This is a
picture of the most beautiful and wonderful woman in the World.
It is a
picture of my mum.
It was taken
on the day that she took her first driving lesson with her dad. If you look
closely at the bottom of the frame, you can see the top of “Dinkum’s” head. Dinkum was her pet poodle.
My mum went
on to become a nurse and then a primary school teacher. Through the years she
inspired countless children. She continues to inspire me to this day.
Today my mum
is as intelligent and as sharp witted as she ever was. But around 14 years ago
she was diagnosed with Cerebellar Ataxia Scar 6.
Wikipedia
notes that sufferers display symptoms including “inability to coordinate balance, gait, extremity and eye
movements”. Amongst other things my mum cannot walk unaided and finds it frustrating that her
condition makes it difficult to effectively communicate verbally at times.
Although she – and my family – have adapted to the
condition and invested in tools and equipment to make my mums life as
independent as possible, I know that she remains frustrated and finds the condition
debilitating. My father acts as her carer. My mum is rarely alone.
There are many things that
my mum will never be able to do again on her own such as walking through the
countryside, driving to meet friends for lunch or baking a cake.
My mum used to make the
most wonderful cakes.
As you can imagine, the
condition proves a strain on her and the rest of my family. Both my mum and dad
had great plans for their retirement. Many of their personal and shared dreams
will remain unfulfilled.
To date, research into the
condition - although making great strides
forward – has failed to find either a cure or an effective treatment to counter
or delay the symptoms.
Why am I writing about
this?
25th
September is International Ataxia Awareness Day.
I never expect people to
donate money. We all have our own preferred charities and limits to how much we
can donate, so I respect everyone’s choices. But a recent UK Government Poll
showed that only 9% of adults know what Ataxia is. Education and awareness are
as key as fund raising.
So, please can I ask you
to spare a few moments and use your social media profiles to highlight the “event”
by reposting the link to Ataxia UK through Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr,
Pinterest, StumbleUpon… Anything and everything?
…
Right.
My mum will kill me when
she reads this.
Then she will kill me
again because I included the photo.
But after all that it won’t
matter because I will still love her as much as I ever have and ever will.
I've had some positive feedback regarding the blog so far. Thank-you. I've also had some requests... More pictures you say. OK. As you have asked so nicely... It's early days and I am really busy trying to sort out getting my head around a new job, a new city and a new way of life. Additional to that is that, despite attempts to tie my life down before I left London, I am still having to manage all kinds of rubbish admin back home. As a result, I haven't had too much opportunity to get my camera out. In fact, it is still wrapped and untouched. I'm snapping away on my mobile and my work tablet, though. So I've started to get a gallery of sorts together. I'm loading some stuff on Facebook and Instagram but I always intended to use my Flickr account as the main record... So... Follow the link. Here it is: London to Khobar on Flickr
As a kid, I remember once catching the bus (140 from South Harrow) to
Heathrow and going on the old viewing deck and watching the planes taking off.
I loved the bustle, the power of the machines and the smell of the aviation
fuel which used to get into your hair and clothes.
But, since I started flying, I have learned to loathe
airports.
Between 16th and 17th September, I
guess I sat around in airports for over six hours. Heathrow T4, Bahrain and
Dammam. In different ways they are all bleak, bleak places. They offer such
hope and promise of adventure but deliver so little in themselves.
Nevermind. Eventually, I arrived.
The flights were on time, efficient, clean, friendly,
hospitable (amazing chicken biriyani from Gulf Air). But they were bloody
crowded. So – Mr Economy – had little sleep despite taking off at 22:05 local
and arriving at 10:45 Saudi time.
A persons first entry into the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, I am
led to believe, should always be by plane. They have specific channels for first
time visitors at arrivals and you have a rigid paperwork process to follow. I’d
been warned about this. It’s bureaucracy and all about control.
In itself, the process is
simple. You complete a form that mimics everything already set out on your visa
and passport. An official reads it, stares at your face, stares at your face
some more, then reads your visa, has a further stare, then reads your passport,
feels a compulsion to stare at your face again, chucks the form in a pile
(note… the pile is massive; it probably had 500+ forms in it but we were the
first arrival of the day and I was second in the queue), stares at your face
for a while, takes your photograph, stares at your face for a bit and finally
takes your finger prints three times before staring at your face a further six
times. Once he is done he stares at your face a final time. Eventually he
nods you away. Throughout this process he does not talk. Communication is
through a series of grunts and eye movements. Smiling is actively discouraged
on both sides.
I’d heard that a colleague had to wait in line for close on
12 hours with no seat, food, water or toilet break to get through. A second
colleague had a 2 hour experience only curtailed when a military guard went
down the line and fast tracked all the white passengers from the endless queue (Saudi
is that type of place). I had got myself ready for the long haul.
I was through in 10 minutes.
I assume that it was the luck
of being on the first plane out of Bahrain so there were only about six of us
to go through three desks. Happy.
The other thing that I was warned about was the do’s/don’ts
of bringing stuff in. A friend of a friend of a friend who I have been talking
with suggested that I shouldn't worry too much and said that as you pop in and
out of the kingdom you grow in confidence with what you can get away with.
Everything about the process was pretty standard airport
fare. Wide featureless concrete halls where time stands still and you park all
traces of hope and optimism while you wait and wait and wait for your luggage.
The usual border checks noted above.I thought I had escaped all attention when the drug dog didn't give a shit about me or my bags appearing to be utterly and gleefully distracted sniffing his handler’s crotch. But at customs, they check your bags
through an X-ray machine before they let you out.
I got pulled.
I was the only one of the first time visitors to get pulled.
My bottom twitched like a little rabbit’s nose.
You see, I wasn't worried about any of my stuff per se. Except, I was aware that I had decided not to complete all of the paperwork associated
with bringing in medication. I’d done my research and it was a ball ache.
Copies of all prescriptions. Letters from an accredited GP explaining what my
medical condition was, why it required medication and notes about dosages etc.
I’d done all that. It took an age ‘cos it’s near impossible to see a GP back in
Harrow and it had cost me some money, but I’d done it. But I had chosen not to
complete the final step – a really long and intimidating form detailing all the
above in Arabic that had to be sent ahead to the customs people in Dammam at
least a week before my arrival. Bollocks to that I had thought sitting back on Northolt Road.
Oh. And I had decided to bring in a few more tablets than
the rules allow for.
Saudi’s don’t like drugs. They don’t take prisoners. They
execute people.
My life started to rush before me and the little rabbit at the door to my bottom twitched it’s
nose like a little rabbit possessed.
In truth, my packing is legendarily poor. I had so much
varied electronic equipment, cables, plugs etc that my bag probably looked
explosive on the scanner. So it was inevitable that I was going to be stopped.
But it wasn’t the wires that bothered them. They had a quick check of my camera
and electronic stuff but I had a selection of DVDs that they really wanted to
look at. I had to go through each disc with them and have each approved…
I’ve since discovered that they don’t like DVDs, CDs or
Books. Apparently it is very common to have them confiscated without
explanation and without recourse.
They were quite quizzical of my complete Prisoner box set –
“What is it?”, “What’s it about?”… Yeah… “We want information… INFORMATION”.
They were confused by a Goldfrapp DVD… It’s pink, I know…
You’d love Strict Machine!
They smirked at The Professionals… What? I like 1980’s cop
shows. What of it!
Team America didn’t raise an eyebrow… Fuck yeah!
Then they pulled out “Christy Malry’s Own Double Entry”.
OK. Right. Gulp… Here we go. Where do I start if they ask?
“Err. Look. Listen. It’s not what you think. It’s about a guy who
lives his life based on simple book keeping principles. Debits and credits…
He’s a bit crazy. It ends badly and he kills many, many people... It’s really good…
No roasting or butt plugs are involved. Honest. Err”.
The little rabbit’s nose stepped up a notch but everything
was let through. No questions. I reckon they know that Luke Haines did the
soundtrack, so - by default - know it is righteous.
…
…
…
And they never found the prescription stuff.
My packing is so
bad that they didn't have the heart to get me to take all my stuff out. The guy even folded some of my stuff up better than I had originally to put back in the
case for me. I reckon that he’d have sat on the case for me to zip it closed if
I’d have asked.
All sorted.
I went on my way and the little rabbit’s nose
became still.
So. It's going to be warm when I arrive on Wednesday. But on the plus side, Autumn is coming so it'll be dropping closer to 30 degrees over the next couple of months. My possessions are spread across West London and Oxfordshire. Those that remain in my possession fill the hall of my flat in two bags, ready to depart. I spoke with Lukey last night. We discussed his adventure into parenthood for the second time and a move to Crouch End. He was positive and seemed excited for his journey. He said some things that struck a chord. We discussed the need to make sure things keep moving forwards. It made me reflect that I had begun to see my flat as a chain around my neck holding me back. Set against a work life where I was miserable, it made me realise that I'm in a fortunate and lucky position as I face an adventure. My life has been standing still. With 24 hours to go, I find myself alone in my own flat. Although I feel fear, it is tempered with an excitement and optimism that I cannot describe. I'm changing job, changing career, changing city, country, continent and home. My flat is being rented and for the first time in a fair while I feel in control. ... ... ...
I’m one of those people who is obsessed with music.
Utterly
Hopelessly
Ridiculously
Pointlessly.
Sometimes it can feel like music is more important to me than all other relationships. I know that it is not true, but in fleeting moments it can feel that way. On hearing something, I drift off into my own world and own thoughts and know that people sometimes have trouble bringing me back to the present here and now.
As it was on 22nd August.
I was having a coffee with Cel. It was my last day. Then I hear Viva Voce’s “Alive With Pleasure” over the store PA.
For a moment, I was lost but everything made sense. Leaving, walking away, changing career, changing continent, changing everything. Yes, the lyrics do include the lines “we’ll be just fine…” but it wasn’t that. It was another lyric, another song and a moment back in December 2006.
I have history with this band.
When I left the Magic Kingdom back in 2006, I went to see Viva Voce the day after I resigned. They were promoting a new album that was gaining heavy play in my flat down by the River Brent. It was stuck in my head and my heart. I had inclined to quote their lyrics in my resignation letter – “We Do Not Fuck Around”.
nb – The same lyric was quoted again, this time round, as well.
In 2006, I had no job, I was about to have my flat taken out from underneath me and I was on the edge of homelessness. But despite having no plan and no idea where my life would take me or how I could pick myself up, I found myself buoyant and bullish one cold Tuesday night at 93 Feet East on Brick Lane. That night, Vive Voce felt like the eye of a storm. I wasn’t just hearing the songs, I was living them. I felt every kick of bass drum through my chest, my thoughts were the dry beans in the maracas used instead of drum sticks in"Faster Than a Dead Horse" and every distorted guitar chord echoed a different part of my soul.
Within minutes, I was lost in the event but became incredibly aware that I had made the right decision. That taking a chance and jumping off the cliff trusting the water below to break my fall was the best option.
It was in the middle of “Lesson No 1”. Anita sang direct to me. No one else, but me. At least that how it felt at that moment…
“So keep your head up, things are alright”
And she was right. I kept my head up and things were alright.
That time, my friend K also came through for me. Without warning and within about two minutes of starting a conversation I had agreed to go to Germany to work for him.
So on my final day over at 214, there seemed something beautiful, touching and telling that the last song I heard on the shop floor was by Viva Voce. A circle was being completed, my leaving had some – albeit, nonsensical -resonance and I was again able to take any doubts and fears of leaving back to Brick Lane in 2006 and banish them.
When I closed my ears to the outside world, I could hear Anita supporting me again…
This time, no turning back, I will again support K.
I had things I wanted, needed to do. So I called in sick... I found myself in a cafe next to Peterborough station having a late lunch to make up for a missed breakfast opportunity at Kings Cross caused by morons queuing to visit an imaginary platform.
I was going to get take out but was drawn to look at the TV by a waitress. I see that a plane from Doha has been escorted into Manchester by fighter jets. The news is breaking but it appeared to have already been established that someone had falsely claimed they had a bomb. The waitress tells me:
“That’s why I won’t fly. Something like that always happens.”
“Always?” I asked.
“Yes. Always. Look at that plane in Ukraine and that other one they can’t find”
The cafe was empty. I needed a sit down. I was faintly interested in the news but mostly, the waitress’s comments amused me. I decided to stay.
It took little time to establish that the waitress had never flown and never been abroad. She explained to me that she was hoping to surprise her boy friend later in the year by taking the Eurostar to Paris. I encouraged her but asked why flying would be worse than travelling through a twenty two mile tunnel. Falling through the air or buried alive. Both are pretty rubbish, to me.
She was obsessed with the mentality that leads to someone claiming that they had a bomb on board a plane. I built a strong case for both the approach but also the customer service experience of the person’s fellow passengers:
It’s far cheaper than going through the rigmarole of paying for the kit to make a proper bomb
It doesn’t require covertly sourcing the materials to make a proper bomb
Words are weightless so it’s lighter to carry than a real bomb
Current Security checks at airports aren’t looking for “spoken words” (except maybe El Al… I hear they are far more thorough than other nation’s airlines)
From a service perspective, if you were on the plane, which would you prefer? A real bomb or a mentalist’s fake bomb threat?
We continued to talk.
Turns out she is new to Peterborough. She has recently moved from Beaminster. She seemed unimpressed that I have been to Yeovil and know where Bridport is.
“Where are you going?”
“London”, I reply.
“Everyone seems to go to London”
OK. We’re in a cafe next to Peterborough station. I know that some people will be heading North, some may be heading east or west and – clearly – some people will head south to local stations but instinct says that a large proportion of people will be London bound so her surprise surprises me.
“It’s where I live.”
“Oh. Where?”
“Harrow. The North West.”
“Don’t know it. I’ve been to Waterloo. And Kings Cross… … … … And Greenwich”
“I like Greenwich”, I encourage.
“Yeah, it was good. I went to the O2.”
“Oh.”
Back in the late 1990’s I found myself in Mablethorpe in Lincolnshire a couple of times with different people. I was being transported back there. I’d spent an evening talking with some guys who could not get their heads around the fact that I considered myself as living close to the West End but it taking 45-60 minutes to get there. They thought I was crazy. I thought that they were crazy, to. I know I am biased because I am from the city but I am stunned that I still meet people that have never explored their capital city. Maybe - probably - it’s me.
As the news had unfolded on the telly. Well, when I say unfolded, I mean while the BBC repeated the same grainy footage of fighter jets over and over while repeating the same two or three tweets ad nauseum… I had highlighted that the plane was from Qatar and that I hoped to visit sometime soon. We returned to the subject of moving away. Paraphrased, it went something like this:
“You shouldn’t worry about moving away. I mean you will miss your mum and dad and they will miss you. But you have to break the chains and strike out on your own sometime. I’ve no regrets moving to Peterborough. The buses run until midnight. Back home, they’re finished by six.”
By this point she is talking my language. She clearly saw that I have a soft spot for buses. I will admit that I couldn’t resist walking through Peterborough bus station. I still feel a thrill at seeing all the destinations on the boards. The boards inspire such hope and opportunity that they read like poetry: Bourne,Botolph Green, Brotherhouse Bar. Excitement of the unknown and the unloved. Love it!
I digress.
There was something really beautiful about being reassured by a 22 year old stranger that moving away is healthy. I moved out of home before she was born. But on the train back home I realised that at a level she was speaking sense. That whilst I don’t think she comprehended or cared where I am going, where I have been or the recent dilemma I have had, she hit really the nail on the head and vindicated the decision that I have made.
Intentional or unintentional? I dunno. I’d guess the latter.
I don’t even know her name but it was one of the best thirty minutes of the year so far.
As I left, I told her that she must make the effort to visit Paris and that her idea of taking her boyfriend to see Pont de l’Archeveche was really romantic. She said she would but I swear that – in her eyes - she was weighing up the risks involved of travelling through a 22 mile long tunnel and being buried alive.
I realised that one of my dreams of London will have to be parked for another year.
Epping Forest was but the start for my exploration of the East. The River Lee -alongside all the other beautiful rivers of London - intrigues me and I want to learn more.
The Olympics brought great changes which many would say were an improvement, but the World that I want to seek was captured and documented by Paul Kelly, Andrew Hinton and St Etienne back in 2005.
It was 24C+ but their was a breeze up the River Arun. The wind caught the silver grey branches in the middle left of the photo and made the trees appear as rippling water. Other than the sound of Skylarks, Lapwing and the breeze though the branches, it was silent.
I had a great bicker with Hel one lunchtime in the summer. She was kindly writing up a profile for me to load onto a dating website.
I managed to get a reference to Dr Who removed. Rightly. But I was nervous about the phrase "passion for Geography". I may have a degree in the bastard, but I really felt it incorrect as I am far more a pyschogeographer these days.
But, the Guardian link attached may tell a different story.
Geography or Psychogeography, I don’t care. I love maps!
…
…
…
I eventually accepted the word “Geography” in Hel’s write up. This was based on Lyds observation that the word “psycho” should never, ever appear in a dating site profile. I take her point.
This is a view from the city I will live in. I know that the view looking west from Harrow Hill is beautiful, especially at dusk, but this really, really excites me.
One year!
For more pictures by the same photographer check out their Tumblr site:
