Looking Back and Making Memories

For the past couple of weeks, I have been in contact with a close friend whose grandfather is passing away and has recently moved into a hospice. It’s the first time she has experienced anything like this so I’m checking to see that she’s ok. We have been exchanging regular texts, but it was one in particular that she sent that got me thinking.

"I don’t know how people deal with death, it’s bizarre to think that life just continues on”

I was incredibly close to my grandad and loved him dearly. I spent a week with him during the last two summers before he died. He was a huge influence on my life and his presence is still felt whenever I get together with my brothers, both in our humour and in the way we look at the world. When I cried at his funeral, it was the first time I cried in public.

In 2004 I bought an old MGB and I still have it to this day. My dad saw it for the first time when he visited at Christmas that year. “I bet that goes doesn’t it?” he said, as he walked past it on the way to his car to drive off. “Yeah it’s not bad” I replied, “I’ll bring it up one day.” Before I knew it though Easter had arrived and then it was May. I knew I had to organise a weekend to go up and see him, if only I could get around to organising a time. Then, on the Tuesday morning after the May bank holiday, the phone rang. It was my older brother and I was still in bed when I answered. “I’ve had a call from M, the old man died last night.” He said to take some time and to call him back. I ended the call. “What’s the matter?” said my girlfriend at the time. “My Dad’s dead” I replied, my bottom lip trembling and my eyes filling with tears.

I took some time off work, before going back 4 days later. On the first day back, I was due to attend a meeting in Birmingham of all places – as if I wasn’t depressed enough. As I sat at the conference table, my mind was anywhere but in the meeting. I didn’t want to be there. I couldn’t think of anything but Dad. What made it worse was that just about everyone looked at me and gave me a sympathetic “hope you’re ok” nod. All this did though was to make the golf ball sized lump in my throat swell to that of a tennis ball. I could feel my eyes, hot and damp ‘Stop it, stop it, stop it’ I thought to myself, ‘Hold it together, please don’t cry here, not in front of everyone’. I managed to get through the meeting and I caught the train back to London with a colleague. I was hoping to God that he wouldn’t ask me how I was. I didn’t want to talk about my Dad. The lump in my throat was still there and I was amazed that I’d been able to hold it as long as I had. “So mate, do you want to hear about the fit Aussie bird that I shagged on Saturday?” It was the first time I’d smiled all week. “YES!” I shouted with relief “tell me everything!!”

I went into pragmatic mode as I organised the funeral. This was itself an entertainment with it’s own comedy value. My parents were divorced and he’d been living up in the Midlands, and so we weren’t entirely sure where to bury him. He spent some happy childhood years with an Aunt in Derbyshire during the war and she had passed away only a couple of years previously. Should we bury him with her, in the same grave? Was that something he’d have wanted? I spoke to the local vicar who said, “You need to speak with Dave the gravedigger”. The next day I received a call “Hi, it’s Dave the gravedigger.” He sounded for all the world, like an east end builder looking for someone to haggle with over the price of a loft conversion. “Yeah, you can get him in there” he said, before following up with “depends how legal you want to be though.” Apparently, the necessary depth between the top of the coffin and the ground would be one inch too short. In the end, we brought him back down to Hertfordshire and he is now buried in a churchyard close to the family.

There are things I regret – conversations I wish we’d had, journeys to see him that I didn’t take and goodbyes that I wished I had been able to make – but didn’t have the chance, as he went so suddenly. But there were three things that helped me through it all. Firstly, there was the practicality of organising the funeral. Finding somewhere for him to be buried, organising flowers, deciding what sort of wood we wanted for the coffin etc – you just didn’t have time to get sad. Secondly, was the support of a loving family and my former partner. Any time I had a ‘moment’, she’d give me a hug and I’d be fine. Thirdly, I’d talk to my Dad. I thought of the things that I’d wanted to say to him and then I said them. I’d imagine that he was standing next to me – in the car park whilst I was buying a ticket, in the supermarket as I was finding a trolley, or in the petrol station as I was filling up. I’d talk to him and say what I wanted to say. Looking back on it, I must have resembled the sort of nutter that you avoid on the tube, but it helped. It still does and I talk to him at his graveside when I visit the churchyard. In some ways I talk to him more now than I did when he was here – at least I always win the argument now.

It’s this that I want to say to my friend. I would give anything to have just 5 minutes with Dad and Grandad – to tell them I loved them and to be able to say all the things that I wanted to say. And I want to remind her – to remind myself for that matter, that whilst the people we love are still with us, that we are still making memories and not just looking back on them.

The Gym Class

Right, you’re up to date now on the fact that I go to the gym. I’m at the stage where I’ve been going for a few years and I really quite enjoy it. I mean it’s still been a slog and can take a monumental effort at times to get motivated, but I’m much trimmer than I used to be and, well.. yes, I’m in reasonably good shape now. The turning point for me was a few years ago and happened when I started to notice a change, which others then noticed too.

I remember walking past the mirror after showering one morning, when I caught a glimpse of a rib that I hadn’t seen before – I was elated. After what seemed like weeks of slogging my guts out, lifting weights and running on the treadmill, I was finally able to see that the hard work was starting to pay off. It was about at the same time when a work colleague said “You’re looking trim, have you been working out?” ‘YES, YES!!! Fucking yes, I have and I’m so glad you noticed!!’ I thought, as I nodded and confirmed “Yeah, a little bit”.

Anyway, I was on my way to a gym session last week when I bumped into a couple of friends who had just finished a workout and were leaving. “Hey, are you coming to do the strongman session with us next week? Come on, it’s a great workout” The strongman class is a session where a personal trainer takes a group through a number of different circuits. It’s slightly different to a regular circuit training session, using very different weights on individual stations and is designed to be that much harder. I didn’t really want to go, but they applied peer pressure and I couldn’t really think of a good reason not to. So out of ideas and seemingly cornered, I agreed to go to the next session.

On the night of the class in question, I arrive just in time, if not slightly early for once. First, the warm up. I stretch my legs, in anticipation of being sent on a run. “Right, we’ll start on the bag” says the trainer. “Oh, right” I say, scouring the floor for gloves to use on the big punch bag on the ground in front of me. “Oh, you’re not going to be punching it, you’re going to be catching it and passing it on.” ‘Oh God’ “Here” he says, catching me slightly unawares, as he tosses the dense 4 ft tall bag up in the air in my direction.

Now here I have an embarrassing confession – I can’t catch. I’m a total butter fingers and it’s the reason I tried, and failed, to avoid playing rugby and cricket at school. Surely it’s always far easier to avoid a sport you’re not very good at. Better that, than to put oneself through the humiliation of dropping the rugby ball just yards from the try line every time, whilst listening to the despairing groans of your team mates.

Well this isn’t a try line, it’s a gym. I’m now in my thirties and my teammates are the other guys in the class. The pressure I’m putting myself under though is just as intense, as almost in slow motion, the bag rotates through the air, getting closer and closer. It feels like it is heading straight for my face, as I take a step back and bend my knees slightly in anticipation.

If I drop this then I will I will hear derision from the others in the class and in an instant, I will be transported back to the rugby field in 1989. ‘Catch it, catch it, don’t fuck it up, you’ve GOT to catch this!’ I open my arms, ready to envelope the bag as it comes into contact. I’ve no idea how heavy this thing is, when suddenly it slams into my chest. ‘Arms, use your arms, clasp it!’ My right arm wraps around it, but it seems to slip from my left. The angle of my right arm won’t hold it on its own, and I feel my grip loosening. It’s going to fall, I’m going to drop it and what I feared most is about to happen. ‘No, don’t drop it you muppet!’ I lift my left knee as a counter to my right arm, which gives just enough balance for me to wrap my left arm around it again. My grip is now firm, as I realise that I have caught it and I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Nice one” says the instructor, ”Now throw it over your head to the guy behind you and go to the back of the line, ready for the next catch.”

‘Oh God, here we go again...’

When To Join The Gym

I was walking out of my local sports centre the other day, following a workout. I was feeling pretty good about myself. I had managed to get out of bed and be in the gym before 10am and had spent an hour running, lifting weights and stretching – not bad for a Saturday morning. As I walked towards the front door, I noticed the latest poster on a notice board, intended to attract new members. It had the name of the gym, with the words “Where The Fit People Are” in big red letters. ‘Yup’ I thought, as if I was the person they had in mind when thinking up the strap line, ‘That’s me’ and with that I held my stomach in until I was out of the front door.

I haven’t always been a member of a gym though. A few years ago it was a very different affair. Up until I was 24 years old, I could pretty much eat anything I wanted and not put on an ounce. I’d eat chicken pies and chips and desserts in the staff canteen daily, together with Mars Bars and Twix and crisps and so on and so forth, and I wouldn’t think twice about it – I didn’t need to. I was stick thin and I didn’t see any reason to imagine that that might change.

Within what seemed like a heartbeat though, I seemed to reach my late Twenties and then early Thirties and I noticed a sagging at the top of my neck. I first saw it when getting a haircut one day. I was wearing a roll neck sweater and noticed that I seemed to have two chins. I told myself that it was the sweater that gave the impression of looking slightly chunky rather than me actually being slightly chunky.

I thought I looked fine as I saw myself in the mirror every morning. But that’s the problem with looking at yourself daily – you don’t notice change. Even when I moved to a different belt notch, I didn’t give it much thought. Surely I was just filling out – the natural process that everyone goes through as a part of getting older, wasn’t I..?

Not everyone thought so. I dismissed jibes from friends as part and parcel of matey banter and general ribbing and didn’t really take any of it to heart, carrying on in blissful ignorance. I wasn’t fat exactly, but I was bigger than I used to be. And as I saw it, the last thing I wanted, or needed for that matter was gym membership and I avoided it as all cost. It took someone else to make me aware though. When it came to giving me a message, there was only one person who could shock me into seeing things differently.

Let me first say that my Mum is the sweetest, loveliest and best person I know. She doesn’t have a bad bone in her body or a mean word to say about anyone. She loves meeting people and everyone who meets her, loves her. Amazing though her loveliness is however, it can also lull you into a false sense of security, and when a pertinent comment comes, the effect can be like a playground football shattering a classroom window.

I was visiting home one weekend when I made the mistake of walking downstairs to make tea in the morning with my shirt off. “Are you going to get dressed today?” asked Mum, watching me as I stirred my tea. “Yeah, of course” I said, “I’m just making a cup of tea and then I’ll go upstairs and put on a shirt” “Oh good, only...” she reached across, smiled and cupped one of my very modest moobs “...if you want to borrow one of my bras – second drawer on the left in my room.”

My gob smacked - the following day I joined the gym.

The Actress

I look up to see how over cast it is as I make my way home. I am feeling in good spirits, despite the low hanging grey sky, which seems to have become a permanent feature over London. The meeting I have had has gone well and I’m feeling reasonably optimistic about the potential outcomes, work wise. As I approach the traffic lights to cross the main road, the clouds give way under pressure and I feel the first scattering of rain. Luckily for me, and for what seems like the first time in my life, I am prepared and have a small umbrella under my arm. I stand at the edge of the road as the cars splash past and wait for the lights to change, and as I do so, I look around to my left, and that’s when I see her.

She stands there looking forlorn, her coat collar turned up and with her long thick dark hair cascading down over her shoulders. “Forgotten your umbrella?” I ask and immediately regret asking such a redundant question. ‘Forgotten your umbrella? Is that the best you can do?’ “Yeah, I didn’t realise it was going to rain” She says. “Where are you heading to?” I ask. “Just the supermarket, it’s down that way isn’t it?” “Yup, well I’m walking right past there, would you like to share mine?” “That’s so nice, thank you” she says, with a smile.

We walk down the main road towards the supermarket and break into conversation. “Are you from around here” she asks. “Yes, I live just down the road and I’m on my way home. How about you?” “No, I’ve just come from the estate agents back there. I’ve had a row with them about the flat they’re letting me.” “Right.” We talk more and it turns out that she’s an actress with a drama company just around the corner from where I live. Not only that, but she’s slightly bonkers too, which only serves to make me warm to her – that and the fact that she’s adorable.

We talk about job interviews and auditions and acting and then I realise that the supermarket is only 50 metres away. I slow up my speed and we talk about where she’s from and where she lives, 30 metres. We talk about the pubs we’ve been to locally as we try and compare notes, 20 metres. I start to marvel at the fact that I feel like I already know a lot about this girl and I’m wishing that the supermarket were at least another half mile away, 10 metres. And now we are edging towards the zebra crossing that leads directly to the supermarket and I realise the moment we part, that I will probably never see her again.

We pause and talk some more, before a short silence ensues. I break it by nodding my head towards the supermarket. “Well, I guess that’s you.” “Yup” she says “Well if you fancy seeing some drama sometime...” “Yeah sure” I say, “Or if you fancy going for a drink sometime...” “Yes I’d love to” she says.

I reach for my phone to take her number and immediately I’m embarrassed that I seem to have the oldest Nokia in London, and one that everyone has been ribbing me about. “Oh cool, you’ve got one of those – they’re so much easier to use.” Inside I’m beaming. Outside, I’m doing my best to maintain a cool indifference. She types in her number, attaches a girly face to it and presses save. “There” she says, as she hands me back the phone.

“So..” I say. “So..” she says

“I’d better go” she indicates, as she nods over to the supermarket, “Call me”

“I will – bye then”

“Bye”

One Night and One Morning - Part 3

“Ok, just here on the left please” she says. I look out of the rain strewn window to see that the cab driver has pulled up outside what looks like an old office block. I look up at grey facade ‘Hmm, interesting’. Two minutes later however, and we are in the hallway of a clean modern flat, and one that confirms to me that we made the right decision of whose place we ended up at this evening.

I’m in need of water after the adventure at the rear of the mini cab and I head to the kitchen and fill a glass by the sink as she pops to the bathroom. I can’t remember a time when I wanted a drink of water as much as I do now. I down it in one go and refill the glass to take another gulp, just as she appears behind me. She takes it from my hand and enjoys two big gulps herself before placing it firmly on the marble kitchen counter, spilling some as she does. With her other hand she cups the back of my head and kisses me hard on the mouth. “Come on” she says, as she leads me out of the kitchen and across the short hallway to the bedroom, flicking off the lights as we go.

The next morning I wake up to what feels like a horse stomping on my head. I am alone in a very comfortable but strange bed in a seemingly strange flat and I wonder where I am. There is movement from somewhere and I hear voices as I recount the events of last night and realise that she is talking to the postman. The front door closes and her feet pad along the wooden floor of the hallway that leads back to the bedroom. I smile inwardly and wait for her to come back to bed. I’m struck by a desire to adopt a cool nonchalance in how I look when she walks in. Should I close my eyes and feign sleep.. No stay awake and smile as she comes in.. No, lie on your side and be half awake. The door opens as I am half way between the latter two as I stretch and open my eyes with a sleepy ”Moorninggg...”

She is fully clothed. “Right” she says “I forgot that I’m meeting a friend and have to leave in 10 minutes”. “Ah, hmm, right, ok” I say, not sure of how to react, as I scratch my head and climb out of bed to wonder where I put my clothes. “Nice place” I muse, pulling on a sock. “Thanks” she says as she rushes about from room to room getting ready. I’m bleary eyed as I wipe away the fug. This feels weird.

We walk to the station and minutes later we’re on a train into London and we’re silent. The previous evening’s activities are not mentioned as we occasionally pass comment on the scenery flying past the train carriage window. Sitting opposite us is a brassy looking older woman in a leopard skin coat who looks like she may once have come third in a Bet Lynch lookalike contest. She has her arms folded as she looks at us. Any notion of talking about last night is off the agenda and I wonder if it was ever going to be there to begin with. I want to talk about it though as it feels odd not to. I’m wondering about a repeat performance under conditions of sobriety. I’m also wondering if the revelatory nature of last night’s conversations and the ensuing passion has potentially uncovered the first buds of something that could bloom into a new and beautiful relationship – or was it just a fuck?

The hard looking face on Bet Lynch seems to be staring at me as if to say “Go on, ask her I dare you.” ’Well why don’t you fuck off and sit somewhere else and I maybe I will’ I think. But she doesn’t and so I don’t and soon we are arriving at our destination. We walk through the train station to the point at which we are both due to go our own separate ways – the tube escalator for me and the station exit for her. ‘Do it now, talk to her’ I think as we get to the point of goodbye. I part my lips as my brain scrambles for the right words... “Ok, bye then.” she says, “Say hi to G for me when you next see her”.

My question answered – it was just a fuck.

One Night and One Morning - Part 2

We walk through the busy Soho nightlife, dodging the Rickshaws and street corner dealers, and head to a mini cab office. After a bit of haggling on price, we are sitting in the back of a 10 year old Toyota Corolla, listening to Magic FM. Her hand is in mine and I feel excited as she looks at me. What has happened so far was the furthest thing from my mind when I came out this evening and suddenly I am filled with thoughts of new possibilities.

The driver seems more anxious to get to our destination than we do, and heads through London like a getaway driver on speed. A sharp turn left followed by a hard right together with hard acceleration and equally forceful braking ensures that the plentiful wine in my system is mixing itself like a shaken Martini. She squeezes my hand and looks at me and kisses me again and I close my eyes. Suddenly, the inside of the car starts to spin. I open my eyes to stop the spinning and focus on her. The spinning slows but doesn’t stop as I sink lower into the back seat and try to concentrate on a fixed position in the back of the driver’s seat. ‘Focus, focus, you’ll be out soon, it’s just the motion’ I think to myself. “Are you ok?” she asks. I smile sheepishly. “Yeah fine” I say, before realising that I’m not and the inside of the car is beginning to swirl again. “Actually I think I just need to get some air.” ”Ok” she says “Can you stop the car please” she tells the driver. The driver takes a sharp turn onto the kerb and I duck out.

I stand and lean on the back of the car, taking deep breaths. ‘You’re not going to do this, you’re ok, you’re fine, breathe... breathe...’ And then it comes. I’m hoping to God that she’s not looking out the back of the car. I look like a criminal waiting to be frisked as I lean with my hands on the boot, my legs spread as I desperately try to avoid ruining my shoes and suit trousers. I’m trying to be as discrete as possible, or as discreet as a man vomiting on a busy high street in the early hours can be. ‘Oh God that must be it, no more PLEASE...’ I mutter under my breath. My stomach decides that it wants to punish me though and twists and convulses as if to make sure that there is nothing more to give.

A couple of minutes later though and I start to feel better, that last one was it. My stomach is seemingly now empty and I have a second wind. I’ve pulled it together and the world has stopped spinning. I straighten myself, take a breath and get back into the car “Sorry about that” I say. “You ok?” she says. “Yeah, just needed some air”, I say with a manufactured smile. ‘Oh God, did she see me, I hope she didn’t, I’m sure she didn’t...’ She leans over and kisses me on the lips.

I was right, she didn’t.

One Night and One Morning - Part 1

It’s late and we’re on our third bottle of wine. In fairness the wine has been shared with mutual friends. She is a friend of a friend of G, who has invited me to her birthday drinks. We have met a few times over the last couple of years and are two people who think we know each other reasonably well but who are shortly to realise otherwise. We haven’t seen each other in 6 months and so the conversation initially takes the form of catch up – How was Christmas? Did you go away on holiday last year? Have you had your hair cut? “Yes, 4 months ago” to the last one. As we talk the hairdresser type chit chat, the conversation an unexpected turn upon the new discovery of mutually shared experiences. She tops up our glasses and we take this new road of discovery, empathising and comparing the places we’ve been, the restaurants we have eaten in, the relationships we’ve had. “I’ve met you a few times but I can’t believe we haven’t talked about this before” she says. Suddenly we’re aware that we’re consumed in each other’s conversation to the point where we have separated off from the rest of the group.

We’re brought back in by G and some of the others who announce that they are leaving to go to a club somewhere deep in South London and we’re welcome to join them if we would like. We politely decline as G looks at me with her eyes narrowed. She gives me a hug and kisses the girl on both cheeks, agreeing to meet for lunch in the week. And then we are alone as she empties the rest of the bottle into our glasses. We then become further absorbed in deep conversation, the wine ensuring that some revelations and reactions are seemingly on a repeat loop.

We feel surrounded as the clientele jostles for position in a scrum against the bar. The barmaid doesn’t know who to serve first as money is waved in front of her face and half the crowd is fighting for her attention. In the middle of this we are pushed more closely together than we have been all evening. The noise level of the place gets to such a point that we are forced to speak closely into one another’s ear to make sure we are heard. I feel the warmth of her cheek against my own as I take in the smell of her hair and her perfume and I realise that I’m thinking about this girl in ways that I never expected to. And then suddenly we are kissing.

I don’t know who has kissed who first, but we are consumed and oblivious to those around us. She breaks the kiss “You won’t tell G about this will you?” There is something about the question that makes it feel more like a statement. “No, course not.” I say and she smiles and takes my hand and we leave to find a cab. “My place or yours?” she asks. I think of the unwashed dishes from last night’s dinner, the washing on a line in my lounge and the pile of clothes hanging on the end of my bed.

“Yours”