GRIEF CONNECTIONS

I woke up with a really fuzzy head this morning. I’m still not thinking straight - which is a challenge for my colleagues; I mean, how are they to know the difference?

Anyway, I reckon it’s grief. I’m still upset about Paul, and last night Sammy and I were planning whether it makes sense for both of us to go to his funeral in Saffron Walden next Monday. We concluded that I should go, and that Sammy should stay at home.

I’m not upset about that decision. That’s okay. I think I am still upset that it is a real thing that’s happened, that I can’t just ring up Paul and talk to him about it, that somehow in the last few years I lost touch with him, that he died young, and that now this journey to Essex feels like a sheepish kind of way of saying I’m sorry, that I’m thankful, and of course, goodbye to my old friend. Grief is heavy for a human heart isn’t it? How can someone carry all that?

I also realised that grief makes you cling to connections. We all want to protect and control our connection to our loved one, and it’s a powerful instinct because letting go of it would be irreversible. The person on the other end is gone. That’s why I need to go on Monday. I know it’s selfish but I need to see my connection. And I think we all do, which is awkward when it’s someone who made such incredible connections with a huge number of people.

What I hope is that it’s also beautiful - a kind of network of connections, a web that shimmers and sparkles with memories and love. Difficult and beautiful - seems like a good summary of how grief feels.

So, a fuzzy head. It’s cooler today so that should help things. They say we’re between two heatwaves though. Next week could be scorchio. Plus, I’m not sure I’ve caught up on sleep properly from my journey home from Spain, and tiredness interferes with everything. Grief and tiredness, with a possible broiling journey up ahead. What a combo.

LATE-NIGHT OTHERWORLD

It’s 2:18am and I am stuck in Gatwick Airport. My flight was delayed by three hours and then it left late, and arrived with exactly the amount of time required for me to snatch my case off baggage reclaim, sprint to the shuttle to the south terminal, check my watch and then run like crazy to the train station one half of one minute late - for the last train.

So here I am in the late-night otherworld of an airport terminal. Sammy was worried that I’d fall asleep and miss the next train too…

Fat chance of that! These places are literally designed to keep everybody here completely awake. The lights are glaringly bright, there’s upbeat pop music from the nearby Pret keeping the energy going. Shops are permanently open, no-one has a clue what time it is because there are no clocks and the few seats that there are happen to be the least comfortable seats designed by a human. No, I’m awake alright.

My body’s really feeling the effects of the travel. It was a really uncomfortable flight - cramped and long and painful in the lower back. I’d given up my window seat for an aisle, which was nice of me, but also an appalling idea. At one point a magnificent storm flashed over the channel with Jersey twinkling below. I missed most of it, stretching and holding my head in my hands.

That flight was preceded of course, by a 5-hour wait for the plane in the first place. Spain has the same designer of airport seats I’m certain - built for short-term relief, not extended stays. There’s a certain type of church chair that comes out of the same factory.

Another thing about the late-night otherworld is that there are lots of other people here. All sorts of travellers and airport workers, with suitcases, coffees, walk or-talkies and water bottles. I look around. It’s got the feel of a dream to it. My eyes are blurry, and it’s all going slower than maybe it should. I also feel a great injustice has been done to me. I raced as quickly as possible for that train. There was nothing I could do any quicker, and yet, it left without me. I feel sure there’s some sort of life lesson in there but it’s too late and too early in the small hours to start figuring it out.

I don’t think anyone (not even Tom Hanks) could survive for long if they had to stay in this space. It’s constantly on, no rhythm, no clock. We’re built for patterns, for variety, for a predictable cycle of light and shade and summer and winter. This is a cryochamber, freezing everything in place so that it’s all in the perfect place for you when you’re travelling through. Real places aren’t designed for that. And neither are humans. I need to get out of here. 1 hour and 20 minutes to go.

TORREMOLINOS

I’m at Mulligan’s bistro in the centro of Torremolinos. Al fresco, of course, although I should probably use the Spanish equivalent. A fresca? I can’t look it up; phone’s on airplane mode.

Torremolinos reminds me of Butlins. I don’t know exactly why - maybe it’s the holiday vibe, maybe it’s the shorts and tattoos and unmistakable Britishness of the people sauntering about. There are cigarette-gravelled voices, leathered faces, flip flops and bare toed sliders. There are shorts and sunglasses, shoulder satchels and strappy tops everywhere. It’s 10am.

Tall trees and palm trees spike over the pedestrianised walkways and markets, and perhaps most Butlinsy of all, everywhere is shops and cafes. And I mean everywhere. Torremolinos seems to be a jumbled market of panedarias, bars and tiendas. People here must really like shopping and eating.

In the cool of the early morning (I say cool but it was 23 degrees) I walked down to see the sea. The great silver Mediterranean, sparkling beneath the low, burning sun. The sun loungers were empty of course, so I perched on the end of one at the front row and watched the waves roll in.

“England,” I said to myself, “has all of this.” - I think it’s true, with the exception of the weather. We have ocean and sand, we have seaside and shops and more - we have grass and clifftops and herring gulls and kittiwakes, fossils and rock pools and ice creams and deckchairs. We have fun.

I started to wonder what Torremolinos might be like in the rain, or during the cool winter. Without the sun, I reckon a seaside town in the UK would knock the spots off a place like this. But… I am biased. And clearly not a sun-seeker. And I grew up loving the British seaside holiday and all the rail-museum-raincoat-sandwiches-in-the-car fun that always went along with it.

But of course, what I’m really admitting is that on that beach, here at Mulligan’s, wandering through the deserted markets of closed shutters and weird mannequins, I have been alone. And the real value of a holiday is who you go with.

The work event starts tomorrow. Until then I’m a lone traveller, not quite at work, not really on holidays. A pair of young girls go giggling by. A family of four, some lads with more swagger than t-shirts, an older couple in sun hats and floral shorts - they all know instinctively how memories are made.

A long time ago, I suddenly remember, I sat on a bench in Jaffa, while Paul went to find oranges. I felt quite alone then too, under the heat of the Israel sun. Bless him. 

THE TRAIN TO GATWICK AIRPORT

I’m on the way to Spain for our work offsite. It’s a warm sunny morning and the hedges and houses of Surrey flash by the train.

I feel pleasant. It’s a cool, emptyish carriage, and I managed to get a seat near the luggage rack. I have snacks and water, and a full rucksack, and everything is going smoothly so far.

There are quite a few other travellers on the train to Gatwick. A row of multicoloured suitcases lines up next to mine, and there are people with shorts, and sunglasses pushed into their hair. There are caps and headphones and bright t-shirts. What there doesn’t seem to be is a lot of happiness.

Maybe it’s the stress of modern-day holidays. Passengers are quietly scrolling phones, not talking to each other. One lady behind me has just been ‘assertive’ to her children about the fact that they are not getting a dog.

“The answer is absolutely no!” she just reasserted crossly. She seems adamant, in the same way a granite cliff might when faced with an argument. “Absolutely not!” she bellows again.

Speaking of cliffs, I wonder how this moodiness compares with that old 50s ideal of throwing everything into a case, jumping on a refurbished London bus with your pals and singing your way across Europe. I think people did a lot more singing about going on holiday than they do these days.

Anyway. This is not a holiday for me. It’s technically work, though staying in a beachfront hotel in Torremolinos and visiting Malaga during a heatwave will make the lines very blurred indeed. My main evidence for claiming it’s not a holiday though, is that Sammy is not with me. And without her, it’s not quite got the carefree texture a vacation might. Also, I’ll be there with colleagues. To be honest (and I don’t want to sound ungrateful that work do this kind of thing) I’m not all that sure I’m looking forward to it.

The sidings are rich green out there, and fields and telegraph poles flicker under a cornflower blue sky. England is miraculously beautiful. As is the half reflection of me, floating over the summer view from the train window. My path is to make the most of all these opportunities - to seek the glimpses of God in moments ahead, and to be the best I can be. So says my reflection. Gatwick next.

PAUL

I was telling someone about Paul this week, trying not to get choked up. I must have a hundred stories, and it feels right that they’re shared. Grief has to be lived. I can’t lock him away.

I kept it very general. I didn’t mention the mission trip where he woke me up by staring at me six inches away from my face. I didn’t mention the milk he deliberately left by the radiator for a week just to see what it smelled like. But I did talk about his incredible capacity for making you feel like you were the most important person in the room, his world-class public speaking, and his amazing dedication to what he believed was right. He was funny, charming, kind, intelligent, straight-talking and fantastically faithful, and I will miss him for the rest of my life.

It’s an odd season, grief. Everyone seems to handle it differently. Some, two weeks in, seem to have forgotten he died. Others are angry and confused, perhaps with God, perhaps just internally. Hard to blame anyone cycling through the five stages of grief - though of course, those things - denial, bargaining, depression, anger and acceptance - are more like the colours of a painting that’s been left out in the rain. They merge and swirl, they combine and they run. And all of that is okay.

I’ll tell more stories about my friend someday. And I won’t be alone - he was known and loved by hundreds of people, each of whom must have felt as though they too were the most important person in the room when they were with him. My counsellor mentioned that it was just possible that I’d helped shape him into that person, just as he undoubtedly shaped me, over the twenty years of our friendship. It’s a nice thought. I liked it. And nice thoughts are very welcome at the moment.

BRAINS PART 8: RESERVED AND UNRESERVED

In the end it turned out that I was on as a ‘reserve’ contestant. That meant that I had to go to London on the basis that if any of the others fell down the stairs, or contracted some terrible disease, or simply got stuck on the train… I would be on.

Sammy and I went. I was nervous, praying that eight people I’d never met would make it safe and sound to the theatre, and then wondering whether I really wanted to do this at all.

We arrived. I said goodbye to Sammy, and along with three others, I was shepherded to a green room. It’s better described as a green cupboard, I think. The production assistant led us down a maze of grubby stairs, opened the door and we squeezed in. One low desk with lighted mirrors, one coat stand, three chairs, four nervous people.

Wait, three? I thought. Aside from the fact that there were four of us… Am I… here because I’m actually on the show?

For a wild minute, my heart was pounding. It all felt very real. Just the other side was the studio theatre with lights, the host already shuffling his papers, and a quiz I suddenly felt far from prepared for.

“Done anything like this before?” asked someone, inevitably.

“Yeah,” said one of the others. He was young, friendly-looking in the kind of blue shirt you’d wear to a club. He did not seem nervous.

“Mastermind,” said BlueShirt, “and The Chase”.

Oh great. No wonder he’s not nervous.

He didn’t win Mastermind, it turned out, but he had won The Chase. The other two were suitably impressed. I felt a bit sick.

And then…

“Everybody’s here,” said a voice, peering round the half-open door. It was the production assistant back, with the news that I was off the hook. Everyone had arrived and I would be able to enjoy the quiz from the audience.

-

I don’t know what I’m allowed to say about the show itself, so I’ll stick to the fun stuff that happened in the peripherals. That’s where I think I came alive.

“Have you done anything like this before?” I asked one lady, while waiting for something to happen. Her name was Beth, and she seemed pleasant enough.

“Yes,” she said, “I was an Egghead.”

She was nice enough about the fact that I hadn’t recognised her. I must have watched a hundred episodes of Eggheads. I asked her about the other Eggs and she was lovely. But I was a bit embarrassed.

"Of course!" I said, "You're Beth... from Eggheads!"

I must admit I quite enjoyed being part of the team. I had my photo taken with Russel Davies, the octogenarian host, and in one of the contestant seats. For context, the contestants sit in a row of four at a cloth-covered table. Who knows whether that photo will ever appear anywhere.

Sammy wasn’t alone in being a quiz-spouse. A rather eccentric older man joined us all in the food room upstairs (after the sound and buzzers had all been tested). He wasn’t a contestant, but the husband of a nice lady I’m calling Agatha Christie, who was. I watched him chatting.

“Where are you two from?” asked someone, after he’d regaled us with tales of Durham University in the 1960s.

“We’re from Godalming,” he flourished, a twinkle in his eye as he gripped his walking cane. “And you?”

“Oh not far from you actually, Farnham!”

“Oh dear,” he said effecting a lopsided smile. I think it was a joke, but of course, it was hard to tell.

I liked the production of the thing. The director, while clearly doing a job, was less interested in contestants than he might have been. There was a dismissive aura about him that I suspect is amplified in TV but nevertheless still there in the radio studio - I should have asked BlueShirt actually. Or maybe even Beth! She’d know. Regardless, the man running the show, the Bishop of Nottingham, was doing precisely what was needed to make it run smoothly.

At the end, the production assistant thanked me and suggested again that I ought to reapply next year. I smiled and said I might. Even the Bishop shook my hand and said thank you. I really don’t know if I actually will though.

I can’t tell you who won each show - I’m not allowed to. I can say though that either of them would have knocked me into the ground. Either way yesterday, my Brain of Britain journey was coming to an end. It was a lot of fun, and quite remarkable really.

I said I just wanted to go and enjoy it. And that I think I did. I went above and beyond to be outgoing, engaging, funny and pleasant - all the things I find so hard with strangers. And I really had a lovely time doing it; both reserved and yet unreserved for an afternoon. Perhaps that was the point of it - to show me that I can be so much more than people expect. Mission accomplished.

WORDLESS

I’ve been trying to find some good words. That’s what they say I can do; find some words, something eloquent and meaningful.

But there haven’t been any. I can’t do it.

My friend died. I want to talk about him. I want to capture how I feel, how I felt when I found out, and how much it hurts. But ever since Saturday when the text came through, I have been quite quite silenced. There aren’t any words that I can find to do the job. Perhaps they’re there, locked inside me, ready for the right moment. But while grief engraves its pattern on my heart, while the wound is still fresh and the beauty harder to see, I just don’t know what to say.