Total Chaos

Just a quickie to let you know once more that my life is a guddle and that my multi tasking skills have not miraculously developed just when I need them most.


Louise, our manager, has been on holiday for a fortnight...and everything has descended into chaos. I suspect that she'll be quite glad to hear that she is indispensable, and I'll be very glad to have her back to work.


Being in charge is not all it's cracked up to be. I much prefer it when I can drift around being smiley and creative without the need to be in one place all the time.


Not only has Lou been on holiday but Chris has been in France, my lovely part time lady has been sick, Max came down for his first visit in 2 years, we've had our glamorous friend Dorothy and her boys to stay and it's the height of the new season's deliveries...argh!! And happily (although bemusingly) our customers have decided that, now the sun has come out, they all want to buy winter clothes.


It seems like such a long time since I've had the luxury of a bit of time to myself. Now I know that's the case for most people but I go a bit demented (okay - more demented) when I can't find a wee space for some peace. So much action seems to drive out the creativity and leave a whole lot of white noise in my head.


Now it's Friday night and Chris is sleeping soundly so here I am.
It seems as if I've been a bit serious lately and so I'm going to tell you a wee story that I recounted to Max when he was here:


About twelve years ago, when I was working as a menswear buyer for Jenners in Edinburgh, I was on a buying trip in London. As was the case with most of my buying trips, I made them alone - staying at The Berners Hotel off Oxford Street and visiting various showrooms by day, mostly in the Mayfair area.


On this particular occasion I had to take a trip farther afield to Lancaster Gate to buy Kenzo. (Oh what a delicious collection - all sharply tailored suits and amazing textures and colours - yummy.) 


Now the location of this showroom was a bit out of the way for me and I was a little nervous about finding my way there. (I have no innate sense of direction, plus I never pay enough attention to where I'm going - poor Chris will vouch for this!) 


Being Scottish (and tight - even with company expenses) I decided to take the Underground train. I planned my route and the changes I had to make and proceeded to the first platform.


When the train arrived I politely waited for all passengers to alight from the train, as instructed by the man on the Tannoy. In front of me was a young couple with a baby in a pushchair. Again, politely, I waited for them to board the train. I waited - and then they appeared to change their minds. Finally realising that they were not boarding, I stepped around them and started to enter the carriage.


Now, it turned out that there was a reason that they changed their minds. Unfortunately I didn't realise what that was until too late. No sooner had I put one foot into the carriage and leant forward to climb in, but the doors began to close. I had been concentrating so hard on the little family that I had failed to hear the warning beeps indicating that the train was about to depart.


Picture the scene: The doors close and I am trapped. Not my foot, or even my body - but my head. Only my head. My face is wedged between the train doors and I stare inwards, head immobile as the entire carriage stares back.


Well I was surprised, and stuck, and staring from side to side. After what seemed like an age the doors reopened and I was able to step back onto the platform while the doors closed and the train sped off without me.


A kind lady asked if I was alright (much to my mortification) and I waited for the next train, somewhat dazed and with a face that was starting to hurt. Now I'm trying to be cool here. I'm a professional working girl out and about in London and attempting to fit in with the capable crowds around me...not.


Oh boy did my face hurt! The doors had caught me right on my cheekbones and by the time I finally arrived at my appointment I had a thumping headache. To add insult to injury (literally), I'd never met the guy I had the appointment with. 


I wanted to throw myself into a chair and go: "Oh my God, you'll never guess what's just happened to me!" Instead I discretely took a couple of Paracetamol and tried my best to look interested and knowledgeable as he presented me with swatch after swatch of fabrics. After three hours of selecting suits and shirts and ties I finally escaped to my friends' house for dinner.


With cheekbones still throbbing I at last threw myself into a friendly chair and wailed: "You'll never guess what happened to me!..."


Dear generous Scott looked suitably concerned and made all the right noises as I took them through the events of my day. Dorothy (yes, my glamorous friend D) made no such attempt. Rolling around on the kitchen floor she laughed until she cried. Bitch.


Oh dear, this is so typical of me. If I'd a meeting to go to I'd fall over, skin my knees and ruin my new tights. I used to think I should have grown out of such behaviour. Now I am resigned to being a pensioner who'll trip up crossing the road and show my knickers to the bus driver who's had to do an emergency stop to avoid me.

Ah, but this is not the end to my sorry tale. The following evening I took the plane back to Edinburgh. I was asked by a stewardess to swap seats with a family. (Was it the same family? Were they stalking me?) 


I settled myself wearily into my new seat and the friendly man next to me struck up a conversation. You know, the usual stuff between two professional people - "What were you doing in London?" "What line of work are you in?" 


It turned out that my neighbour worked for London Underground...in the Complaints Department! 


I so wanted to ask him if he had many complaints from people who got their heads stuck in train doors.


But I didn't - I was too embarrassed.    

The Big Day

It’s 11.55pm on Monday 15th August 2011. Today was my Grandma’s 100th birthday. 

My dear cousin Trish had arranged a party at Grandma’s new nursing home in Edinburgh. Chris and I visited early in the morning, so that I could spend some time alone with her before her guests arrived. 

Having last seen Grandma as a rather sorry soul in hospital, I was keen to see both her and her new home. The place was bright and set in pretty gardens and the staff were caring and efficient. We were informed that Grandma was having a perm and were duly taken to see her.

I found her in her wheelchair with curlers in her sparse hair. Although now mostly in a world of her own and severely deaf & blind, she still demanded I hit the lady shrieking in the chair next to her and accused the hairdresser of trying to drown her. (Actually she was quite wet.) 

There proceeded two hours of Grandma shouting her way through lunch, present opening, changing for her party and being pushed round the garden in her wheelchair.

At one point, while being shown to Grandma’s room, the nurse remarked on a raised voice at the end of the corridor. “That’s Jose. She’s our oldest resident...and our loudest.”

Before I make you feel too awful, I am bound to point out that I’m laughing as I write these words, as I did when I experienced this.

Grandma may be 100, wheelchair bound and suffering from dementia but she is the same irascible, voluble, funny, charismatic lady she always was. When, on our garden stroll, she told us to:

“Sit on your arses you silly people!”

I thought I was going to pee my pants. No one, but no one says “arses” with the style and sass of my Grandma.

I sat with her in the sunshine, studying her and listening to her talk and exclaim, listening to her converse with characters that only she could see. And I realised that nothing had changed. The way she spoke, her still so Cockney accent, the words she used, the classic  Jose sayings, the now rarer laugh, all Grandma.

And it struck me that it was as if she were dreaming while awake. Day dreaming. The scenes and characters she described, the emotions she experienced as real - because they were real to her.

She looked so beautiful in her strangeness. Not knowing me, no longer knowing the reality that we inhabit. And it was as if the world paused.

And then all hell broke loose.

Well, okay, the party started.

Now when I told Chris I was writing about today he said: “Well of course. You can talk about her message from the Queen; and how many people came to see her; and about the Scottish piper; and the amazing spread that the staff put on; and the photos of your grandma when she was young; and so many cards...

But I wont.

I can only take you through my day. You know, the one where my darling Grandma calls me an arse and tells me not to touch her; the one where I want to laugh one minute and throw myself on the ground and wail the next; the one that at times seemed like the most deliciously surreal farce imaginable. 

Picture the scene: A large sunny lounge opening onto the garden; crowds of people and presents and tables groaning with food; two little boys tuning their violins and playing tag; the loud rumble of conversation and laughter, above which Grandma’s voice soars continuously. 

The french windows are closed and the room is stifling. When the piper has piped - twice - and I finally open the doors, there is a surge towards the fresh air and old ladies with tea cups and cake spill out into the garden.

I roam around, not sure what to do, where to be. I want to be with Grandma, I can’t settle to talk to my family. Trish and I snatch a brief time alone together, excusing ourselves to take presents up to Jose’s room.

I’ve brought Trish a gift - a set of my favourite ceramics from California, decorated with birds‘ eggs and nests. It is a small token of thanks for this cousin of mine who has taken care of Grandma and me with such generosity of spirit and genuine love.

Back downstairs the party’s in full swing. Grandma is holding court as usual and has rejected a glass of Prosecco in favour of a cup of tea. Nothing changed there then. She also manages to find her way round the most enormous slice of gooey chocolate birthday cake, despite not seeing a thing.

Grandma’s old golfing, swimming and church buddies have turned up in force and are regaling us with their own personal tales of Grandma: Jose making a speech at the annual Golf Club dinner; Jose demanding that the swimming coach hold her head down while she does the splits under water. Trish has prepared a family tree and collages of photos of Grandma and her family at all ages.

The most poignant and unexpected meeting for me was with Grandma’s dear friend Jeanette - a yoga teacher who went to school with my mum. Over the years she taught all three of us the art of yoga, and imbued in us all an abiding love for this ancient cure-all. 

I was winded by our meeting - reminded of our three generations by this remarkable lady who has been a friend to us all. It was she who pointed to a photo of Grandma, mum and I and remarked on the likeness - the three ages of woman.

And I was battered with a tangle of emotions - laughter and grief; guilt that my cousin Trish and not me had created this splendid party; tension - was Grandma alright? Would we have to leave soon?

Seven hours and many hundreds of miles later, I finally sat my weary bones down in a familiar chair in our familiar home and exhaled.

Chris and I sat in our turret overlooking Market Square and dissected the day. As we talked through the emotions and the people we’d met, I slowly came into focus. I am still surprised by my inability to see things clearly when I’m overwrought. Oh Laura you are too funny.

Later as I lay in bed, I looked back over my day, thinking about how I might put into words my complicated reaction to this rare and joyous celebration. I replayed the comedy moments, pictured the photographs, felt the pain of my indebtedness to Trish. I should have been the one to organise Grandma’s big day. I’m her granddaughter. If mum had been alive it would have been her.

And then it hit me. It hit me in the way that other profound realisations have hit me before. Just the same. Lying like this in the dark in bed. Communing with the silent powers of the universe (aka talking to myself). And suddenly WHAM! Like a right hook in the solar plexus. And it’s as if the emotional punch has a physical effect. Tears spring from my eyes in a silent convulsion, cartoon-like, as if a sudden intense feeling of love has been released in an outburst of ecstatic tears.

Weird? 

You think it’s weird. Imagine how I felt.    

So what was all the fuss about then?

As I tormented myself with Trish’s tireless efforts in arranging Grandma’s celebration, I realised that she had done it for me.

Trish loves her Aunty Jose just as deeply as I love my Grandma. And being older than me, she’s known her for longer. This party was a labour of love for Trish, a way of thanking Grandma for the pleasure that their relationship has given her.

But Trish also did this for me. No, my mum, Jose’s daughter wasn’t there to organise her party. And Trish was sensitive to that - as she has always been. 

As my older cousin, she took on the responsibility for today knowing that it would be hard for me and wanting to ease the day for Grandma and me. This petite powerhouse of a lady, with a heart the size of a lion, made sure all through this marathon celebration that I (and my brothers) were at the centre of things. And this from a woman who has devoted more time to Jose over the years than my family has. 

I felt released by my understanding. freed from my torment and filled with admiration and love for my cousin. The more I get to know Trish, the more I find qualities I choose to emulate. And I cut myself a little slack and remind myself that she’s older and wiser than me, so perhaps there’s hope for me yet. 

So my darling Grandma’s 100th birthday party was not only a rip roaring knees up but a bit of a life lesson for me. 

PS: I have a wee calendar stuck on a kitchen unit. It’s just like the ones my Grandma always had. You know, the ones with the tabs you pull off, and every day’s a different quote? 

Well, having been away for the weekend, I had a few tabs to remove. 

“I wonder what the quote for the 15th is? Maybe it will be something profound or linked to today,” thought I.

Well this is it:

“That which is striking and beautiful is not always good. But that which is good is always beautiful.” 

Amen.

My Grandma The Centurion...Make That Centenarian!

  

My darling maternal Grandma Jose was 100 years old on Monday 15th August. Isn't she beautiful?!

Okay, so she doesn't look like this now but her spirit is the same. Still beautiful, still unbowed, still flirting, still making us laugh and laughing herself.

I've been trying all week to write this. I want to commemorate this special lady on her 100th birthday by attempting to capture on paper all that she has meant to me over the last 45 years. And how she has been here for me for the last 8, since my mum (her beloved daughter) died. 

But I can't write without remembering how I have felt watching her descend into infirmity and dementia and how I have mourned our lost relationship, just as I did with mum. 

When I think of my Grandma Jose, I think of sunshine & walnut birthday cakes; yoga & golf balls; doing the splits; raucous piano playing & laughter; gardening & love stories; flirting Flapper Girls & free spirits; endless knitting & sewing; mince & tatties & apple pie; her cavernous attic filled with treasures to be given away; eagle eyes & a sharp, honest tongue; beautiful, piercing pale blue eyes & nut brown limbs; pressed flowers & spidery writing; stubborn as a mule & much loved.

Grandma and I were always close. I loved her eccentric, exhibitionist ways and wanton disregard for the norm. I loved the thought of her sunbathing in her back garden, resplendent in her (by then octogenarian) birthday suit. I loved her (often cruel) honesty. I loved hearing over and over again how she and Grandpa had met.

My gentle, lovely Grandpa Bill died when I was thirteen. For the last 32 years Grandma has lived without the love of her life, and lived happily. Even now, when most of her words make no sense to me and she fails to remember who I am, the feel of her engagement ring on my finger brings a smile to her face.

With 45 years of memories to choose from, I'm going to select a few in an attempt to give you a sense of this remarkable lady:

My first one is of Grandma shouting, cross with me for attempting (at the grand old age of 3) to climb out of my parents' bedroom window. What? I thought the view from the roof looked good!

Then there were the endless childhood Christmases when Grandma appeared, a tweed clad Mrs Claus with a sack full of treasure - hand knitted dolls clothes and strange foreign objects scoured from the Church Bazaar.

Skip forward 15 years and picture the scene: I'm pregnant (deliberately), a twenty year old student half way through my degree. Too scared to tell Grandma myself, my dear mum (used to the lashing of her mother's tongue) passed on the news. 

I was summoned for tea. Still in my first trimester and feeling permanently nauseous, I was ordered to sit down to first vegetable soup and then a plate of Grandma's mince & tatties. I still don't know what was worse - having to force down the unappetising food in front of me, or enduring the baleful gaze of my disapproving Grandmother. 

Eventually she spoke:

"Did you know that you can have sex without getting pregnant?"

"Yes Grandma."

"Did it have to be Gavin, or could it have been anyone?"

All hopes of me finishing my mince & tatties disappeared down the toilet, along with the vegetable soup!

Having asked her questions and accepted the situation with her usual pragmatism, she embraced the role of Great Grandma with the same enthusiasm as she had me. I have endless memories of her and Max together: Jose teaching Max to play piano; the two of them digging intently, side by side in her garden; a teenage Max as enchanted by her love story as I have always been.

And on the years have passed. When mum died something died within Grandma. Something died within me. But as the pain has eased I've realised that every experience has a gift to give. From mum's death it was a strengthening of the bond that Grandma and I shared. The irony of which is not lost on me.

Mum and Grandma had a difficult relationship, with Grandma favouring her only son and mum always the dutiful daughter. Despite this, mum didn’t resent what Grandma and I shared. And I’m sure that the closeness that mum and I shared was the legacy of her relationship with Grandma. 

And so the dynamics of our relationship changed again. Now there were only two of us instead of the three generations of feisty women that had been. Grandma and I handled our grief very differently - she staying dry eyed and silent while I bared all. 

There were fights over mum’s husband and a silent compromise, a respect for each other’s ways. Without mum I took over the role of dutiful daughter, phoning every few days and visiting as often as the long distance between us would allow.

The memories of our Sunday morning phone calls, punctuated by laughter, still make me smile. 

The phone calls stopped only a couple of years ago. Having lived alone in the house she'd shared with Grandpa, and now severely blind, Grandma was finally persuaded to relinquish her independence and move to a care home.

They say that once this independence is lost that the aged often deteriorate quite rapidly. It seems as if this is true of Grandma. 

But I remember the constant cries of "Just take me out and shoot me!" issued over the past five years. In the end I used to reply: "Well I would Grandma, but it's illegal."

She'd had enough by then and longed to be free of her pain and her ever shrinking world. 

And in her own way now, I guess she is.

I think about life without Grandma, think about being the last of our trio - no daughter to continue the strong line of stroppy mares in our family. And I am sad.

And I am glad.


I am grateful to this remarkable centenarian for sharing her life with me. And I am grateful for the qualities that she has passed on to me - grateful for her DNA.

A Quick Update

My dear friend Cara has been on one of her infrequent but regular visits. I look forward with some trepidation to her coming. Mostly because I'm always doubtful that I have the stamina to keep up with her - her being younger and more practised at partying than me.


As usual though, my fears were quickly allayed as we launched into the wee white wines and tried to catch up with all that we have missed since her last visit. Last night was pretty civilised by our standards - bed by 2.30am and no singing loudly along to Elvis using spatulas for microphones. (Don't ask.)


Cara is a great tonic for me. She's the best listener, making all the right noises and asking all the right questions. More to the point, Cara listens and then tells me to get a grip. This is just what I need and gives Chris a break from having to do all the encouraging. (Oh dear, I do think I'm a bit high maintenance.)


As I've said previously, it was Cara who encouraged me to start my blog and get writing. Her constant words of encouragement:


 "Oh stop moaning about your life, it's brilliant." 
"I don't know what you're talking about, why don't you just shut up and do it." 
"You're a nutter, what are you complaining about?!"


ensure that I keep going even when it's a struggle.


Which brings me to my point: I'm just saying a quick hello until I can get down to a proper blog.


I've still been wading through treacle with a heid full of mince. (Eurgh, sounds like some strange sexual preference.) I have also been busy with weddings and buying and other such stuff. But thanks to Cara's gentle advice I'm telling you this instead of tormenting myself with thoughts of my lack of creativity.


So, as good old Arnie says: "I'll be back."

Summer Blues

Hello viewing several. 

Apologies for not having blogged recently. Since returning from Montana I’ve been busy with work - our Sale, processing new Autumn stock, going to buying appointments to select for next Spring - the usual at this time of year.

All excuses for not doing other stuff. The truth is I’ve been feeling decidedly uncreative and  uninspired. Dear Lou suggested that everyone feels a bit blue after a nice holiday. Perhaps she’s right. Whatever the reason, it feels as if I’m wading through treacle at the moment.

The washing away of summer by the endless grey skies and rain may have added to my mood. But “the sky’s still blue above the clouds”, so that’s a poor excuse really. As I tweeted recently, Abraham Lincoln said: “We are as happy as we make up our minds to be.” Nicely said and completely true. So why am I being such a miserable cow?!

I spoke to my son last week - a bittersweet conversation. I was delighted to hear that he’s found both peace and a purpose in life, after all my years of worrying about and advising him. It’s another lesson in patience and not interfering for me. (Oh I have such a lot to learn!)

To hear him finally embrace the idea that he is in control of his own life and can make of it what he chooses was both exhilarating and heart wrenching. I still wanted to be the one who might influence and advise him (like I got it right any other time?) and yet I was overjoyed that he is growing up and away from me.

The irony of the situation was not lost on me as I listened to him tell me of his satisfaction in making plans and following them through. I was reminded of the brilliant Kalil Gibran writing in The Prophet: 

   

 Children

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children."

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable. 

To think of all the years I’d spent trying to explain these very things and now he has found his way without me - just as I had prayed he would. Be careful what you wish for...

As I sat and listened to his plans and dreams, and then to his advice to me, the teacher became the pupil, the parent became the child. This is the conversation we had:

Me: “So we’ve decided not to move to Montana or get a puppy. Now we’ve closed the shoe shop we have the chance to consolidate and enjoy our original business with no stresses and no dramas. For the first time in years we can relax and just take things as they come.”

Max: “So you’re sitting twiddling your thumbs? You’re bored then?”

Me: “No.” (Thinking “yes”).

Max: “Well you know Maw, living a quiet life can be positive. It gives you time to enjoy the little things. It’s amazing how simple things can become important when you give yourself time just to be.”

Me: “Yes, I can see how that might be true.”

Max: “And besides, it’s nice for the people close to you. You’ve no idea how frustrating it was for us looking on and seeing you stressed out the whole time, and unable to do anything but watch.”

“Oh.”

Well that was me told. Another irony - all the years I’d been thinking that very thought about Max, and he’d been feeling the same way about me. Hm. Now that really made me think.

And so I find myself once again wondering what it’s all about, and laughing at my own expense. The universe does indeed give us what we want but often at a time and in a way that we least expect it.

Anyone For Polo daahling?

Ah the great British Summertime. How I love the grey skies and endless downpours. It reminds me of why we’re such a resilient nation...

On Sunday just past, we took a stand in the ‘Luxury Shopping Village’ at the Veuve Cliquot Polo finals at Cowdray Park. The expression “it seemed like a good idea at the time” springs to mind.

The day dawned brightly enough after a Saturday of torrential rain. In the wee small hours I trawled the internet, determined to find a weather report that corresponded with my requirements & succeeded in locating one that forecast 10% chance of precipitation for most of the day.

That’ll teach me. 

Actually the whole day taught me a lot.

My first lesson came at 8am as Chris, our glamorous friend Dorothy & I unloaded box after bag of stuff from our borrowed van (thank you Charlie!) in the horizontal rain. 

Imagining balmy weather, 20,000 wealthy polo supporters with shopaholic tendencies and a stand full of impulse purchases, I had prepared mountains of (rather heavy) stock for sale.

I cursed myself for my absurd overoptimism & lack of reality as our 3 metre x 3 metre stand filled first with stock & then with rain. And I ran around panicking, trying to find waterproof items for the front displays while Chris told me to pull myself together & Dorothy quietly soldiered on.

Once again I feel bound to admit to my bad behaviour. (I try, honestly I do.) Unfortunately my Positive Mental Attitude deserted me (and this despite the fact that it was me that booked the stand in the first place - I’m blushing as I write.)  

Sadly I was more PMT than PMA, more Pat Butcher than Pollyanna, and I proceeded to girn and greet until the stand started to take shape - thanks mostly to the forbearance of my trusty helpers.

The end result was rather Aladdin’s Cave meets East End market - sort of what I was going for. But more panic set in when I surveyed my fellow Petworthians‘ elegant ‘room settings’ tastefully merchandised with a few choice items.    

As the rain squalls increased in violence & frequency, a trickle of visitors started to appear. Already striving to avoid the mud forming in puddles around the grounds, they scurried up & down the streets glancing halfhearted & apologetic into the stands before disappearing out of sight.

By this time Heidi & Dorothy’s sons had appeared with a welcome cool box full of wine. The idea had been to ply potential customers with a wee glass as they shopped. Instead the cool box became a first aid kit, fortifying us as we dripped and dribbled beneath the angry skies.

All was not lost however. We had brought with us some wellies & brollies left over from a previous Sale. As word got round that we were the only stand selling waterproof footwear we were inundated with women in pretty frocks & mud soaked shoes. Squabbles ensued as they fought over the few remaining pairs.

Like a scene from Cinderella, our customers crammed their feet into boots too big or too small until we finally sold the last pair of size 8s plus two pairs of socks to a petite girl with size 4 feet.

One drenched family purchased a birdcage umbrella to shelter their three small children. I watched as they huddled inside it, shuffling off like a giant, rose covered jellyfish.

And the comedy rain continued to pour - I swear someone was on top of our stand emptying whole bath loads’ of water at a time onto our heads. The tarpaulin on the front of our stand was up and down like a whore’s drawers with us steaming gently inside.

Ah but isn’t that the point of events like this? The good old British spirit came to the fore and visitors and traders alike decided that, whatever the weather, we were going to enjoy ourselves.

As the rain downed and the mud rose we sang and danced and laughed at the absurdity of the scene. Girls in short frocks and sensible boots mingled with ladies in maxi dresses and bare feet. We have never seen so much ruined footwear in one day - Italy’s cordwainers must have been throwing their hands up in horror. And like days of yore those in platform wedges rose above the mire and sailed past, feet still relatively clean.

At 3pm the first match began and the clouds parted above the pristine emerald polo fields to reveal a perfect glimpse of sunlit England. The sleek players and sleeker horses galloped and thwacked to the delight of the now steaming crowds.

With the sun came other exotic delights: Dear Georgina from Guilt Lingerie had booked a model to promenade our High Street. As this glorious golden beauty negotiated the mud in crystal encrusted wellies and little else, the male population gave their own impression of the sun breaking through, beaming & sighing as if the world were now a better place.

And it was! Crowds cheered, families squabbled, couples laughed. And a crowd of youths, as good looking as an Abercrombie & Fitch advert frolicked and chatted in giant striped babygros. I swear, huge all-in-ones with zips that would please a bondage expert, ‘designed to be worn in leisure time’ I’m told - yes well...

At 6pm our friends and us sneakily decanted our stand into the back of our, now exceedingly muddy, van and vamoosed it out of there. Unloaded and cosy in front of The Apprentice final, I silently thanked the loved ones who had kept me going through the long day; thanked the husband who stood by me in my (often suspect) decisions; thanked my fellow Petworthians for their good humour & community spirit. And thanked God that I was now warm and clean and able at last to put it down to experience.

PS: My lessons in realism, magnanimity, community spirit & appreciation were hard learnt that day but I was pleased to have been given the chance to so. 

Nearly a week later I bumped into one of my neighbours from the day. I can’t tell you how pleased I was to hear from her that she too had had a sense of humour failure!

Oops, more to learn then... 

My Sister

Last night I watched a brilliant movie - “In Her Shoes”, a story about two sisters played by Toni Colette & Cameron Diaz. I laughed and cried in turn. Nothing new there then, given my propensity for leaking.

But I cried not only at the plot and the delicious Ms Diaz but because I have a sister just like her. My sister Kirsten is the Cameron Diaz to my Toni Colette - tall, blonde, willowy, beautiful, sassy - everything you don’t want in a sister (too much competition!) and everything I love.

Kirsten is my adopted step-sister, to give her her official title. But she has been in my life forever. My first memory of her is when her parents (her dad later to become my step-dad) brought her home just a few months old.

I remember my first glimpse of her when I was 7, lying on a changing mat, tiny and perfect in a little white dress and white shoes decorated with pompoms. She was born stylish. Over the years we grew up together sharing holidays and weekend trips on Loch Lomond. 

When many years later our parents married we shared a bedroom on visits and grew closer, with me envying her spunk and beauty and loving her all the more for sharing it with me.

I’m the middle girl of three - a brother on either side instead of the still-born sister I should have had. Don’t get me wrong, it suited me just fine that way. I ruled the roost and forged my place as the only sister with two brothers to boss around, especially loved because of the older sister that wasn’t to be.

And yet I never resented Kirsten, no, I loved her as if she were my own flesh and blood. As we grew older together we spent more time in each other’s company. On graduating from Glasgow School of Art she moved to Edinburgh where I lived with Gavin and Max, working as a graphic designer and playing the perfect Aunty, drifting in and out of our lives looking gorgeous and with a string of delectable boyfriends in tow.

When Gavin and I split up it was Kirsten who saw me through it - plying me with wine and taking me out, playing her favourite Indiana Jones movies and making me laugh. We danced together and flirted together. She had a line in put downs that would impress Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada and is still to this day the most spectacular drunk I’ve ever met.

On nights out clubbing Kirsten wore the most vertiginous heels making her over 6 foot tall - and making me the perfect height for leaning on as the evening progressed. A complete health nut, when drunk she would insist on purchasing deep fried king rib suppers from the chippy washed down with cans of Irn Brew. Eating these while walking was a performance in itself and on making it back to her New Town flat she would frequently pass out on the floor still clutching the remains of said supper and eating it cold when she finally woke up the next day. 

Oh how I admired her style. KIrsten always knew how to work hard and play hard and I lived vicariously through her for all the years I tried (and still do) to be good and behave properly.

It was Kirsten who I went to when depression finally gripped me so tightly that I couldn’t move without crying, Kirsten who trusted me with her most precious secrets, Kirsten who turned to me and shared my bed when her boyfriend suffered a blood clot on his brain. Just as sisters should be.

Then she moved to Sydney, Australia - striding out into the wide world where I’d never had the courage to venture. I wasn’t the best at keeping in touch - a Luddite with computers and no real clue about emailing, caught up in my own dramas back home.

But when she returned for holidays I would happily travel to wherever she was to spend time with her - that’s what sisters do.

And then my mum died and Kirsten returned to be with her family. Once again we shared our old room and she fought off her jet lag to support us all though our grief. Together again.

It was Kirsten I asked to be Maid of Honour at my first wedding and Kirsten who called me from Australia on the morning of my marriage to Chris.  

And yet as I sit here in the wee small hours we haven’t had any contact for years. It happened so gradually that I didn’t even realise it had for a long time. I’d arrange to see her on her visits and she’d be too busy. I’d have birthday presents returned from Sydney because she’d moved house and not told me. Eventually she returned from Oz and I booked a flight up to Scotland to see her only to be told bluntly that she wasn’t interested.

It broke my heart to be rejected by her. I asked for an explanation and never received an answer. I wracked my brains for reasons, and over the years have thought of many - times I let her down, times I broke her confidence - wondering if our differences had rent us apart.

Several years ago when life became intolerable and it seemed as if I had lost many of the people I loved, I sought professional help, looking for answers that never came. Had I been so deluded for so many years? Was I a complete stranger to myself?

I didn’t find those answers but I learnt to accept these losses by listening to my therapist’s wise words: “Laura, you are only ever 50% of a relationship, you cannot control the choices and feelings of the other person”. A hard lesson indeed but one that I have practiced over and over as the years have passed and my sister has become a stranger to me.   

Kirsten is married now with a baby daughter of her own. My step-dad and step-brother keep me informed of her life and I have learnt to accept that the next time we meet, many years from now, will probably be at my step-father’s funeral.  

I no longer try to contact her, I fight my desire to know what went wrong and strive to accept that I am not a part of her life. This is my life lesson.

And I thank Kirsten for the good times and bad times we shared, for enriching my life for so many years and for being true to herself. Perhaps if we had been blood sisters it would have been different, perhaps not? It doesn’t matter, I am grateful all the same.