Confessing

For those Schadenfreude moments

Dear Kent…

My lovely readers, humour me as I bring a piece of my soul to the blog today. You see, ten years ago on this day, the man with whom I’d spent 30 years of my life died. His Spirit continues to speak to those whom he held most dear, and I feel the need to respond. Raise a glass and giggle, cringe, relate or let my thoughts simply wash over you as we drink a toast to the late great ‘Telly’.

Dear Kent…

A heart attack, swift and sudden. Sadly, you didn’t go out in a blaze of glory in the sack as you’d always hoped. A relief though! Might have been a tad awkward given you’d just met your new love. A beautiful woman, shame you didn’t get to explore her potential.

What a life we had ‘eh? Franz Josef flirting at 19, married at 21, growing up together; years of pure joy, the last few not so as I found my voice and you fought for yours. The search for mutual ground too hard, a sad parting, both of us mourning the loss of our closest friend. Me. You. Twelve months later, you died.

Impressed with your timing? We lost your sister Beth in 1977, Poppa ’87, your Mum ’97 and you, at the tender age of 52, in 2007. Smarty pants! Does this trend only apply to blood relatives? Much too young; should have seen our older friends scrambling to reform their drinking, smoking and dietary habits!

We promised we’d never go to sleep on an argument and I’m sad that we didn’t fulfil that agreement. But hey! While this earthling struggled with her guilt, her fears; courage won, desires lost, you sir moved on to that ethereal place. I know this for we felt you all around us.

Bloody cigarette smoke for god’s sake! None of my neighbours indulged yet after you passed you heralded your presence by filling my home with the damn stuff. I’d pat the sofa and make space for you, and you’d stay awhile or for a fleeting moment; the only time Patou our little Burmese miaowed. She was blind, but didn’t need sight to feel the spirit. Those visits are rare these days, but that’s ok.

And what’s with the boating knots huh? Jenny and Ross continue to untangle those suckers from their timber louvre cords over permanently closed windows. Keep at it though for it amuses and keeps you close in their hearts. We’ve since travelled Europe together, a coin in the Trevi fountain for you; candles lit in remembrance in every goddamned cathedral. Citing your ‘It’s beer o’clock somewhere in the world’ as we supped first drink of the day. Religiously toasting you at sunset as you asked me to, knowing you’d be thinking of me too. Oh! And Rossie’s now a granddad! I know right? Makes the coolest one! A total bruiser that kid is too!

You’ll be chuffed to know I sold your beloved Bay Cruiser boat the ‘Sea Imp’ to the Tasmanian Maritime University where they restored her to her former glory just as you’d hoped to do. Funds went to your nephew. Wasn’t what our wills requested but I knew that’s what you’d want. The gesture thwarting his attempt to sue me for our house. Bless!

And dear sweet Bret, fellow skipper who helped you sail Sea Imp to Brisbane. The man became my rock during the tougher times and, 17 years my junior; poor devil consistently fought the ‘cougar’ label on my behalf. We made a good team for five years before finally casting off our own anchors. Reasons, Seasons, Lifetimes. He’s happily married now.

You’d also be proud of me for finding the courage to live on the coasts of Italy and France, our favourite countries, for six months. Alone. To grieve, write, reconcile; each evening, finding a spot to observe that sunset and think of you. Without fail, there was always a yacht on the horizon. Cheeky man, we always knew you were sailing the high seas.

More candles lit, plus one for John Mac, another for my friend Moo whom we also lost in the year of my sabbatical. Putting a flame to a candle for you in London’s St Paul’s Cathedral with your cousin David and Helen, my long-standing moroseness finally lifted, and I was ready to come home.

Ten years on, so many frogs kissed, a few with whom I fell a little in love, one providing my ‘forever person’ benchmark. Ironically a cheeky, fun, loving, true gentleman. A replica of you, my Tarzan, sans the habits that tore us apart and that Tom Selleck look you totally rocked.

Poppa Lyons passed, but not before we witnessed the septuagenarians renewing their wedding vows. The love in the room was palpable that day. So too our beloved mentor Trevor, ‘Mon Capitaine’ now with you on the high seas, Beverley and Heaton as well.

Knowing how much you loved your technology, you’d be seriously annoyed to know you’re missing out on the rapid advancements in this space too. Watson, IoT (Internet of Things) the font of all knowledge and connectivity; movies, TV programs and music now streamed directly to our ‘smart’ devices. Phone books, maps, nah! Remember how I’d call you from random parts of the city where I was usually hopelessly lost asking for directions? Google Maps is now our friend. Minuscule button phones now pocket-sized computers driving our connectivity and with apps catering to our every whim. The Dick Tracey wrist watch on steroids. Everything you imagined and would now be relishing.

Social Media too! Web sites where we talk, share imagery, create discussions and obtain instantaneous global awareness and opportunity to help or intervene. Suspect you’d have been king of Facebook!

A female Prime Minister, a Black American President, Donald Trump currently in the seat (yes seriously!). Gay Marriage legalised (given you championed LGBTI rights, you’d be furious to know our Government is holding back). Items and artificial body parts being 3D printed, genetic re-engineering, artificial intelligence rapidly advancing, the first driver less car due for release next year.

But most importantly dear man, you continue to be loved; our close mutual NZ and Aussie friends and family remain a huge part of my life, the stories we share now legendary as we toast yet again, the anniversary of your departure. We miss you, sir. Your humour, your compassion for the underdog, the love you bestowed upon your closest and dearest. And the love you had for me, for us. In memory xx

Sparking F**king Joy here…

Lovely readers, 12 months ago I embarked on an attempt to declutter my home and my heart. The urge always strikes when I’m desperate for change, for a new beginning. Conversations of late indicate a whole raft of you are also in need of a mental and physical purge. Well read on, giggle and possibly be inspired as I re-share the robust argument my head and heart had while acting on that aspiration…

‘My book will help you transform your home into a permanently clear and clutter-free space’ claimed Marie Kondo. Your book will transform my brain into a permanently traumatised cluster-f**k’ I retort.

I’ve been standing in my wardrobe holding each item of clothing one by one, asking my heart IMG_9825‘Does this spark joy in your life?‘ while my head’s responding ‘You paid good money for that girlfriend so it damn well better!’ I’m already exhausted, and I haven’t even started perfecting the art of folding the remnants into sweet little ‘stand-ups’ for easy viewing yet. I need fortification. Pouring a glass of red while cranking up my fave Spotify playlist, I give myself a stern pep talk – you’ve got this girl! 

Marie Kondo’s ‘The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up’ has so far seen crates of excess clothing, kitchenware, and office detritus make it’s way to charities, recycle depots and the brilliant folk at ‘Dressed for Success’. Pretty pleased with myself for according to Kondo, ‘The KonMare way of curating your space to represent what’s important to you will clear your mind and make you much happier’. Wait? Curated space, yes. Clear mind? Nope! Still traumatised.

I turn to Sarah Knight’s ‘Life-Changing Magic of Not Giving a F**k’ a beautiful parody of Marie Kondo’s work. Self-help with an edge. Seems that wasting my time worrying about giving away that item I paid good money forIMG_9826 is taking up a lot of mental energy I could be using elsewhere. Taking her advice, I put said energy to good use by curating the content in the ‘F**k Barn’ that constitutes my brain.

Yep! I’ve now scripted polite ways of letting you know I no longer give a F**k – about your fund-raising requests or your incredible kale chip recipe or your horrible boss. Nope. I may just give one about your theory on John Snow’s resurrection, but definitely no F**ks given on your passion for Kardashians or the volume of Instagram followers you might have. Nein. Non.  Nada. Not a single one.

Sooo…am I concerned about that Gollum-like voice in my head whispering ‘nobody will like you‘? Nope. No F**ks given there either. As the subtitle states, this book’s a primer on “how to stop spending time you don’t have doing things you don’t want to do with people you don’t like”. Sorry-not-sorry Gollum. I’ve now prioritised the F**ks I do have to give – and I’m giving them to the people and things that matter most, direct from the sofa in my zen-like clutter free home.

In need of a declutter yourself? Both books a damn fine starter kit.

In honour…

Been thinking about what this day means for us all as we commemorate the fallen today, my mind drifting back to the time my travel buddy and I visited the war fields in France in 2013. I wrote about that day in honour of our ANZACs in 2015. The memory still tears at my heart. Here’s my story:

I hadn’t wanted to come. It was bone chillingly cold, drizzle fell from burgeoning grey skies and a biting wind whipped mercilessly at my inadequate jeans and jacket. Feet, wet and cold, were screaming chilblains, a dread I’d endured during long NZ winters, and I’d used my last tissue on a streaming red nose.

Bloody marvellous! A fine way to start a holiday in France I muttered as I wandered across the lush manicured lawns striated with row upon row of headstones.

Many of the headstones bore names, still more were marked ‘Unknown Soldier’. The 1918 battlefields at Villers-Bretonneux. An imposing Memorial commemorating nearly 11,000 Australians who died in France but have no known grave, formidable against bleak skies. I ran frozen fingers across the names etched into chilled marble. Andrew, Horatio, James, Clive, so many innocents.

Eric Hill from Boston, MA, USA - Poppies in the Sunset on Lake Geneva Uploaded by PDTillmanFrom there to Pozières, then the Thiepval ‘Memorial to the Missing’ honouring over 72,000 British and South African men, followed by Beaumont-Hamel and the Newfoundland Memorial Park where zig zag trenches can still be seen almost a century on. In the distance, the yellow rapeseed covered tracts of land soldiers had been fighting relentlessly to retain. A weak sun caressed my icy cheeks as I took stock of the surrounds. So peaceful. Once so bloodied.

Meandering through the trenches behind our guide as she described the unimaginable conditions the soldiers experienced there –  the stench of the dead atop, dysentery, lack of food, fresh water or shelter, month upon month exposed to extreme weather conditions, from searing sun to death rattle snow – I struggled to remain composed. Choking on a crust of humble pie will do that. Wet feet and a sniffle indeed.

Each site respectfully tended regardless of nationality interred, the Germans distinguished by grey crosses within a quiet field of their own. They too were just young men sent into the same bloody battles. All of them heartbreakingly young; seeing, experiencing and succumbing to horrors we can’t begin to imagine. But you probably know that anyway, a part of our ANZAC history…a raw, gut wrenching sacrifice of human life. Today, 100 years on, we honour that sacrifice.

(Image – Eric Hill from Boston, MA, USA – Poppies in the Sunset on Lake Geneva)

 

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