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.
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