Gail was beautiful. This isn’t a husband just speaking fondly of his dead wife or something now up for debate, she just was and everybody knew it. I told her frequently and, if she was feeling a certain way, she’d do the self-deprecating thing or, if she was feeling good enough herself, just thank me. The basic fact remains though I’d had years of people – men and women – quite literally stopping us in the street and telling her she looked fabulous.

I joked about it in her eulogy but Gail had always had to fend off attention from both sexes throughout the time we’d been together (and it was certainly the case before we met too). This didn’t bother me – rather I actually enjoyed it – but her attraction didn’t just come from her own looks and personality. Gail had a style of her own; she could co-ordinate clothes and make them look more than they were. I can’t recount the number of times Gail was stopped and asked where she’d got a specific item of clothing and had to convince an astonished person when she simply answered ‘Primark’. Gail made good clothes look good, of course, but her trick was in making cheaper clothes look great too.

On our last holiday together in Marmaris just weeks before she went into hospital for the last time, I was approached by a woman in the hotel we were staying in. “Can I just say how much my friends and I keep commenting on how glamorous your wife is? We can see she’s extremely ill but she has so much poise and style. We’re all saying if only we could look like her…” I thanked the woman profusely – I knew it would mean a lot to Gail (although I knew how ill she was when she could barely take the compliment) – but, seeing how painfully gaunt Gail was, I could only wonder at what they would have said had they seen her just a year previously.

The woman was right though; feeling terrible and in pain, Gail would dress for dinner as if she was going out to the Ritz (I won’t bore you with how stunning she looked when we did go the Ritz!). She had difficulty wearing the clothes she wanted as they hung on her rather than fitted her as they had previously, but that didn’t stop her from mixing and matching to look her best.

Gail always looked as if she had her own personal spotlight. She had her issues – and I wouldn’t want to pretend otherwise to anyone coming at this site who didn’t know her – but none of those precluded her from the way she presented herself; always looking fantastic and dressing with style, grace and panache. She was pretty good at raunchy and slutty too 😉

Now, with her gone, the question of what to do with her wardrobes – and there’s a lot of stuff – raised its stylish head. My immediate thought post-July 2018 was I needed to move from the house we shared. A three-bedroom town house is too big for one man and four cats but also we lived where we did because we were together; alone I had no reason to be where I was and, in fact, with elderly parents and a daughter living 50-60 odd miles away, it made sense to move closer to them. But a quick look at some properties in an area I’d want to move to made me realise I’d have to downsize the wardrobe space drastically to even think about moving.

At least, that’s what I tell myself. The fact is though I never had any issues about Gail’s clothes. Following a blog online about coping with grief , I was vaguely astonished to find someone getting his in-laws round to help sort his wife’s clothes out a year after she passed away. A year? Getting help?

I started listing things on eBay within a couple of weeks of Gail’s passing. I didn’t need help; wouldn’t have appreciated help. Not only didn’t I find this odd or hard I actually found it cathartic. Gail’s gorgeous clothes that she loved and looked great in could be enjoyed by others. That was important to me; that someone saw something, wanted it and would enjoy it for themselves. It was as if her life would be continuing elsewhere.

A cynic could say the same would be true if I’d just bundled the lot up and taken them to a nearby charity shop – and there have been charitable donations made too – and my altruistic reasons actually meant I made a good deal of money from some items I hadn’t originally paid for myself (although a lot I had actually bought).

There’s not a great deal I can say in defence to that other than I really don’t care. I’m comfortable with it, I’m the one left and I’ll do what I want. In fact, I love seeing the comments on eBay from people who’ve bought something, love it and say it looks fabulous on them because I adore the fact that Gail’s clothes have a life with someone who appreciates them.

The ‘everyone handles grief differently’ mantra will crop up here regularly – you may already have seen it – and all I can say the clothes issue simply wasn’t a problem for me. The photography, listing, selling, packaging and posting gave me a purpose that helped me a lot during the first year and, with barely half the stuff sold, I think it may serve me well into old age.

Am I overstating things about Gail’s clothes though? Were they that special? Well, how many people do you know could design and then carry off this hat? Then tell me I’m going over the top. So spectacular, so ‘Gail’ was this, I placed It was on her coffin at her funeral and it sits proudly – as an ornament no less – in my lounge.

Having said all this, I still have about 70 pairs of glasses and 50 bags available…

Religious, atheist or spiritual: It makes not a jot of difference. In grief, you find yourself searching for signs. Little things that make a difference to your day, things that can lift your heart and make you think there might just be  a purpose to it after all. If you’re religious or spiritual these signs will cement your faith or beliefs; if you’re any type of  non-believer – and I fall into that category – then you at least feel a raising of your spirits.

I found solace in mixing the past with the present, in both a literal and figurative sense. On evenings I would otherwise have spent with Gail, I tried to do something constructive and transfer a number of mix tapes that I had stored in the loft onto Spotify.

Spurred on by the Celebration of Life compilation I had used at her after-funeral (Gail had insisted it be a Celebration of Life and I’ve never called it anything else), which I had compiled on Spotify and passed to many people who requested it, I decided to use the medium to update my musical catalogue. I’d never bothered about online music much before Gail’s passing but, once created on Spotify, the only way I could retain the Celebration of Life list was to subscribe monthly, and if I needed to do that then I may as well use the the fee constructively.

This meant buying – years after I got rid of them all! – a cassette deck (Look how hip I am buying a boombox in 2018!) on which I’d play the tape, note the track and add it to a similarly named library on Spotify.

Most of these tapes were given to me by Gail or, on occasion, some I had given to her (She had several moves since 1988 when I’d first given her a magical mixtape and they hadn’t all survived unlike mine). Occasionally, so overwhelming was the emotion on playing these, I’d have to add the track to a Facebook or Twitter with some comment as to what meaning it had for me or some story it invoked. This turned into an occasional series I called ‘MixTape88’ which ran online from late 2018 to the end of 2019.

The following is a MixTape’88 post I felt I wanted to post here as it demonstrates one of those coincidences that you make your own mind up about.

Well, here’s another one of ‘those’ moments where you wonder if greater forces aren’t at work.

Released in ’87, the Christians first album flew under my radar until Gail introduced me to it in Jan ’88. “Heard this?” she asked, before putting it on and – you may want to avert your gaze here – dancing to this very track in front of me. And my God, that woman could dance… *Nurse! Can we have the screens and one of Mr Blagg’s tablets please? He’s having a turn*

The album became a staple in the spring of that year and I’ve played it every year since at this time because it just reminds me of those months. I bought tickets to see them for me and her but, sadly, by the time the gig came around in May ’88, that part of our life had collapsed and she (at my insistence) went with her best friend Rose. It was a desperately sad time.

Despite a couple of other hits the Christians were really about that one album. So as I played this the other day I wondered what they were doing now. I googled and … what’s left of the band (essentially the lead singer Garry Christian) are still touring and are.. wait for it…. playing in Chelmsford on Friday night this week – just 20 miles up the A12 from where i write this.

So I have a ticket and looking forward to making up for what I missed in the spring of ’88. I desperately wish we could do this re-visitation together but I’ll be thinking about THAT dance and the lyrics to this.

Born Again – The Christians

I loved that gig. The hall itself was not much more than a social club hall – and Gary could see the humour in that and mentioned that ‘we used to fill out big venues, you know?’ (To which I thought ‘I know Gary I famously wasn’t at one of them!’) but The Christians were as wonderful as they were on that first album.

I’m not ashamed to admit – fanboy like – I hung around after the gig hoping to be able to tell Gary that, while for him it might be another night on another road, for me the evening had magical qualities that helped me a lot. Sadly, he didn’t come out as quickly as I’d hoped and, aware I probably looked like a sad old git trying to get an autograph, I left.

It was a good night though and a beautiful memory that didn’t ease the pain of not being able to go with her to that first gig but did, in some other way, mean I could take her in other circumstances. Not ‘Born Again’ perhaps. But as close as I could get to it. 

The trip to Hong Kong did me a power of good but don’t think that the answer to grief is just to get away for a week. It doesn’t work like that.

I immediately got back to post a regular track to my MixTape’88 list; sometimes commenting and posting a story to go along with it, sometimes not. They were comforting though, even though they were also sometimes painful. And then on March 5th, the pit opened up again.

I sometimes wonder how some of you view these posts; many of you people I only ‘know’ through WestHamOnline, ‘Nightmare’ or ESPN. How would I see these posts if I saw them three years ago? Would I despair at someone laying out his life on social media? I expect so. A few years ago it was witty banter about football. Yet here I am. One of the problems of being an only child, I guess. No-one to vent to. But it was one of those days today, one of those where the pit opens and you tumble into a meaningless void of black treacle where nothing makes sense and you can’t pull yourself free. I’ve not done this much since last July but one of those where I had to buy a bottle of JD Tennessee Fire as I left ASDA. I sat in a restaurant in a hotel tonight, tears streaming down my face, wanting desperately to scream, barely comprehending what I’m doing here – and by here I could mean Folkestone or the planet. I’m not suggesting you give it as a present, but grief really is a gift that keeps on giving. It was a day where the pain of loss just tears at your soul; her laughter, voice, smell, touch, feel, intelligence, humour, beauty – all gone. And why? And where? A day where you desperately want to believe in some God or Afterlife so it all makes sense; yet you want to grab that God by the throat and ask why? Really? There was no-one more suitable to take early? Seriously God, here’s a list with a few names you may have missed….

I need to find a better outlet than this, I know. I will do it eventually. I don’t even know if I will post this. If you’re reading it you know Mr Daniels won.

That was written during a business away trip and I realised I found those most difficult to deal with. In better days, Gail would often accompany me on those trips certainly, but what I realised was I felt more in touch with things if I was at home where Gail was. Seeing parts of England I wouldn’t have otherwise seen wasn’t of any comfort and I’ve tried to curtail those now as much as possible. Ultimately though, when those days turn up – and don’t pretend just because I don’t talk about them all the time they don’t turn up a lot – there’s nothing you can do. I call them the ‘Dark Pit’ days. And when they arrive don’t hold onto the edges of the pit, because it will just wait for your grip to fail. And fail it will.

 

It’s tempting to post all the photos I took and all the comments I sent and received on social media while I was in Hong Kong. After all, I did a LOT. If there was a recommendation on a web site to go somewhere or sample something, I could be guaranteed to pretty much pitch up and try it.

I journeyed on everything, went to recommended restaurants, walked places, even found myself in a downtown bar at 2am sampling a ‘must have’ cocktail. I posted my whole journey online, getting dozens of comments back. The whole of what I’d now come to see as some sort of pilgrimage to Hong Kong had taken on a kind of quasi-religious feel…. even if it did have alcohol in it occasionally.

The fact is though, this isn’t a travel blog and tempted though I am to share the whole experience, I’m aware the grief aspect would probably only reside in my head rather than on the page.

So here’s my thoughts on what I’ve come to see as a huge step in my post-Gail life. Firstly, Some people asked “How did you feel being so far away on your own?” and I could honestly answer “I wasn’t on my own”. Through WhatsApp and Facebook, it felt as if I was taking a few dozen people with me throughout the day. I genuinely felt some sort of minor celebrity status as I knew dozens at home – many people I’d never met or, in some cases, were likely to meet – were following what I was doing. At any time I could just open my phone and chat to someone as if they were next to me. That was wonderfully reassuring.

Secondly, even though I’m not religious or even spiritual, I do believe you can gain a certain amount of succour and comfort from doing things that might – in some eyes – prove exactly the opposite to what I believe. Having Gail with me in her new form and knowing what I was doing was for her, and further knowing I wouldn’t be doing what I was doing without her having been in my life and leaving it, meant there wasn’t a moment she wasn’t in my thoughts.

I looked at things for her, saw things for her, felt, drank and ate things for her. I felt she was with me all the time (And, No, I didn’t carry her box everywhere – only on that first day). This is good as it worked in a reciprocal way. Someone with religious or spiritual beliefs could say she was with me certainly, but if someone like me – with no belief system – can say I felt her presence, then it opens up everything.

It meant I didn’t have to get involved in things that I often asked myself. ‘Could she see me?’ ‘Did she know how I felt’. After all, I talked to her all the time anyway; sometimes in my head, often out loud. What would be the point of doing this if I didn’t see some possible end to it? In Hong Kong I kind of got an answer to that. It doesn’t matter if there is a God or not sometimes. You can find a Superior Being inside you anyway.

You see, going to Hong Kong was one of the best things I’ve ever done and one of the most rewarding. But within that is a dichotomy. Because I really wish I’d never had to go – at least, on my own – really wish I’d never had that experience because that would mean that Gail was still here and I’d rather have spent a wet February just siting in my lounge with her instead of a really wonderful holiday in Hong Kong without her. And that’s Life. Or Death. Or something.

One last thing – and it’s a funny one.

Having discovered the wonder and simplicity of the HK subway system (cheap and with light up tube maps showing next station and interchange directions – get on it LUT!), I decided to go to Sha Tin; part of the New Territories and Gail’s birthplace according to her (incorrect) passport. Her birth certificate has the full address of her parents home there, but a Google search confirmed that, unsurprisingly, the whole town has since been pulled down and rebuilt as it’s essentially a social housing area.

Sha Tin looks like Milton Keynes with sunshine. It could be any city suburb in the world except the high rise buildings here dwarf anything, anywhere else. Significantly, there’s a racecourse here – Gail is supposed to have got her love of racing from her Dad – and, of course, there are malls. Otherwise this is like every city in the world, all the shops are the same; this could be Bluewater or Westfield. But there was one, HomeSquare store, that had a lot of local things in and I thought I might be able to find something suitable to take home.

I walked into the door and was faced with rows of black / blue bottles so I picked one up – literally the first thing I touched – and it was this. I laughed and 100 HK $ later and we’re on our way back downtown. I think this is Gail telling me our work here is done.

Home today; her ashes can RIP in her spot and I’ll place this next to them and spray her occasionally.

As for Hong Kong, it’s been great and hugely rewarding.

“Don’t need no Valentines, don’t need no roses, now you’re not here any more”

Gail’s father was in the Army and stationed in Hong Kong when she was born. She had no memory of the place at all and never got to go there, but her passport stated clearly that her place of birth was Shatin, Hong Kong. She took great delight in telling people where she was born – particularly when some commented that she ‘looked Chinese’ – and we’d spoken several times about going but, when we probably could have managed it, other things seemed to take precedence and, later, when we had more time and money, Gail’s health precluded a 14 hour flight.

Grief does strange things to the mind though and in December of 2018, I suddenly became obsessed with taking Gail to Hong Kong and visiting her birth city of Shatin. With a lot of financial constraints lifted – it’s surprising how much cheaper everything is when you’re travelling alone – I just sat down one morning and booked a flight and hotel.

We got married on Friday 13th February – always ones to fly in the face of convention – and, facing that hurdle, Valentines Day on the 14th and my birthday on the 16th, and a week in which Gail and I would always have gone somewhere, it just seemed sensible to span that whole week with the trip to Hong Kong.

I couldn’t bring myself to go without Gail though; the thought of her ashes sitting in the bedroom while I was nearly 6,000 miles away in the place where she where she had spent the first year or two of her life, was something I just couldn’t cope with so, as I had the paperwork for her ashes, I determined to take her with me. Back in the box her ashes arrived in, I wasn’t bothered particularly with taking her out of the country as the assumption would probably be made that I was going to scatter her ashes in her birthplace. What might prove troublesome though was the fact that I fully intended to return with her! There’s probably few people take their dead wife on holiday!

Nevertheless, on February 11th I left for Hong Kong. For anyone worried about taking their loved ones ashes out of the country all I can say is, don’t be concerned. Make sure they are in your hand luggage, you have the paperwork (this should be given to you as a matter of course by the Funeral Director when you collect the ashes) and, not unreasonably, expect to have your case diverted for a hand search. As soon as I mentioned they were Gail’s ashes though, the security team couldn’t have been kinder. They even refused to touch the box, simply testing for drugs by brushing over it. I was on my way… but nothing could prepare me for what I was to discover the next day!

Well, that was a day I wasn’t expecting!

On Gail’s passport it has her place of birth down as Shatin and that’s what she’s always – not unreasonably – told everybody. While looking for her daughter birth certificate the other week, I came across Gail’s and decided to bring it with me.

I arrived in Hong Kong at 6am local time but just after midnight UK time. I found my way to the hotel and, unsure if I should go straight out or grab a few hours sleep, I sat down and decided to plan out my week. I got out Gail’s birth certificate and, although I must have seen it dozens of times before, made a note of Gail’s actual birth place; the Royal Military Hospital, Bowen Road.

When I typed in Bowen Road, Hong Kong though, I got a huge shock. Google Maps revealed it was about 15 minutes from the hotel I’d randomly selected and nowhere near Shatin at all! We knew Shatin was her Father and Mothers home address as that was also on the birth certificate. What we didn’t consider was that the Military Hospital itself wasn’t in Shatin. In fact, it wasn’t, and Gail was actually born on Hong Kong Island.

All thoughts of rest or sleep went out of my head and actually didn’t return until 11pm that night. I was on a mission and I left the hotel just an hour after arriving, intent on finding Gail’s birthplace. Bowen Road; Those two words. As the day unwound before me I think they became the sub-title for the whole Hong Kong trip and, ultimately, the entirety of 2019.

So there’s some fascinating reading on the former BMH Bowen Road  but what I quickly discovered is Bowen Road is little more than a track and runs around the back of what is now the Hong Kong Park. Part of the hospital grounds now form part of this park. This is a beautiful area of fountains and lakes, adorned with flowers and sparkly dragons. It’s absolutely gorgeous and Gail would have loved it. I just adored the fact that the actual spot of Gail’s birth was so beautiful. By the time I’d investigated the area, it was midday. I should have been tired but I felt as if I was floating. At one stage I just sat and sobbed, I was so sad she couldn’t see how beautiful it was, but so happy I could see it for her.

Bowen Road is also very hilly and, I discovered as I started a steep walk up, is now designated as a 3km fitness trail So, on a very warm day, accompanied by joggers wearing singlets and shorts, I trekked the whole thing with a rucksack containing Gail’s ashes on my back – the old heart was certainly getting a work out in more ways than one – and found, along the path, there’s a place called the Lover’s Stone Garden. My heart just soared when I found this place, it was as if the whole thing was just opening up for me. I discovered the Lover’s Garden is used locally for fertility issues – I’ve long been snipped so good luck with that! – but I was able to climb to the top of the garden, the whole area smelling beautifully of flowers and incense, before buying flowers and lighting some candles for Gail.

There’s a photo of me holding Gail at the top of Lovers Rock on the Bowen Road but it’s too personal for me to post here. Suffice to say the fact that the flowers they were selling were Lilly’s; one of Gail’s favourites and a flower she rarely had at home as they made me sneeze and that pretty much put the top hat on a day that just seemed magical from the moment I set foot in Hong Kong.

Some people may find the fact I’ve dragged my dead wife’s ashes halfway across the world and brought them back to where that life started as distasteful and even odd. But I’m so glad I did it. The whole thing was just moving and very beautiful and the fact is was all so surprising just added to it.

I think today was the first day since last July I actually felt there was a point to life.