks, or their clothes, or for their fancy car, but because they sing a song only you can hear.”

- Oscar Wilde (via wordsthat-speak)

A Valentines Day whimsy ….

Thu, 14 Feb 2013 15:32:36 +0000

I’ve not got you a card this year,

But it doesn’t mean that I don’t care.

No card could truly quite convey,

My love for you in the right way.

They’re either funny, rude or trite,

So this year, I just thought I might,

Attempt; myself; to get it right.

I realised quite soon however,

That all my words would sadly never

Tell of my love’s intensity,

A Keats or Shelley, I’d have to be!

So after many hours of thought,

And wishing that a card I’d bought;

I’ve come up with this simple line.

Now and forever, my Valentine!

"If only we could see the endless string of consequences that result from our smallest actions. But..."

Tue, 29 Jan 2013 11:48:48 +0000

“If only we could see the endless string of consequences that result from our smallest actions. But we can’t know better until knowing better is useless.”

- Looking for Alaska by John Green (via quote-book)

nevver: Douglas Adams

Thu, 24 Jan 2013 17:07:21 +0000

nevver:

Douglas Adams

10 years .... is it that long?

Mon, 21 Jan 2013 13:02:52 +0000

Inspired by a fellow blogger who recently wrote a personal retrospective on 2012, I decided to do something similar but covering the past ten years rather than one.

What a ten years it’s been.

I became an orphan and a grandfather, saw my two children marry and then ‘inherited’ two more children into my life.

I’ve changed jobs three times.

I’ve felt the chill of lost love on a hot and sunny, late Summer’s day, and the warmth of newfound love on a chilly evening in late Winter.

I’ve lost lots of weight and a bit more hair.

I’ve written thousands of words with tears in my eyes and then millions of words with joy in my heart.

I’ve railed pointlessly against the night while in despair with my then wife, and stood nervously in the sunshine of anticipation awaiting the arrival of my bride to be.

I’ve woken alone in a house on Christmas day for the only time in my life and kept my vow that it would never happen again.

I’ve drunk Bellinis in Harry’s Bar, Guinness in Dublin, Port in Porto, Ricard in Paris, Amarone in Verona and the other local drinks of numerous towns and cities.

I’ve seen Opera and Ballet for the first time.

I’ve eaten Paella in Valencia, Pizza in Naples, Bulls Tail in Cadiz, Beef Bourguignon and Coq au Vin in Burgundy and sampled the delicacies of many different regions.

I’ve seen the sun rise and the sun set across a whole continent of countries

I’ve seen Newcastle United triumph and Newcastle United lose. And lose, and lose again.

I’ve been moved to tears by theatre, and spine chilled, and whooped with laughter too.

I’ve grown impatient in airports, railway stations, bus stations, ferry ports and on motorways, but gamely battled through volcano fallouts and snowfalls.

I’ve woken in the plush suite of country houses and the balconied rooms of grand hotels but also the broom cupboard sized offerings of economy B&Bs

I’ve mourned the loss of a dear friend and welcomed the finding of new friends.

I’ve read and read and read. Hemingway, Orwell, Fitzgerald, Taylor, Yates….

I’ve heard the woman I fell in love with tell me she loved me too.

I’ve lived life, and tried to be the best I can be, and made mistakes and then made up for them, then made some more.

and best of all, I’ve kept my excitement about tomorrow ………..

Hungry for you

Wed, 22 Aug 2012 22:43:29 +0100

Minutes from home,

Minutes from you,

Minutes from warm embrace,

Minutes from, “I love you”,

Minutes like hours;

Hungry for you

"A child can teach an adult three things: to be happy for no reason, to always be busy with..."

Tue, 21 Aug 2012 10:45:10 +0100

“A child can teach an adult three things: to be happy for no reason, to always be busy with something, and to know how to demand with all his might that which he desires.”

- Paulo Coelho (via pavorst)

You've got to sell your heart

Thu, 19 Jul 2012 11:55:26 +0100

You've got to sell your heart:

Sound advice from F Scott Fitzgerald ….

Unfurling: Charity Skydive (or.. Totally Ridiculous Ideas That Seemed Good At The Time)

Mon, 09 Jul 2012 20:52:36 +0100

Unfurling: Charity Skydive (or.. Totally Ridiculous Ideas That Seemed Good At The Time) :

inspiredbysarah:

Geoffrey Gower was a student at the secondary school where I work. He was a remarkably brave and positive young man and a keen fundraiser who sadly passed away in February. Throughout his battle with cancer he determined to never let an opportunity pass him by and when I read about ‘Team…

"Once, in my father’s bookshop, I heard a regular customer say that few things leave a deeper mark on..."

Thu, 05 Jul 2012 07:31:55 +0100

““Once, in my father’s bookshop, I heard a regular customer say that few things leave a deeper mark on a reader than the first book that finds its way into his heart. Those first images, the echo of words we think we have left behind, accompany us throughout our lives and sculpt a palace in our memory to which, sooner or later—no matter how many books we read, how many worlds we discover, or how much we learn or forget—we will return.””

- Shadow of the Wind, by Carlos Ruiz Zafón (via quoteandnote)

"She was gone, and all that was left was the space you’d grown around her, like a tree that grows..."

Fri, 15 Jun 2012 07:41:45 +0100

“She was gone, and all that was left was the space you’d grown around her, like a tree that grows around a fence. For a long time, it remained hollow.”

- Nicole Krauss, The History of Love (via sleepyhyung)

"When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And..."

Fri, 15 Jun 2012 07:40:35 +0100

“

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.

”

- W.B. Yeats “When You are Old” (via thewordbar)

Photo

Thu, 14 Jun 2012 08:16:01 +0100

Musing on a train journey

Thu, 07 Jun 2012 20:46:20 +0100

I began to read, ‘The History of Love’, a book recommended by a very good friend of mine, while travelling in first class comfort on the 8:01 from Watford Junction to Preston.

Actually, that’s not quite true. I read the first few pages while waiting for the taxi that was to take me from my home to Watford Junction. The first rays of a weak February sun spreading just enough light to read by, and what I read soon absorbed me. In its own words, the book is “a captivating story of the power of love, of loneliness and of survival”.

It was an hour or so later that I took up the book again. The aftermath of a breakfast, courtesy of Virgin Trains, lay before me and close to hand, a half cup of coffee. As I began reading, the tumult of animated conversations that surrounded me, faded into the background.

Talk of offside rules, the leadership skills and amoral escapades of JFK, the outcome of safety inspections, how best to exploit career opportunities all became little more than a gentle murmur. I submerged into the world of two of the book’s main characters, Leo and Alma, before a loud and slightly anxious voice brought me abruptly to the surface of reality.

The voice was that of the train guard, who stood at the end of the carriage, and at his feet I could see a large grey sports bag. “Does anyone in this carriage own this bag??”

His words cut a swathe through the conversations within the carriage. There followed what appeared to be an ever lengthening silence and an unexpressed exhortation from every passenger for someone to answer and claim ownership.

“It’s alright its mine”, came the much hoped for, and somewhat flustered, reply from a young man standing up to identify himself.

Despite the phlegmatic attitude for which the British are renowned, a palpable sense of relief spread through the carriage as I returned to, ‘The History of love’.

Very few books truly demand to be made ones permanent possession. ‘The History of Love’ is one of those. I say permanent but as the book itself conveys, can anything be permanent?

Just like my journey to Preston, life itself is transitory. Nothing is forever (although I did once spend a Monday evening that felt like forever, in a very wet and very dismal Crewe).

Writing of Crewe, it was as the train arrived there that I paused in my reading to begin to write these words. The romanticism and tenderness of the opening pages of the book stirring my own creative juices and causing me to snatch some time to capture the few words above.

It was when back home that I took up my keyboard again and mused that a true writer would not have been so disciplined as to get off the train at Preston. They would continue beyond their intended stop until unburdened of their literary load. The business day abandoned to a higher calling.

However, I being timid, ‘surrendered to the dollar’ and the world of business, and filled my day with presentations and meetings, reviews and reports.

So why did I write these words? Was it to share them ? Or like so much of my writing leave them unread by another’s eyes. One day to be discovered or discarded.

I think back to my train journey and recall that as I looked out of the train window as we pulled into Warrington Bank Quay, some 20 minutes from my intended destination, I still pondered whether I might give over the day to literature. Toying with the idea. In the full knowledge that I lack the spontaneity to do anything other than to follow the planned activity for the day.

Or is it simply cowardice rather than a lack of spontaneity? I have responsibilities I tell myself. Responsibilities to my wife, to my family or should I say families, to my colleagues.

What about responsibility to art? I heard the writer inside of me exclaim, as I switched off the laptop ready to disembark at Preston.

"The friend in my adversity I shall always cherish most. I can better trust those who helped to..."

Tue, 29 May 2012 12:41:57 +0100

“The friend in my adversity I shall always cherish most. I can better trust those who helped to relieve the gloom of my dark hours than those who are so ready to enjoy with me the sunshine of my prosperity.”

- Ulysses S. Grant (via quote-book)

Greatest wedding proposal ever: the lip-dub

Sat, 26 May 2012 21:34:46 +0100

Greatest wedding proposal ever: the lip-dub:

I may be an old romantic but I think this is really sweet ……