Tribute to a friend

Yesterday I had a no-pyjamas-so-no-words-onto-paper day. I treated myself to a trip to my favourite bookshop; I met with a friend (a fellow writer - rather good one) and talked writing and books; I did a bit of literature tutoring; and I finished my day off with an outing to a poetry reading, hung out with some poet friends and drank some wine.

So my day was full of wordy bits and pieces but I wrote not a word... until I arrived home.

It was latish when I closed the front door on the night. I dropped my bag on the table and while sliding my arms from my coat sleeves I picked up the phone to chat with my man and to bid him goodnight. As I dialled his number I logged onto Facebook to see if any daughters were online so that I could touch base with them too.

On opening Facebook my screen was filled with a stunning picture of a friend of mine in a beautiful setting. More significantly, she was clasped in a gloriously happy embrace with her husband. Their faces radiated bliss. It's the kind of picture that could draw a smile from a doomster.

But my eyes filled with tears. I didn't need to read the caption that accompanied the picture. I knew that this beautiful, celebratory image had been posted to break the news of my friend's husband's passing.

I posted a comment.

I typed the first words that flew into my head (happened to include the 'F' word). Deed done I noticed that others had posted comments too. I read some of them. They were beautiful, well-thought out, considered. All I had managed to write was what some might interpret as an obscenity. And I call myself a writer. Huh.

So, today I have donned my pyjamas and I'm going redress the balance and pay tribute to my friend and her late husband and shout a little bit about this powerful and courageous couple here, on my blog.

Protocol would suggest I employ names but, as many of you do not know this couple personally, I will not do so as I would like to respect my friends' right to privacy. Cumbersome as it may be, I will refer to my friend as 'my friend' and to her late husband as 'my friend's husband'. Those mutual friends who visit my blog will know who I'm writing about. I should apologise to the rest of my blog visitors if this approach makes you feel 'left out'. That is not my intention.

Here goes.

To me it is memories of real episodes that make for the best tributes. Here are a few that have been running, Technicolour-like, through my head during the last few hours.

Those who knew my friend's husband would likely agree with me when I say he was hyper-energetic, hyper-intelligent, hyper-generous, totally fascinating and outrageously whacky. Added to that he was phenominal on the dance floor. I know this because on the occasion of my fiftieth birthday party the band started pumping out some great R and R and my friend's husband strode up to me, took my hand and said, "Let's jive, Bernie". And we did and it was stupendous. I'll confess, I'm no great jiver so it was a relief that by that point in the proceedings the champagne had rendered me giggle-ful, and I'd abandoned my heels under a table somewhere. Because, you see, there was to be no gentle introduction to the sport for me. Oh, no. That was not my friend's husband's way. He literally threw me into the dancing. It was exhilarating. He twirled me and pushed me this way and that with precision and with the authority and expertise of a pro dancer. We jived and danced our way through a couple of numbers and I started to get the hang of it. I laughed a lot, as did he because there were a few moments when it could have gone dangerously wrong (the danger being a serious loss of dignity on my part). Those few dances qualify as the best dance-floor workout I have ever experienced, ever, and, as those who know me can confirm, I love dancing.

I should have known that dancing with my friend's husband would have been an unforgettable, dervish-like experience.

My next memory is from their wedding day, only a few years ago. So many moments from that day are lodged in my mind but one image comes back to me again and again, one that for me epitomised the extraordinary nature of their partnership. It was the moment when, ceremonials over, vows exchanged, they drove off from the church to the reception. My friend hitched up her gown (a stunning vintage Ossie Clarke number if I remember correctly), threw her leg across the pillion of his old Ducati and wrapped her arms around his waist. He opened up the throttle on the bike and the threesome thundered out of the little country churchyard. None of the guests moved for several minutes. We were all transfixed, listening to the Ducati as it carried our two friends along otherwise quiet country lanes on their first journey together as husband and wife.

Great people, both. They perfected, as far as it is possible, the ability to partake in life heartily and honestly and they'd fine-tuned, also as far as is possible, the balance between giving generously and receiving graciously. As a consequence, being in their company was always comfortable, interesting and nourishing.

And now I'm going to sit quietly and rummage through some more memories and celebrate having known this good man who possessed gargantuan energy and a wild sense of humour.

I've been absent....

I know, I know, all you lovely folk that visit my blog, it's been four months since last I posted a word.

FOUR WHOLE MONTHS.

Disgraceful that's what it is (that's Fragile Confidence putting her two bits in).

When I committed to write this blog the intention was to post a few times per week, word counts permitting. It appears that I have come dangerously close to falling into the most common 'new bloggers' trap. I very nearly fell right off Planet Blog - permanently - because I allowed myself to get distracted, sidelined, diverted from my ambition, even though I was clocking up plenty of book-words. Now I could blame this on FC undermining my confidence but you'll be delighted to know that this has not been the case.

My absence was all the fault of another old friend of mine who turned up at my bedside. Yes, Grim Determination put in an appearance, a most timely appearance, overpowered Fragile Confidence and banished her from the bedroom. It was quite a tussle; left me reeling for a few days. FC gone, good old GD sat with me the whole time while I finished the book, having convinced me, quite rightly, that I must make the book my top writerly priority. What a true friend. Must take him out for a drink by way of a 'thank you'.

It may be that none of you noticed my absence. Fragile Confidence is whispering in my ear (yes she's back - GD is having a well-deserved rest). FC's telling me that this is the one thing I am bang on right about, that no one, not a single living entity will have noticed my absence. She really is not very nice*. Excuse me for a moment while I slap her.

She's wrong, wrong, wrong. You see, I know, without doubt, that the cat adores my blog. I can tell by the way she rests her head on my right wrist as I tap the keys. She's doing it at this very moment and staring at the screen and... purring. It is a challenge for me, having her head resting on my wrist like this, and it must be very tedious for her - all that joggling up and down - but I'm happy for her to maintain her watch until I hit the publish button. FC can't argue with such devotion.

But I'm waffling. I must get on. Fill you in on my pyjama-inspired writerly goings on, cat or no cat.

So, yes, the book, in it's first manifestation, is 'done'. Three Boys, A Bike and A Barge has been final-fullstopped. You may be thinking that the title is a little unwieldy and you are probably correct. Further rewrites will have much to address, this I know. Mind you, it's not such a great portent admitting that the title is the first thing that likely needs a tweak. I will not dwell on this lest FC gets hold of this nugget of doubt and blows it up out of proportion.

There have been many Pyjama Days these last few months. Vast quantities of chocolate Hobnobs have been devoured. I believe that, single-handedly, my consumption of Hobnobs could keep McVitie's solvent throughout this multi-dip recession of ours even if the rest of the humanity were to give up biscuit munching entirely. Many, many words have been written. And, at the end of it, all my children (all five) still recognise me and I still recognise them (all five). Remarkable. Much has been accomplished.

But FC is back with a veangence. She edged her way back in last Friday just as I pressed the submit button on my laptop. Then she brazenly linked arms with me as I walked home from dropping a postal submission in  the letter box just round the corner from our flat. She took it upon herself to laugh patronisingly in my ear and tell me not to go wasting all those busy, hardworking agents' precious time. It was horrible. GD is already off on his little holiday. Perhaps I should have asked him to hang around for a few days more. I hadn't anticipated FC's ferocity. She has obviously taken the hump at being exiled for so long.

Strangely, sitting here in my pyjamas, writing about her does help. I will ignore her. I will not spend the next few months scouring my inbox every ten minutes and cursing the postman for dawdling. I will not let her grind me down to a miserable, quivering blob of uncertainty while I await the fate of my book. I. Will. Not.

Ah, my Pyjama Days can be so productive, so useful, so therapeutic and, as GD pointed out to me (and he has such a sexy voice), the Schizophrenia seems to be losing its hold too. How handy is that?

* Damn it there's that word again.