Tales Of The Big Mini

Posted on by billyblagg

October 8th 2018

Gail and I always used to laugh at what we called the ‘BIG Mini’. For anyone who grew up in the ’60’s / 70’s and knew the real social phenomena caused by that tiny car, and then to see the same named vehicle 40-50 years later, dwarfing most other similar cars on the road, always seemed so ludicrous. It was as if over the years, the actual word ‘Mini’ had ceased to mean anything. I know it was used before but couldn’t they purloin the word ‘Maxi’ from British Leyland? Anyway, little did we realise that one day, due to Gail’s own situation changing, we’d actually end up with one ourselves.

On a three year Motability lease from last December, today Gail’s BIG Mini went back two years and three months earlier than I expected or wanted. I took the keys into the showroom and managed to get out the words “Hello, I’m returning the keys for my wife’s ….” then I went. A full utter convulsive, crying meltdown. I felt for the staff who initially had no idea what was going on, until I managed between racking sobs to tell them who I was and what I was doing dripping water and snot onto their counter.

They were good, took me into an ante-room and gave me water and listened sympathetically. But I couldn’t really explain and they couldn’t really understand. How could they?

After handing over those keys, I patted the bonnet of a large piece of metal that, in truth, used far too much fuel anyway – I think we both would have been squealing at the end of three years – and, because I’m man who likes to suffer, declined the offer of a lift home and walked down for breakfast at Mimosa.

‘One step at a time’ they tell you. What they don’t mention is at the end of each step is a fucking banana skin and a huge, gaping hole.

The Big Mini

The Wedding

Posted on by billyblagg

On October 6th 2018, my daughter got married. It would have been an emotional day anyway but inevitably, coming so soon after losing Gail and at an event for which she had already sorted out what she was going to wear, it felt as if I’d somehow mislaid something important.

On the other hand, things that might normally have phased me become easier. There was no speech that was ever going to be as hard as the one I made at the end of August and, plans I’d made to accommodate Gail’s failing health in the spring to make sure she could get about easy enough and wouldn’t get tired at the wedding, had becomes superfluous.

I laid Gail’s planned wedding outfit out before I left for the hotel on Friday night, safe in the knowledge that her hat – she was a fantastic hat wearer – would have been admired by all.

This blog isn’t about marriage so I’ll skip over the important part of the day and just say the whole event was a complete success and a wonderful occasion. The groom toasted Gail – something I wasn’t expecting but which I was enormously touched by – and I was able to reference Gail’s absence in my speech to highlight the importance of living each day to its maximum. I danced all night as I would have done had Gail been there and, unbeknown to everyone, Gail’s favourite colour was in evidence as I wore a pair of her pink panties; an amusing Facebook poll having taken part the week before to decide which shade best suited the occasion.

It was the following day that the wall was hit. I’d been so geared to making the day the best my daughter could possibly have while riding the emotional roller-coaster of losing Gail that the thought of going home to a house without her became quite traumatic.

October 7th 2018: I know from all the lovely texts, calls, emails and comments I’ve had, that many of you were concerned for my well-being yesterday. So, this is just to let you know that the day went better than I had any right to expect. Natalie declared it ‘the best day ever’ and I really couldn’t ask for more than that.

Of course, I mentioned recent events in my speech and the Groom paid tribute to Gail and everyone toasted her memory which is something I honestly didn’t expect.

It’s odd to discover in my advanced years that I have, apparently, a penchant for public speaking and speech writing, but when some huge bloke from Australia – Steve’s father’s side of the family are from Down Under – gives you a big hug and tells you he ‘never cries’ but ‘your speech made me laugh and wipe away a tear’ then I think it’s fair to say I nailed the thing.

The reception? I DANCED. Unlike my wife, I can’t actually dance but I had to for her and I did to the extent that I didn’t sit down for over four hours, before having a brief rest and then doing another two. Everyone was pretty astonished and said as much, but I was borne on other wings and it got me through.

This weekend was originally the focus for 2018 and it was nice I was able to re-focus after a huge derailing in the summer. It’s a huge comedown now though and I’m staying in London as I can’t face going home yet.

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Cards On The Table

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September 30th: Two months since Gail left me and a month since the funeral, so time the cards came down. Thank you for every one of them and the heartfelt messages inside. I had a good bawl this morning reading them. I will, of course, be keeping them all.

One of the (only) amusing aspects of the past 60 odd days is well-meaning friends, family and acquaintances telling me ‘Gail would have loved this’ with scant idea of what she actually liked. I’m afraid you’d be pretty surprised by what Gail did, where she went and who she went with just to be polite, be supportive or not want to offend. Similarly, at home ‘Gail would have loved these cards’. Oh no, she wouldn’t! She hated cards apart from those we sent to each other, and all Christmas / birthday cards had to go in my office if I wanted them up. (Sorry if this offends anyone, but it’s a fact).

So as I take them all down and polish the table, I can hear a voice from the great beyond: “Thank fuck for that. Now I get my table back, do I?”

September Blue?

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During the whole of the period since Gail passed – both in September 2018 and as I write this now – I’d found music to be a huge source of comfort and sadness. Songs that I briefly associated with a particular event or moment became huge emotional statements. I often found myself crying while driving, having to pull over and compose myself, just because of a particular line in a song that I didn’t even have any other memory of. There was nothing I could do to control this and they didn’t even have to be songs that had meant anything to us or even ones I particularly cared for. I had no idea of what would affect me, just that it would arrive unannounced and wipe whatever day I thought I was having away.

I decided to actually utilise this and when things got tough I just posted a song relevant to Gail and I on Facebook. Under the heading MixTape’88, I started to compile imaginary tapes as I had done when Gail and I first met; friends commenting on each song as it appeared on the page. Then I hit on another idea and, going up into the loft, I bought down the actual cassette tapes that Gail and I had passed between ourselves back then.

Buying an old cassette deck on eBay, I started to listen to the tracks – and just to drag this into the second decade of the 21st Century used Shazam to identify the songs and artists I had forgotten – recompiling them on Spotify under their original cassette names. I found this rewarding and relaxing, if often upsetting.

I don’t intend to use the blog for that – it would take too long and ultimately not mean much to anyone else – but I should mention September Blue, a song from Chris Rea’s ‘Dancing With Strangers’ album that was a bit of a staple back in 1988.

I never told Gail but when we broke up in the middle of ’88 (we got back together in 1994) I used to play ‘September Blue’ a lot. That time was one of those things we never spoke about much; even though it turned out for the best ultimately, it was a wound we felt it was best not to poke too much so we didn’t.

Anyway, I thought I’d post this here because it’s relevance seems to have come round again.

Hair

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September 27th: Thank you for all your texts and comments over the past few weeks both here and via email and mobile. I really appreciate them, I really do, but I don’t want anyone worrying about me. I’m fine. Absolutely fine…

On Monday, I used Gail’s car to go to work. As I was driving, I kept seeing something flash on the passenger window but could never see what it was. It was very distracting, but nothing appeared to be there when I looked. Then I stopped at some traffic lights, with the full might of this wonderful Indian Summer blazing into the window. Then I could see it. It looked like a crack in the glass that the light was causing to refract into a bright red. Looking closer though, I then realised it wasn’t a crack at all, it was a hair. A very bright red hair, reflecting the sunlight in quite an astonishing way. About 8″ long, it was one of Gail’s and it was hanging from the rubber door seal and snaking down the glass. I’m not sure why it’s there. I’ve had the car cleaned since July. I looked for it when I stopped but the trouble is, with no outside sunlight it was very difficult to see, in fact several times I was sure it wasn’t there at all and had fallen off.

Thursday afternoon. Hot and sunny, I got into the car with a pair of tweezers and a magnifying glass to capture that hair. I got it too. So fine outside the sunlight that, with it in a plastic bag, I can barely see it. But it’s there. It’s going in the box with her ashes….

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, I’m fine. Nothing too odd, weird or off-kilter here. Move along please…

The Streets Of London

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With my daughter due to get married in October, September seemed to just broil with stuff designed to have me gripping to reality by my fingernails.

On the 22nd was my future Son-in-Law’s stag do; a tour of the City and Central London on foot, visiting pubs on the way, the whole thing conducted by an official London guide.

So it was I found myself outside number 39 Furnival Street in Holborn. Site of a mystery building (Google it). Me? I’m staring at 37 where Gail worked (a job I helped her get) for three years. So desperate to text her and tell her about No: 39. It’s one of those moments when you consider actually typing and sending a message – and yes, I’ve done it – just to maintain your equilibrium. Of all the places in London…

The previous week I’d bought myself a cremation bracelet; a small thing to wear round my wrist that would contain a small amount of Gail’s ashes. This day was the first day I wore it; gaining comfort from having her with me everywhere I went. I know I had it on in Furnival Street but a couple of pubs later – yet completely sober – I found I didn’t have it on. I was beside myself. I’ve never found it and only admit this for the first time as I write this.

I gained solace – and grieving gives you the power to do this – in the knowledge Gail loved London and was somewhere in the City streets. Of course, she may have been picked up by some vagrant and swapped for a cup of coffee, but I prefer my version as I sleep better of a night with it.

36-37 Furnival Street

A Long Short Journey

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September 20th 2018 – In a year of days I won’t forget this is not a day I’ll ever forget. This completely floored me and reading again it floors me still.

I mean I’m not really smart, but I think I’m reasonably intelligent. I can explain the double-slit experiment in Quantum Physics well enough, I can train someone on Windows, string a decent sentence together, but I don’t understand Brexit; but then no-one understands Brexit.

So why in God’s name did I get funeral ashes so wrong? I always thought they were a token; a gesture of the person who had gone. They didn’t give you the actual ashes of the deceased, I’d assumed. I’d often wondered why people got so concerned about where those ashes were to go, I mean it’s just a symbol really, isn’t it?.

Recent events have taught me otherwise of course, but nothing prepared me for today. I bought a frame for one of Gail’s photos then I collected Gail’s ashes from the Funeral Directors. What a life journey that short trip was.

Because, though they are certainly ashes, they aren’t really either. This is Gail. This is the woman who I adored and worshipped since I met her in 1987, a woman I would happily swap places with now. A person who regularly and literally – in the proper sense of the world – took my breath away with her beauty. She’s now in a box. A fucking box. A green box 6″x 8″x 5″. It’s heavier than I’d have thought, but this is her regardless. All that’s left of that woman who could stop a conversation at twenty feet when she entered a room. A box I have my hand on as I write this, so she knows how desperate and fucking desolate I feel.

I have a juxtapose; the picture in one hand of how she was, the only thing left of that beautiful, vibrant woman in my right. Friedrich Nietzsche was wrong: what doesn’t kill you doesn’t make you stronger. It makes you weaker, it eats at you, it destroys your very soul and reduces life to just existing.

I’ve learnt a lot about myself today. I’ve learnt I’ve not got the strength of mind nor body to cope with this living hell.

The Return Of The Mysterious Black Cat

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On 13th September I had to go in for an operation. Keyhole surgery; You don’t need to know what it was but it was related to Gail’s illness as I did it trying to help her out of the bath in her closing months. ‘Nuff said.

I needed someone to keep an eye on me for the weekend so my best mate Paul came and stayed for the weekend. Then this happened.

The Return of the Loony Widowed Facebook Poster

I’ll be honest, this one freaked me out a little.

Best mate Paul is staying and helping look after me for the weekend. I’m in a bit of pain so he went to investigate some caterwauling from upstairs. Strange cat Puffy – see previous post – had somehow gotten into the house (no windows were open so he must have walked in the patio doors right past me) and was confronting Buzz, Gus and Ziggy on my landing. Paul thought Puffy was one of mine, till I explained, intervened and opened the bathroom window so the now friendly intruder could escape.

Two hours later, I was sitting on the settee when I heard a thump from upstairs in the bathroom; the sound of a cat jumping in. “You better not be coming in again, Puffy” I called from where I was sat in my lounge.

My phone, which was sat on the opposite arm of the settee and which I’d not been using, and which I have never talked to in the three years I’ve had it (I don’t even know how to turn voice recognition on), suddenly burst into life – making Paul and I both jump – playing PUFF Daddy’s Sting-sampled ‘I’ll Be Watching You’. Puzzled, I picked up the phone and a window had opened with the lyrics on view “Every day I wake up / I hope I’m dreamin’ / I can’t believe this shit / Can’t believe you ain’t here.”

Explainable in an unlikely way, I know, but we both admitted to getting goosebumps on this one. Another chapter slots into place…

The mysterious Puffy – The cat returned in May the following year before disappearing again.

Back On The Chain Gang

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Someone said this next post was ‘inspirational’. That’s nice but all I can remember is that heavy heart feeling; it seemed as if I was carrying a ton weight round in my chest. One of those times where you think of the place and the whole atmosphere overwhelms you, as if you were back there and it was THEN again. I leave the post as it is but even reading it now is painful.

I could never get insurance for Gail due to her poor health but I wished I’d tried a little harder. I eventually got one of those ‘No questions asked over-50’ things but even so I should have invested more in it. Finance? At a time like this? Yes! This was 10th September and I was back at work. It’s too early. You may not think it is – “Oh it will be good for you to take your mind off things” – but it is. I urge you. Get decent insurance. I know it sounds too unemotional but it’s not. You need a decent payout so you can take a year out without worrying about anything. DO it. Now.

So first proper day of work today. “How’d that go Blagg?” I hear you ask. Well, the network hadn’t been configured properly so I couldn’t train on the Hand Held Terminals and had to do two training sessions theory only. Believe me, this is no way to learn a new system. So I wanted to tell someone, but the someone I usually speak too isn’t here any more. I can’t tell you how weird that felt. I kept looking at my phone and no bastard had rung me ten times. Remember how I used to complain about getting so many calls? To paraphrase Oscar ‘the only thing worse than getting phone calls is NOT getting phone calls’. The place is right next to Brighton Marina though, so it made sense to stay at the nearest hotel. Bad move. This is a Gail hotel. She’d have loved it here. Sparkle, chrome, ambient music. I celebrated my first day back at work by breaking down and howling into a wonderful plate of seafood spaghetti. Tears add some piquancy to a dish I find. Must remember that when the book gets published and John Torode asks me onto Masterchef. ‘Let the fun be Gin’ it says behind me. ‘Do fuck off” I say to my complimentary Tequila Sunrise.

More Musing on Life, Death and Love # 373

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We’re a strange bunch us humans, aren’t we? “That’s too nice to throw away” we say, “I’ll KEEP that”. What we don’t mean is “I’ll put that card / wrapper / heart-shaped crisp / whatever somewhere where I can see it every day”. Instead, It goes in a keepsake box, then in the loft for one of you to dig out every couple of years. “You want this?” you’ll say. “Oh I can’t throw that away, it’s too nice”. It goes back in the loft.

I’ve decided the loft needs clearing. I’ve already found a set of fossilised Yuletide jelly sweets I bought for Gail in Christmas 1987. Pushing away the wish that if I could have fifteen minutes of ’87 back – Please God! – then I could watch Gail eat them, I’ve had to throw them away. Shame: ultimately a loving gift that nobody got pleasure from. Today, wondering what was under THERE, I’ve found an empty Swarovski Bombay Gin bottle and box. I remember buying it for Gail one Christmas, the Gin went quickly .. and the box / bottle? Well, that’s too nice plus it’s got Swarovski crystals on it. You can’t throw that away, you must KEEP it.

Now every fibre of my being is saying I should put this out for the glass collection on Tuesday. After all, it’s not mine and I don’t need it. If I keep it then one day my kids will find it and not even know the story of why it’s in a box in my loft. Why leave it to them? It’s pointless and unfair.

Then I thought of the final irony. If I post this on Facebook, I will get a reminder of this bottle, next year, five years, ten – if I’m still here. In fact, long after I’ve gone this bottle with remain on a server somewhere; a symbol of love between two people. That’s settled it. It’s going out. It IS nice though…. (Note: I still have it but it’s NOT in the loft)