"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)

Little women

"Above all, be the heroine of your life, not the victim." 

(Nora Ephron)

(All photos: Gigi, album)

Mum before she married.

I was quite distressed today when my sister told me my Mother's Day card for Mum hadn't arrived in Hampshire. This will be our third Mothering Sunday without her. It may seem silly to send a card to be placed at your Mum's grave, but I've always sent her one; don't think I ever missed a year. Like her, I'm big on cards, giving as well as receiving. You can often write out what sticks in the throat and crushes the heart and the written word is a memorable testament to a feeling. Hopefully, my card will arrive on Monday.
I've been thinking I should post a little testament to my Mum as the beautiful, funny, vibrant woman that she was. Mum had a strong femininity that wrapped itself around her motherhood like a Harris Tweed cloak; reassuringly abrasive, irrefutably warm and seemingly indestructible. The photos here span most of Mum's adult life as a wife, mother and early widow, but she herself never stopped being her mother's daughter. 

I never knew Granny Barbara, but Mum talked about her a lot. Like Mum, she was a petite and coquettish woman who loved things with bows and trims, in spite of her harsh and sparse upbringing. A Glaswegian Presbyterian by birth, she left her clan to marry my grandfather; by all accounts a surly Norn Irish Catholic widower, a farmer with no land of his own. 

Barbara was initially ostracised by the other Catholic women in their part of rural Antrim. They threw eggs at her front door and refused to sit with her in church: very Christian. She won them over with a gentle nature that belied her resilience; and with her gift for "knowing": they would come to her to reveal their fortunes apparently; also, not strictly Christian! She must have said something right because the egg throwing stopped and she was embraced by the women and the parish.

Mum's feistiness seems to have been inherited from her father; her quiet determination from her mother. She often referred to her as "poor Mum", but Granny was rich in the admiration and respect she invoked in her own four daughters. There was a fifth, youngest child, a son called William; also his mother's boy, to the anxiety of his father. My grandfather was a commanding but demanding man. Barbara bore her son when she was fifty, which may seem an unthinkable age, but she was by then very much a Catholic Mother. 

Her health deteriorated after her last pregnancy, although she lived to see her girls bear their own children in England before she eventually succumbed to cancer. She encouraged all her children to fly the nest and make something of themselves, even though at the time this essentially meant leaving Antrim and leaving her on her own with a weary but volatile husband. She eventually came to England in her final illness: my Dad helped to nurse her. Practically disinherited by his own family in Belgium, she became a mum to him too.

My Mum often grieved that my sister and I are childless; for me, it hasn't been a choice and it's my one big regret in life. I like nurturing creatures: it feels empowering rather than compromising.  I often say that I felt orphaned when Mum followed my Dad two and a half years ago, but I will never feel motherless, whichever day my card is delivered.

It's funny how the circles turn: Mum always said that Granny loved the song "Que Sera, Sera" and would sing it while she did the family laundry. Mum loved it too; I look at photos of her before she became my mother and she reminds me of Doris Day, who I find adorable. The song features in the old Hitchcock film "The Man Who Knew Too Much", also starring my Jimmy Stewart. Somewhere I have the film on DVD; I warble this now, sometimes when hoovering. I hope I've inherited much from some strong minded, big hearted little women; I hope I don't waste it. What will be, will be.

When Tony and Josie got married...

Mum with her own mother, my Scots-Irish Granny, and with her first baby; my sister.

With me when I was about eighteen years old. Please ignore floral jacket.

Mum in Paris with me and my sister, the year Princess Diana was killed there. Mum's in her favorite shade of red; my sister appears to be wearing a deceased animal with shoulder pads. I am honestly wearing a skirt, albeit a very short one, and black nail polish; Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

Mum went to Australia in her later years, when her health was already failing and she depended on a walking stick; she loved it there, later encouraging me to go and fall in love with the continent too.

My sister and I with Mum on her birthday, nine years ago.

This is one of the last photos taken of Mum, a few months before she died. It was taken on my birthday, almost exactly three years ago. Already very frail and ill here, she died little more than six months later.

"What would men be without women? Scarce, sir...mighty scarce." 

(Mark Twain)

"Que Sera Sera"  Doris Day

"Taking joy in living is a woman’s best cosmetic." 

(Rosalind Russell) 

"You educate a man; you educate a man. You educate a woman; you educate a generation." 

(Brigham Young) 

"I am a woman; my country is the whole world." 

(Virginia Woolf) 

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

God's tap on man's shoulder

"There is no surprise more magical than the surprise of being loved: It is God's finger on man's shoulder." 

(Charles Morgan)

My friend Suzanne, who's known me for at least half of my life and cares about me deeply, called me a "singleton" last year. As a hopeless romantic, I was quite stung by this (affectionate) description: no-one who loves the idea of being in love and identifies themselves with loving others wants to be seen as unloved. She also told me I should have been born in medieval times, when princesses lived in ivory towers and knights were bold. I don't believe the flats that have sprung up at the end of my little street really qualify as an ivory tower, and although there are some very fine and bold men in hosiery and thigh-high boots around Brighton, my guess is they're not out to dally with a damsel.

St Valentine's Day is, of course, an exercise in canny consumerism, exploiting the poetry of flattery and the currency of insecurity.The Catholic Church doesn't even fully verify that there was indeed one saintly Valentine whose story peculiarly lends him to the patronage of romantic love. There have been several sainted Valentines in fact: today's feast day may be an amalgamated celebration of their kindly and chivalrous traits.
The Ancient Roman festival of Lupercalia was devoted to love and fertility and occurred around the middle of February. By all accounts, the festival could be a bit of a riot, sometime even involving sacrifices; it was abolished by Pope Gelasius in the fifth century. It's been claimed that during Lupercalia, men drew women's names out of a jar at random, then coupled with them, probably just as randomly. Hmm, not a whole lot of chivalrous love going on there then.The practice was reintroduced in the Middle Ages, but in a more modified way: names would be drawn to initiate courting couples; the origin of today's guess-who-it-is Valentine cards?
The earliest recorded association of today's date with romantic or courtly love is credited to one Geoffrey Chaucer in "The Parlement of Foules", in 1392. "Courtly love" applied the language of the law courts to the intrigues and rituals of attraction and romance; courtship. Around 1400, Princess Isabel of Bavaria established a "High Court of Love" in Paris, dealing with love contracts, betrayals and indiscretions and violence against women. The court was founded on 6th January, the feast day of a Bavarian saint named Valentin. Today, we have the Jeremy Kyle Show.
The medieval concept of courtly love was noble and chivalrous; although it was usually conducted in secret. And it wasn't expected to be practiced between husbands and wives: marriage was often a detached, contractual matter involving allegiances, land and titles. Essentially, courtly love embraced erotic desire and spiritual attainment; it was at once both illicit and morally idealistic. It was innocence, tenderness, devotion and passion. I agree Suzie; get me to an ivory tower and quick. And yet this evening, on a feast steeped in the traditions of erotic love at it's purest and most self-sacrificing, my local tavern is proudly advertising it's "Valentine's Day Speed Dating Massacre". With reduced booze. And scampi. Dear Lord. Such things can only have a kindly-hearted singleton running for the chamomile and honey, clutching "The Complete Robert Burns".
Whatever the origins and associations of the feast, whether there was one St Valentine or twenty, the truth is that love and romance can be very much alive today. Love isn't restricted to an era, a class or to dramatic situations. It lives in hearts and minds, in familiarity and the every-day, irrespective of ivory towers or high-rises. Like Kindness and Fidelity, two of it's offspring, it's often depicted as a weakness or feyness nowadays, particularly in men, but I agree with Gandhi that love is the prerogative of the brave. There's a feeling of kinship in romantic love that empowers and engenders a will to protect as much as to be supported. The bonds of true love may be imperceptible, but they can be inexorably binding.
Do I believe all this? Yes. Do I still want to be princess-lifted out of my own little ivory tower? Yep. Did I get any Valentine's cards today? Er...no. Suzanne would say I don't put myself "out there", although I dread to think where "there" may be. Certainly not my local boozer. And like most so-called singletons, there's a lot going on in here. I'm a bit in love with where I live, I love my friends and family, I'm soppy with next door's cat and Jonathan the Seagull (treats the back garden like a hotel); I love my faith in other people and in God. I rather like my blog. I still love the idea of being in love; I believe in marriage, not just as a social institution but as a sacrament. There are a lot of us about; intelligent, practical, independent people who believe that love is for every day, not just for 14th February.
Many wonderful people have spoken beautifully about love in all it's guises of course, infinitely more eloquently than I ever could. I've included a luxury selection of quotes here; like chocolates for the soul, the sort you should never give up for Lent. I've also included Van Morrison's lovesong "Have I Told you Lately"; he wrote it less than twenty five years ago, but it's rightly acclaimed alongside the works of Burns and Dante. Originally written as a prayer, it's just timeless; it will probably remain one of the most played wedding waltzes for the next few decades.
If love didn't appear to come through you front door today, or even pop up on your iPhone or laptop screen, may it find you in the pockets of wherever you call home, and may you greet it in the corners of your smile.

*Happy Valentine's Day, Ms Suzanne Pinkstone!*

"Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage." 

(Lao Tzu) 

"Where there is Love there is Life." 

(Mahatma Gandhi) 

"A loving heart is the beginning of all knowledge." 

(Thomas Carlyle) 

"Life without love is like a tree without blossoms or fruit." 

(Khalil Gibran) 

"Love is a friendship set to music." 

(Joseph Campbell) 

"My love is like a red, red rose 

That's newly sprung in June: 

My love is like the melody 

That's sweetly played in tune." 

(Robert Burns) 

"Let no one who loves be unhappy, even love unreturned has its rainbow." 

(James M. Barrie) 

"Love is the magician that pulls man out of his own hat." 

(Ben Hecht) 

"Spread love everywhere you go. Let no one ever come to you without leaving happier." 

(Mother Teresa) 

"I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality. This is why right, temporarily defeated, is stronger than evil triumphant." 

(Martin Luther King Jr) 

"Forgiveness is the final form of love." 

(Reinhold Niebuhr) 

"I love you when you bow in your mosque, kneel in your temple, pray in your church. For you and I are sons of one religion, and it is the spirit." 

(Khalil Gibran) 

"Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone - we find it with another." 

(Thomas Merton) 

"Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope." 

(Maya Angelou) 

"A good deed is never lost; he who sows courtesy reaps friendship, and he who plants kindness gathers love." 

(St Basil) 

"For love alone can awaken what is divine within you. In love, you grow and come home to your self." 

(John O'Donohue) 

"Love one another, but make not a bond of love: Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls." 

(Khalil Gibran)

"Let your religion be less of a theory and more of a love affair." 

(G K Chesterton) 

"Age does not protect you from love. But love, to some extent, protects you from age." 

(Anais Nin) 

"Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies." 

(Aristotle) 

"Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love." 

(St Francis of Assisi) 

"Love and desire are the spirit's wings to great deeds." 

(Johann Wolfgang von Goethe) 

"Real friendship or love is not manufactured or achieved by an act of will or intention. Friendship is always an act of recognition." 

(John O'Donohue) 

"Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds." 

(Will Shakespeare) 

"For true love is inexhaustible; the more you give, the more you have."

(Antoine de Saint-Exupery) 

"The more I think about it, the more I realize there is nothing more artistic than to love others." 

(Vincent Van Gogh) 

"To love another person is to see the face of God."

(Victor Hugo) 

"Marriage is not a noun; it's a verb. It isn't something you get. It's something you do. It's the way you love your partner every day." 

(Barbara de Angelis) 

"Real intimacy is a sacred experience." 

(John ODonohue) 

"The motto of chivalry is also the motto of wisdom; to serve all, but love only one." 

(Honore de Balzac) 

"Had we never lov'd sae kindly, 

Had we never lov'd sae blindly, 

Never met - or never parted - 

We had ne'er been broken hearted." 

(Robert Burns) 

"You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams." 

(Dr Seuss) 

"Money can buy you a fine dog, but only love can make him wag his tail." 

(Kinky Friedman) 

"You are like nobody since I love you." 

(Pablo Neruda) 

"Have I Told You Lately" Van Morrison

"Oh the morning sun in all its glory 

Greets the day with hope and comfort too; 

And you fill my life with laughter, 

You can make it better, 

Ease my troubles, that's what you do. 

There's a love that's divine 

And it's yours and it's mine,

Like the sun; 

At the end of the day 

We should give thanks and pray 

To the One."

"Know you what it is to be a child?"

"As the family goes, so goes the nation and so goes the whole world in which we live."

(Pope John Paul II)

"Know you what it is to be a child? It is to be something very different from the man of today. It is to have a spirit yet streaming from the waters of baptism; it is to believe in love, to believe in loveliness, to believe in belief"

(Francis Thompson)

I wanted write something respectfully dedicated to the memory of Tia Sharp and all the children who have suffered physically, mentally or emotionally at the hands of those they should have been most able to trust. A couple of people have warned me off doing this, particularly as those charged with or bailed on suspicion of Tia's murder must be afforded the due process of the legal system. But one thing is irrefutably clear at this stage: the death of twelve year old Tia was concealed by members of her own family. When I read that Tia's mother had been told her own mother was implicated in Tia's murder, I wanted to weep for her.

I was very fortunate: I had both my parents until I was sixteen and my mother lived through to her late eighties. My Dad was very much a father-figure and I was still my Mum's "baby" even when she herself needed cajoling to eat and support to get to the bathroom. Whatever the political, social or even geographical distances between my only sister and myself, we are bound together as "family" due to my parents' devotion to each other and to us.

Sociologists will tell you that, in human terms, a family is basically a group of people linked by consanguinity, affinity or even co-residence. In many societies, it's the principle institution for the socialisation of children. Cloning aside, we are unable to choose our families as we do our friends: close ties formed voluntarily and independently can often prove stronger than blood. However, when affinities are cultivated within domestic familiarity but without Nature's biological safeguarding, the picture can sometimes become very distorted. Today, there is an apparent disintegration of the traditionally structured family: due to the devaluation of marriage and longterm, formal partnerships, the kind of procreational vagrancy that seems to permeate some sectors of society, and the horribly premature sexualisation of children. Tia's grandmother was pregnant with Tia's mother when she was only two years older than the tragic schoolgirl at the time of her death. When I was 14, I was dreaming about ballet and still plaiting my hair everyday.

Recent research in the United States has estimated that from the year 2000, there would be more "step-families" across America than traditional nuclear ones; one in every three Americans would have step siblings or parents. I have no wish to offend anyone whose family is comprised of "step" or "half" relatives; I have several friends in such situations where the well being of all the children is paramount and where love and respect are natural perimeters. Yet it's alien for me to grasp how Tia's mother could accept her own ex-partner, the now-accused Stuart Hazell, as her current step-dad; or indeed for Tia to suddenly view her mother's former partner as her new step-grandfather. One of my friends recently explained to her son that they were going to meet his "new Daddy", to which he smartly replied: "How did he get to be my Daddy without me knowing anything about it?"

I recently asked a Catholic priest if I should invite some people who were in need stay in my home, knowing that they would be unlikely to respect my privacy and property or the sacredness of my late parents' things. I admit that I was devastated when he suggested this was the ideal, God-given opportunity to throw open my front door as well as my heart. I was relieved when another priest, who I consider to be a friend, advised that it wasn't uncharitable to protect my home if I felt at all unsafe. God doesn't want us to be capricious about who we invite into our homes or our hearts. He bids us to respect and cherish the precious gifts He's given us, to keep them safe; nothing can be more precious than the innocence of a child.

"Innocence is lucky if it finds the same protection as guilt."

(Francois  de La Rochefoucauld)

 

God Bless Tia.

When Tony Met Josie

Photo: Gigi's album

Wednesday, 13th June, was my parents' 65th wedding anniversary, apparently their Blue "Star" Sapphire Anniversary. My Dad died before I left school and Mum has been gone for more than eighteen months now, but my Mum maintained that she wouldn't remarry because she had never divorced; I believe my father shared that sentiment.

I rattle on a lot about the sanctity of marriage, but then this is my blog after all...  I believe firmly in faithfulness, forever love, soul mates and marriage. I see broken marriages and homes and in fact ones that were never forged in the first place all around me, not least in Brighton: it merely strengthens that belief. Anyone who knows me well, knows that I believe that marriage was intended to be a sacrament and that love and physical union are also God-given

My parent's love story was by no means a fairy tale or bed of roses, but recounting it against today's backdrop, it certainly reads like one. Dad was from a fairly well-to-do Walloon (French speaking) Belgian family; my Mum was a farmer's daughter from the wrong side of the tracks in rural Northern Ireland. At that time, being Catholic, her father didn't actually own the land he farmed or the cottage they lived in. My Mum was one of five girls and six children. She was christened Josephine, after St Joseph, but was eternally Josie. My Dad was an identical twin and one of five children; he was named after St Anthony of Padua and was therefore Anthony, never the French form "Antoine". By the time he met Josie, he was officially Tony.

My father was always very spiritual and expressed an interest in becoming a Benedictine monk in his teens. Although staunchly Catholic, his parents were not at all impressed by this, as the done thing was to marry your offspring into other wealthy Catholic families: keeping it in the family and the church. When Dad and his twin brother came out of the army, my grandfather packed them off to Europe to "live a little" and experience the sights and cultures before settling down with Monsieur So-and-so's daughters. Probably best translated as sowing le wild oats. At some point, they found themselves in England and out of money. Brother Maurice was happy to return to the fold but Tony was unsure what he wanted to do. He still felt a yearning for the monastic life and was loathe to walk straight back into the argument at home. With a wonderful Poirot-style French accent and a love of food that's clearly inspired mine, he passed himself off as a French chef at Margate for a few weeks. He was coming to the end of this time there when a cheeky Irish girl and her former ATS girlfriends walked in for an evening meal.

My Mum told me that she was also loathe to return home for reasons rather different from my father's: all her sisters had settled in London and there was simply no work and therefore no food or fun to be found back in Antrim. My Mum had also used up all her funds and couldn't even pay for her dinner; she ate it anyway and then complained that it wasn't good enough to pay for! When challenged, she asked to see the chef. Enter Tony. My poor Dad was immediately smitten and said he would like to make up for the "bad" cuisine by taking her out to dinner the following night. The rest is pretty much sixty five year old history, but of course it wasn't plain sailing.

My father took his Josie home to the Ardennes and presented her as the girl who had dispelled his monastic dream; he wanted to marry her as soon as possible. My grandfather was horrified. Although Mum was undeniably pretty, bright and Catholic, she was also dirt-poor and had no formal education beyond the age of fourteen or so. After much wrangling and heartache, my grandfather cunningly said that he would give his blessing to the marriage if my father entered his preferred Benedictine monastery on retreat for one year. If Tony still wanted to marry Josie after that, it would be agreed. So my father got his taste of the monastic life after all; my mother slunk back to Ireland broken-hearted. She knew Tony had longed to enter the monastery before he met her and she feared he would simply forget her. My Mum had previous GI suitors, one of whom seemed to own most of  Wyoming or something similar. I believe she corresponded with them for a while. But Tony didn't forget Josie. He completed his retreat with the Trappist monks and left the monastery with a penchant for fruit beer, chocolate and plainchant and with his love for my mother as strong as ever. He set off for Ireland to bring her back to Belgium once more.

Of course my grandfather had no intention of keeping his word and flatly refused to give his blessing or enable a wedding: he promptly disinherited my Dad and subsequently refused to entertain my Mum or their first child (my sister, who was born in Belgium six years later).  My grandfather had passed away by the time I was born in London, some eight and a bit years after my sister. As I grew up, we holidayed in Northern Ireland and in Belgium, but my French grandmother clearly blamed my mother for the rift and never really warmed to her. When I was fifteen, Granny died, and my aunts didn't inform my father for a few days, just long enough to make sure the family home had been stripped bare, presumably still in accordance with my grandfather's wishes. I heard my Dad cry into the night afterwards, comforted by Mum; it seemed to break him. He died a year later, still a relatively young man.

My Mum certainly gave up her dreams of America and endless leisure to be with Dad; wherever Dad found work in Europe in the early years of their marriage she worked too, often in domestic service. She didn't see her own mother regularly and wasn't able to relocate with her sisters in England for several years. My Dad gave up his dream of the cloistered vocational life, his inheritance and his own family to some extent. He eventually became a teacher of languages, a translator and linguist. He sometimes worked four jobs while I was growing up in sarf lundun: I would have loved more time with him, but to me he was always the ideal of a father and husband. My Mum's Irish temper involved the odd clip round the ear and some colourful maternal advice, but if my placid and laughing Dad raised his voice or treated me coldly, I was immediately chastened and upset. Likewise, my Mum's warning of Hell as the ultimate punishment was loaded with fire and brimstone. My Dad would talk about the awful damnation of being kept away from God and those you loved: I can see so clearly where this analogy was formed. My father's Catholicism was quite romanticised and all about the ethereal and the contemplative; Mum's background was one of rugged and often harsh religion rather than spirituality, with a healthy measure of superstition thrown in. It happened that my parents married on 13th June, which is also the feast of St Anthony of Padua, my father's patron saint. When I was a child, I often heard my harassed mother saying "Tony, Tony look around, something's lost and must be found!" It was a few years before I realised that she was calling on one of her favourite saints of the hapless, and not nagging Dad in his absence.

There is of course a legend surrounding the saint's patronage of all things lost or taken. A novice of St Anthony, grown tired of the religious life, decided to leave the community. In addition to going AWOL, he took St Anthony's psalter with him. When Anthony realised his psalter was missing, he prayed for its safe return. Soon after, the psalter thief felt compelled to return it to Anthony as well as returning to the order. I've always felt that Dad was quite aptly named after the saint. Anthony was born into a very rich and noble family who arranged for him to be instructed at a cathedral school: against the wishes of his family, he entered the community of the Abbey of St Vincent, just outside Lisbon, later becoming a Franciscan and an eminent teacher. My Dad didn't give up on his love for my Mum; likewise, he always said if he could have married and been a monk, he would have done both, but he never lost his own faith when he was forced to choose.

My maternal Granny, who I never knew but feel very close to, was deeply God-fearing (literally) but still read tea-leaves and palms (don't tell my bishop) for people from neighbouring villages, to great acclaim. My mother claimed she even read the local Catholic priest's tea-leaves. When Mum was little, her mother told her that she would marry a good man who was "of the faith" and that they would have two children, one dark and one fair; that she would have many adventures but only ever one love. I don't know what brew she was using but it was certainly accurate. I know many Catholics may frown on such things as fanciful or even faithless, but my parent's union was certainly self-sacrificing, kind, passionate and devoted. My Mum would later say it was a match made in Heaven; I believe it was simply meant to be.

Whatever curve-balls life has pitched at me over the past couple of years, I'm strengthened by the knowledge that I'm the product of love: I sincerely wish it was so for all children. Ostracised from his own family, my Dad embraced the warmth and extended familiarity of Mum's relatives; he became a very Irish Catholic, still with the Poirot accent. I see more and more of him in me, yet I have always "felt" my Irishness more keenly than being half Belgian or even being born a Londoner. I've inherited a love of Irish music and dance, and like my father I struggle to keep my nose out of Irish and church politics. There were no blogs then, but Dad was no stranger to the Letters page of the Catholic Herald. My mother's passion for a particular red is evident throughout my little house and in my wardrobes; the perfect backdrop for a collection of icons and crucifixes which rivals my Dad's. My father corresponded with monks in Belgium and beyond for the rest of his life, keeping postcards, literature and always tapes of monastic music. Consequently, I adore Gregorian chant, even though I can cuss in three languages like my Mum. I said at Mum's funeral that I was always my father's daughter and my Mum's baby; the passing of my parents and the passage of years will do nothing to alter that.

Photo; Gigi's album

This post has been pure self indulgence for me, and in that spirit of indulgence I've included two songs. "Plaisir d'Amour" was my Mum and Dad's "tune", as sung by Dad's long term crush, Nana Mouskouri. I included it on the playlist for my Mum's wake and it would just as surely have been played at my Dad's. My mother's mother was actually Scottish by birth, and I share her love of Robbie Burns, in particular the  ballads. I wanted to include "My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose", not only because my parent's wedding took place "newly sprung in June", but also because I think the words form one of the most sublime love letters ever written. No wonder Bob Dylan cited this song as the greatest poetic influence of his life.

Happy Anniversary Mum and Dad; here's to the next 65 years.

"Plaisir d'Amour"  Nana Mouskouri

"My Love is like a Red Rose"  Eddi Reader

"My Love is like a Red, Red Rose"

(Robert Burns)

O, my love is like a red, red rose,
That is newly sprung in June.
O, my love is like the melody,
That is sweetly played in tune.

As fair thou art, my lovely lass,
So deep in love am I,
And I will love thee still, my Dear,
Till all the seas go dry.
Till all the seas go dry, my Dear,
And the rocks melt with the sun,
O I will love thee still, my Dear,
While the sands of life shall run.

And fare thee well, my only Love,
And fare thee well a while!
And I will come again, my Love,
Though it were ten thousand mile!

Waiting For Eros

Photo: Gigi

I took this picture on the last day of a holiday in Australia a couple of years ago. Saying a fond farewell to the sights of Sydney whilst walking through the glorious Hyde Park that cuts across the city, I stumbled on this couple strolling through, fresh from their wedding at the nearby cathedral. Her gorgeous white dress was training along the dusty central path and they were oblivious to the skateboarders, tourists and city workers with their lunchboxes and newspapers. It was the most natural thing in the world for this couple to walk together through the park in bridal gown and morning suit: they were in love and happy and proud of their union. It remains one of my favourite holiday snaps: although there is nothing essentially Australian about it, it is unique. I truly hope they're still married and still head over heels in love.

Closer to home, last night I caught the late bus after a pizza with a friend. At one of the main stops out of Brighton city centre, a young man pleaded with our driver to hold the bus while he hunted for a pen and paper: he had met a very pretty girl that night and she was stood at the same stop waiting for another bus. This was his last bus home but he desperately wanted to write down his address and mobile number for her and hers for him. The driver initially said he couldn't wait with a bus full of passengers; then the boy and girl both said they had fallen in love. He looked about seventeen and quite sporty, she was maybe a year or two younger, fresh faced and mini-skirted in the cold. He stepped onto the bus and said his name was Mark and that he believed he had found The One For Him: could he please have a pen and paper? She then stepped onto the bus platform and said they would write on their hands if someone had a pen. She was embarrassed but just as ernest; she'd tried writing on her hand with eyeliner pencil but was scared the writing would smudge.

Everyone downstairs on my bus, including the driver, looked for writing materials. Various pens and pencils, envelopes, Sunday papers and even serviettes were found. Someone even offered them a tenner to catch a cab to both their homes so they could travel together. In the end, our driver waited the extra three minutes until Ellie's bus pulled into the stop. The pair kissed like seven year olds before Mark tore upstairs to wave at her in the other bus. We all applauded and the everyone told the driver it was absolutely fine when he apologised for holding up the bus. The woman next to me was in her late sixties and coming back from bingo. We shared her tissues to dab at our mascara for the rest of my journey. Something else quite wonderful happened which I can't imagine happening in my old hometown of London; as each of the passengers alighted at their stops, we all said goodnight.

The day before my romantic bus journey, I was at a wedding in Hampshire. Nothing that unusual, except maybe that the bride is seventy and her new husband was eighty in December. It was a very moving ceremony and also very intimate, even though the church was packed with friends and extended family. The Catholic parish priest gave a memorably affecting homily, which again found me nearly in tears. He spoke of the many words for Love in ancient Greek, found in the scriptures and other texts. In particular, there are four distinct words for love in it's various forms.

"Agape" translates in modern Greek as "unconditional love", and has been appropriated by Christians to express the love for and from God. Transcending physical attraction, Agape describes the deepest high regard, respect and sacrificial love.

"Storge" describes natural affection in both modern and ancient Greek: the innate bonds between parents and offspring and family members; kinship, shared history and acceptance. "Philia" describes love between friends and comrades, including affection, familiarity, loyalty and a sense of community and equality. Apparently, it thrives among bus passengers late at night in Brighton!

As does "Eros", the passionate and physical love of both courtship and marriage. Although Eros encompasses desire and longing, there is also the feeling of oneness and a connection of the spirit: the priest on Saturday spoke of finding The One who would help you get to Heaven. This phrase in particular has stayed with me. He also spoke of the validity of marriage at any age and of love whenever and wherever it's found. We frequently say love is blind. I believe the opposite is true. Love is seeing clearly and purely, clairvoyance and realisation. When we truly love, we see properly, beyond any mask or distortion, any barrier or limitation.

I'm a real sucker for soul mates. I discovered the writing of the late, beautiful John O'Donohue a while ago; his book "Anam Cara", literally "soul friend", is on the special books' shelf in my front room. If someone visits and either picks it out to read or comments that they know and love it, I know we're going to be friends. Call me old fashioned (it happens rather a lot), but I do feel that the sacredness of marriage has suffered a sad demise. I know couples who have lived together happily for years and who feel totally committed and devoted to each other without the making of vows in front of an altar; I also know many who have seen marriage as a formalised "long" relationship, a tax convenience and a shared account. Divorce is now seen as much more acceptable and generally a fix-it or getout clause: divorce rates are actually in decline these days, but this may be because the number of people getting married is the lowest it's been for 150 years. Marriage rates started to decline steadily in the heady seventies. Again, I have dear friends who are divorced and my intention is not insult them or blame them for current trends. I simply feel that the sacrament of marriage has been variously dismissed or too easily and loosely entered into.

It's been my personal choice to remain unmarried because I want to marry a soul mate. The word spinster no longer means a single woman of marriageable age but has become a term of ridicule, laced with rejection. I know single men who remain celibate are open to even more misunderstanding or abuse. I simply never want to marry for comfort, for security or for the sake of it. I know if I make those vows I will want to keep them, yet I have no wish to pledge myself into a loveless union to keep my family and bank manager happy. People frequently think being alone implies loneliness; I believe I would be far lonelier in a marriage or committed relationship where I wasn't fulfilled emotionally, spiritually and physically. I believe I have great love in my life, in the forms of Philia, Storge and Agape. I also still believe Eros is out there for me. So I'm totally heartened when I see a teenage declaration of love at first sight move a bus full of Saturday night weary folk. I feel moved to hear a Catholic priest acknowledge the precious role of tenderness and desire within marriage whether the couple are eighteen or eighty. And I'm enchanted to think that somewhere in New South Wales a lovely couple may be sitting down to breakfast, blissfully unaware that their wedding day stroll through the park still inspires my dreams of happy ever after.

"Bring Me a Higher Love"  James Vincent McMorrow