"The first of a million kisses"

"Take spring when it comes and rejoice.

Take happiness when it comes and rejoice.

Take love when it comes and rejoice"

(Carl Ewald).

 

"And think not you can
direct the course of love,
for love,
if it finds you worthy,
directs your course."

 (Khalil Gibran)

 

Walking rather carefully across town today in the midst of an aggravating and aggressive dispute between Brighton Council and the city's refuse and recycling teams, I saw two families working together to clear the pavement and wash down the road themselves. Having accidently poured soapsuds all over my sandals, a lovely girl explained that her nan is getting married tomorrow and the reception will be held at her family home. The wedding was originally planned for Thursday 13th June - my own parents' anniversary. I explained this to Sarah and that was that really. Three fairy cakes, a pot of tea and a dozen introductions later and I finally stumbled back onto the Lewes Road to buy the stuffed vine leaves and olives I'd left the house for earlier.

I didn't meet Sarah's nan as she'd been taken to have her hair set and be generally pampered before her big day. Hella is marrying the typical "boy next door". Literally. The pavement in front of Hella's house was being almost surgically scrubbed by his two great-nephews. Hella's next door neighbour has never married and is now in his late eighties. I met Derek in Hella's front room, having one hand manicured ("emphasis on the Man bit you know"), while eating his fairy cake with the other. A seemingly confirmed bachelor, he moved next door to Hella and her first husband more than forty years ago.

Although he got on really well with the couple, he fell head over heels in love with Hella. Unable to say or do anything about his feelings and genuinely fond of her husband, he remained their loyal neighbour and best mate as the couple's three children presented them with four grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. He was their rock as Hella survived cancer twice and throughout her husband's catalogue of falls and strokes and his final illness; they nursed Derek through depression and after an almost crippling car accident.
They tended each other's back gardens and even had a gate installed in the back fence for ease of access. Derek will now live in Hella's house and her son, Sarah's father, will move into Derek's house with his wife. Hella is in her early nineties now and not very mobile without a steadying hand and a lot of cajoling; her son and his wife had always intended to move closer to her when her husband died. Derek said he didn't want the hassle of selling his house and this way the two gardens can just become one. He thinks of the children as his own and his siblings are happy for everything to stay in the family.

When Hella's husband died last year, Derek sat with her, cried with her and cooked her roast dinners. He spoke at his friend's funeral and was stunned when the will revealed that he had left him care of his "most precious loved thing" - his wife. Apparently, Hella's husband had known of Derek's unspoken devotion for nearly half a century. In turn, he felt that his totally loyal wife had always had a soft spot for Derek. It took Derek two more days before he could find the words to tell Hella her husband had seen the truth. He said she cried, blew her nose, told him she loved him too but had liked and respected her husband and believed in marriage "Till death do us part". Now that it had, she said, Derek had better pop the question before one of them popped their clogs. Also, she wanted to catch up with Coronation Street that evening.

The couple decided to hold the wedding after the anniversary of Hella's first marriage, in April. It was postponed from 13th of June when the families realised that one of the many nieces would be in hospital that day. I was interested that they had originally chosen the thirteenth of any month; 13th June was the date that Derek moved in next door to Hella and her family so many years ago. I'd managed to maintain an element of composure until Derek told me this: I'd been thinking last week that my Dad wold have been married to Mum for more years than he'd actually lived.
I told Derek I'd been to see Bruce Springsteen at Wembley Stadium last Saturday and taken Mum's photograph so that she could somehow be there, many years after she last saw The Boss play there, with me. This lovely old man, with his sea-coloured eyes and a penchant for having his plumber's hands manicured, told me that sentimentality was the echo of love and loveliness. He told me never to knock it; let it jolt you and you will always know you're still alive.

Beautifully, both families are delighted by the union. Derek was worried that Hella's son and daughters might think he was after her "for one thing". Money? He has his own. Her house? He already had too many rooms for one person, next door. Derek was concerned that as a lifelong bachelor, Hella's family might think the boy-next-door would be sniffing around for physical creature comforts. Derek said Hella soon sorted him out about this: "I don't just want to hold hands you know," she told him, "The kids would much rather I was tucked up here with you than going on the Lonely Hearts." Indeed.
People often trivialise the physical or even emotional power of relationships between older or elderly lovers. That upsets me a lot; I believe that love makes even a failing heart beat faster. Romance and sexual love only have a sell by date if the relationship hasn't been blended properly. It's true that as you age, you can fully appreciate that com-passion is the sustaining flame born of communication and passion.

I'll be working when Derek finally marries his Hella tomorrow, although I may pop along for the reception and more fairy cakes. Derek told me they're not going away from Brighton at all, because every day will now be a honeymoon and also because for them, Love lives in their steep little street.
I asked him if forsaking bachelorhood might be difficult: he said it would be "interesting"; seeing that Hella had found someone before him had been extremely difficult, but not being with her when she was on her own would have been unbearable. He said he was an old dinosaur but he just wanted to be loved; I immediately thought of the Edward Monkton poem that featured in the recent wedding of the youngest daughter of my friends, Ellen and Tom. I'd never heard it before, although I'd seen some of Monkton's greetings cards and cartoons. I've included it here as a childlike celebration of unconditional romantic love, with all it's simplicity and intrigues. We're basic creatures but capable of the most noble sentiments.

I didn't get my dolmades after all, although I think I found something much richer and more filling today. The deli had sold out; I was still a bit teary-eyed and I think the kind Turkish shop-keeper thought I was upset about my failure to gather supper. He gave me some veggie pate for free instead. I tried to be honest and explain but it made me blub again and he started to look wary. I thanked him, smiled and took the pate. Which was delicious with pitta and olives. See: basic creatures.

  

 

" A Lovely Love Story"

(Edward Monkton)

The fierce Dinosaur was trapped inside his cage of ice.
Although it was cold he was happy in there. It was, after all, his cage.
Then along came the Lovely Other Dinosaur.
The Lovely Other Dinosaur melted the Dinosaur’s cage with kind words and loving thoughts.
I like this Dinosaur thought the Lovely Other Dinosaur.
 Although he is fierce he is also tender and he is funny.
He is also quite clever though I will not tell him this for now.
I like this Lovely Other Dinosaur, thought the Dinosaur.
She is beautiful and she is different and she smells so nice.
She is also a free spirit which is a quality I much admire in a dinosaur.
But he can be so distant and so peculiar at times, thought the Lovely Other Dinosaur.
He is also overly fond of things.
Are all Dinosaurs so overly fond of things?
But her mind skips from here to there so quickly thought the Dinosaur.
She is also uncommonly keen on shopping.
Are all Lovely Other Dinosaurs so uncommonly keen on shopping?
I will forgive his peculiarity and his concern for things, thought the Lovely Other Dinosaur.
 For they are part of what makes him a richly charactered individual.
I will forgive her skipping mind and her fondness for shopping, thought the Dinosaur
 For she fills our life with beautiful thoughts and wonderful surprises.
Besides,
I am not unkeen on shopping either.
Now the Dinosaur and the Lovely Other Dinosaur are old.
Look at them.
Together they stand on the hill telling each other stories and feeling the warmth of the sun on their backs.
And that, my friends, is how it is with love.
Let us all be Dinosaurs and Lovely Other Dinosaurs together.
For the sun is warm.
And the world is a beautiful place.
 

 

 

 

"Love Monkey", a five minute film based on the book by Edward Monkton.

 

 

 

  

"Allelujah"  Fairground Attraction

  

"Your smile is a prayer that prays for love
and your heart is a kite that longs to fly;
Allelujah here I am-
Let's cut the strings tonight,
and we'll kiss the first of a million kisses"

( Mark Edward Nevin) 

  

"You don't have to go looking for love when it's where you come from."
(Werner Erhard)

A ginger tale

"I love cats because I enjoy my home; and little by little they become it's visible soul."

(Jean Cocteau)

(All photos: Gigi, album)

A couple of pictures of a very stoical Ginger, the tom-from-next-door, especially for Annie, who wanted to know more about him. Immediately, I have to say Ginger is not "my cat": he very much belongs to the family who live next door to me and simply visits, but he's a much-loved visitor. I don't think my neighbour will mind me featuring her cat in the blog: he lounged about like a professional diva for his photo shoot,  breaking his pose only to attack my bootlace or clean something unspeakable from his tail.

Ginger is a long, big-pawed, big-haired cat who's terrified of hoovers, Kings of Leon and other loud noises. He's slightly cross-eyed and also veers from extreme clumsiness to utter slinkiness. He insists on leaping onto the sloped roof of my old lean-to shed, only to slide off it in slow motion every time, with an air of gritted nonchalance. In spite of his size, he has the most pitifully tiny meow. Unfortunately for my feathered friends, he's actually a fearsome and prolific hunter. However, he still likes a little hot water in his milk at this time of year, just to take the chill off things. 

A total drama-queen, if there's a hole somewhere, Ginger will drop down it; a large puddle and he'll fall into it. He's scared of spiders and even tomato stalks or my grass plant cuttings that vaguely resemble spiders. My neighbour says he loves king prawns but he'd clearly be meowing up the wrong hibiscus to think he'd get such fare from me. He does get a nice dollop of soft cheese with his fishy cat biscuits. I have given him veggie pate which he smacks away at without knowing the difference. He developed a taste for fruity fromage frats after sticking his whiskers into a bowl when I wasn't watching his every big-footed move; but he'll only eat strawberry flavoured.

He likes to sit on the stairs and watch bemusedly as I potter about; at least once a week he'll poke his head through the banisters and have to be eased out of them. He's a frequent companion as I type this blog early in the morning or late at night: if blogger's block sets in or I start to droop, Ginger has been known to sit on the laptop; enough to make any hard-drive crash.

Shortly after I moved here, Ginger disappeared. After four days of searching and calling, my neighbour despaired that he must be dead. I felt sure that he was alive and very near, but in serious trouble. On the fourth night, I walked down to the disused warehouses at the end of the road, padlocked off from the street and due for demolition. I called him for nearly an hour until I heard the faintest, weakest little mew. I fetched my neighbour and at two in the morning, some very amused firemen arrived and broke into the rusty upper floor of the warehouse. A terrified Ginger sprang out into the dark, only emerging at my backdoor as dawn was breaking. He'd been stuck in a compartment furthest away from the street, apparently surviving on pools of rainwater. He'd obviously gotten himself in but a door had closed shut behind him. Like me, he still has a penchant for climbing; like me, he can't always get back down.

I think we bonded after his little escapade. He was very jumpy for a few months afterwards and lost a lot of his bushy tail, now grown back even fluffier. He was a wonderful companion while I had pleurisy recently, purring patiently and following from room to room while I was housebound. He purrs almost constantly; I talk to him a lot while he's here and it's occurred to me that he may actually be groaning. 

He's extremely loyal, following my neighbour around the corner to the convenience store and waiting patiently for her outside; thankfully never showing any interest in the relentlessly busy main road. The other day, he arrived at my front door carrying a bedraggled piece of blue ribbon which he proudly dropped on my doormat; regrettably, his more usual offerings are freshly caught and less easily disposable.

I try not to let him sleep here: he isn't mine, at the end of the day. He comes in for his biscuits, some milk, a grooming, forty winks in his favourite spot in the hall (under the radiator) and a bit of a chat. When my neighbour and her family moved to this street some seven years ago, Ginger had apparently been left by previous residents. Maybe he moved away with them and found his way back here: who could leave such a wonderful animal behind? My neighbour took him in and called him "Ginger" because that's essentially what he is. She tells me he was already fully grown and I realise he may be getting on a bit now. I'm trying not to think about that.

When my own very beautiful, slightly quirky little cat died some years ago, I couldn't bear to replace her and still feel she's irreplaceable. I told myself I would welcome a cat if it adopted me, which is what my Sooty did. She arrived in my life when she was about three months old and died with her head on my lap, some fourteen years later. My belief is that God brings people, animals and places into our lives for a reason. I think Ginger simply appreciated that I was a cat-person-without-cat and decided to take me in paw.

When he started visiting me, he didn't know what to do with the cat toys I bought for him. I've spent several exhilarating if exhausting evenings, throwing catnip mice and balls with bells up and down the stairs and retrieving them myself. Ginger usually simply watches until I collapse on the sofa, when his work here is done, One of us is clearly eccentric; I'm pretty sure he feels it's not him.

Hi to Annie-the-Pagan and also to Christine and Colin, who care about all creatures (including Gigis).

"Hmm. Ginger you say? Really?" My own irreplaceable Sooty Poshpaws

"What greater gift than the love of a cat."

(Charles Dickens)

"Love  Cats"  The Cure

"Of all God's creatures, there is only one that cannot be made slave of the leash. That one is the cat. If man could be crossed with the cat it would improve the man, but it would deteriorate the cat." 

(Mark Twain)

Partners in the dance

"It sometimes takes a state of solitude to bring to mind the real power of companionship." 

(Stephen Richards)

Maurice with Evelyn

This Wednesday morning sees the funeral of my brother-in-law's stepfather. Maurice survived on his own for only six months after the death of his beloved Evelyn, Gordon's mother. I tried to gently warn Gordon this might well happen: sadly, I've seen this too many times when one half of a close and longstanding partnership dies. Maurice took to his bed at Christmas, his first in around forty years without Evelyn. Always a capable and proud Yorkshireman, strong in mind and body, he seemed to be broken somehow.
Admitted to hospital in February, he'd made it known that he didn't want to be fed, would not want to be resuscitated; didn't really care to go on. Maurice had survived Dunkirk and the trials of World War II in North Africa; his first wife had given up waiting for him to return from war and literally found someone else. Maurice married again and had two children with his second wife; when she became ill with cancer, he nursed her through her final months.
A hard-working weaving over-locker in the Yorkshire mill industry, he met former mill-girl Evelyn after the death of Gordon's father, Harry. Maurice and Evelyn had a courtship of tea-dances and a dancing partnership that continued into their eighties, when time began to slow their steps. My own humble experience of ballet and other dance has confirmed to me that the harmony and companionship of dance partners requires chemistry, understanding, respect, commitment and practice - rather like marriage, I would guess. Maurice was a devoted husband; Evelyn relied on his presence when they were both largely housebound during the past few years.
My brother-in-law pronounces himself an unequivocal atheist but has found some comfort that his mum and stepfather, as well as his dad, are all now resting in "eternal sleep". I have thought to myself that this is more than I've ever heard from other self-professed atheists; and actually very close to the sentiments of the Catholic "Requiem Eternam". Even though he's recently retired himself, I understand that Gordon is gazing into the void that inevitably gapes when your parents or step-parents pass: I know from experience that you're never too old to feel orphaned. I hope he and Maurice's son and daughter will take comfort that both Evelyn and Maurice were blessed to find devoted companionship not once but twice in their lives. I hope I've planted a tiny grain in Gordon's mind that his mum is to be reunited with the two great loves of her life. Her dance-card is complete.

"Eternal rest grant unto them Oh Lord

and let perpetual light shine upon them.

May they rest in peace,

Amen."

"When the years have done irreparable harm,

I can see us walking slowly arm in arm,

Just like that couple on the corner do:

Girl, I will always be in love with you.

Then when I leave this Earth

I'll be with the angels standin';

I'll be out there waiting for my true companion,

Just for my true companion."

(From "True Companion", Marc Cohn)

"Gallant Hussar" Eliza Carthy