Ramblings with the Bearded One

As I walk round the corner I instantly spot the beard and the camera, and wave. I'm on a rare weekend away with my sister and close friend at a music festival just a few miles from Kim, of Ramblings of the Bearded One

Kim was the first 'real' person I connected with outside of our blogging worlds and personas. To be so nearby and not get in touch would have been daft, but taking the step of actually arranging to meet made me nervous. Here was someone who'd read my secrets and pain, and offered his kind words when things were falling to pieces around me.

I found Kim through Blogs of Note a couple of years ago and have been reading ever since. There was something very human and honest about his writing. He didn't seem to be trying to impress or seek glory or a place in history. I liked his writing, sometimes sad, often funny. He always gives me cause to reflect.

I wandered over and we sat down against the outside of the children's marquee where he's due to play his bouzouki. Nervously I have a cigarette, which I realise later was wholly inappropriate given the area of the site we're in. Anyway....skipping quickly over that misdemeanour....

Kim is easy company and I am fascinated by the man whose words I have read and responded to over what must be about three years. As two bloggers writing in Scotland it's easy to forget that, in fact, he is not a Scot. Gently spoken, Kim is good to talk with. I suppose, as a photographer, he's very used to putting slightly anxious people at their ease. We wander and rattle through blogging, and family stuff, living with fatigue, mental health, and the weirdness and wonderfulness of life.

This meeting for me is important. Blogging has helped me reconcile what goes on in my inner world with what goes on around me. It's helped me talk about the things that scare me or have made me sad. It's helped me to be vulnerable and honest. Meeting someone who found my blog early on, and probably knows more of my struggles over the past few years than some of my oldest friends, is a massive step in realising that I am finally opening up to the world. This meeting is something that couldn't, wouldn't have happened even a year ago.

A while ago I helped Kim with a press release for his Staring Back exhibition. It was an easy thing to do, that I'd completely forgotten about. Kim reminded me that he'd promised me a photo as a thank you if we ever met. Later that afternoon I found myself squinting in the sunshine, surrounded by thousands of people, having a camera pointed at me. Kim the photographer is suddenly present – joking and directing and trying to put me at my ease.

I am grateful for the kindness he's shown me through difficult times, and pleased to find a man who demonstrates the integrity, humour and thoughtfulness that his writing suggests. I am flattered that he introduces me to someone as 'an old friend', and I guess we were are despite never having met before. I am glad we did, and hope we do again soon. Next time, with instruments and tunes and time.

Thank you Kim for listening and for my picture.

PS Just in case you're wondering if Scruffy Buzzards are any good, I am happy to report that they were excellent!

Old Friends: Missing in Action

Sometimes it's hard not to be the grumpy single girl, and my scribblings of the past couple of years testify to that but here its is again.


I'm always delighted for my chums when they find someone new, fall in love, have kids, but it can be difficult to lose them as priorities shift. There's been a spate of folk recently who've found new love, and somewhere in the whirlwinds of their romances they neglect the people who stood by them when they were the ones reaching for the hot water bottle rather than their lover.

I'm happy enough living on my own, and having my freedom -being able to play the fiddle at 2am naked if I fancy it, or wearing bizarre combinations of cosiness as winter begins to bite, eating nothing but baked potatoes every evening for a week and indulging hours in the bath without caring about how much hot water is used.

But, as they're hanging the nursery curtains and sitting down at a table in the new restaurant, you look round for the folk who were once there to share the vestiges of the week and debate the book you've just read. You realise the numbers are dwindling and wonder what you will do do with your weekend.

I smile as I think of the proud father and friend whose man is on bended knee, and wonder if they stop to remember to keep space in their lives for the ones who helped them get there. And, who'll still be there if life doesn't turn into the dream they'd hoped for.

In the meantime, those of us left behind must huddle closer together and keep reaching out for the new.

What will the weekend bring? I don't know but, at least it may still be an adventure.

On Friendship

This post's been in my head for a while – something that rarely happens, normally I just type – and it's long overdue. I know its subject, but its content I'll find as I go.


Two weeks ago a parcel dropped through my door on a Saturday morning. After a long and difficult week with Dad and work, I was exhausted. I picked it up and much to my surprise, it wasn't junk mail, or a bill or an industry magazine. Adorned with Australian stamps and handwriting I've known for twenty years, I knew exactly who it was from.

There was a time when I was the go-to friend. I was the pourer of wine, mopper up of tears, fixer of problems, mover of flats, listener. I was a good and active friend.

Seven years ago my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, and a few short months later my father with dementia. I became I daughter first, and friend second.

Whilst I still lived in the other city, when I was in present in my old life, little changed for those around me. I didn't have a voice for what was going on, it was separate, somewhere else. In my home city more and more often, I was the carer, emotionally and physically.

My friends asked 'How are your mum and dad?'. I don't really remember being asked asked 'How are you?'. I didn't know how to be the one who needed help, this was not my role. I had never learned to ask, to talk. They didn't know how to deal with me being the the one who struggling, and I gave up trying.

As the months, and years began to pass it became clear I couldn't sustain my life somewhere else and moved home to spend whatever time I had left with my family.

There are those who've stood by me and those who've dropped out of my life. There are also those I've let go, because they just don't get it, get me any more. It is very sad.

I'm also very privileged to have some particularly amazing folk who have persisted.

I rarely pick up the phone, often too worn down by it all to talk it all out again, choosing instead to curl up at home and shut the world out.

There is the university acquaintance who got in touch when she heard I was here. She has since become someone whose friendship has been loyal and emotional and exactly what I've needed. Glasses of wine and sunday breakfasts are part of my month. She asks 'How are you?', and wants to know the answer no matter how hard it is to give or hear. She's moving abroad next week. I will miss her and her beautiful boy who's made me giggle whilst i've been on the verge of tears. I also know she'll still be part of my life.

There are Skype calls and cards from Dubai from the friend who was part of a group of girls in that old city whose journey has been similar to my own. She is spiritual and passionate, and will never let me fall. She is there and with me, even though she is half a world away.

There is the friend whose redundancy hit within months of my own. A girl I didn't know so well until we found ourselves travelling that road together. She has been persistent and active, and while I was self employed – as she is too – we spoke every single day. We kept each other going despite being two hours apart, and I'm not sure what I would have done without that support.

There is a wire angel hanging on my front door. It arrived in another parcel from the friend in Australia, who is a perpetual traveller now settled for the meantime in a world apart from my own. Over twenty years of friendship we've rarely lived in the same place and correspondence has always been part of us. She writes long emails and letters and gets little in return form me. Each of these is treasured, makes smile or, occasionally, cry. We steal evenings where we can to fix the problems of the world, and I am better for it.

I am so very grateful for the persistence of these folk. Even when I don't call back, or take an age to get my act together, they call. They write. They worry if they don't hear from me. They ask. They listen.

I have learned to accept their help and kindness, delivered in very different ways. It sounds odd to say that hasn't been easy, and one day I hope can return to being the friend I once was and give some of it back..

There are some older, some newer or renewed friendships which fill my life too, but today I'm thinking of these fine women, and I can only say thank you.

So, the parcel made me think of all of this. I opened the envelope to find a card and some news, some support. Wrapped in a sheet or two from the international edition of the earlier week's Guardian (the letters page I read), was hand made jewellery. Beads and earrings. Bright and colourful from the hand of the friend who is so very far away. They are trinkets, full of kind thoughts and creativity, and I love them.

The phone is not my friend

I don't like the phone, and I don't really know why.

It's fine in a work setting, part and parcel of our day to day.

In my home life, I don't like it. I put off calling people. I put off answering or returning calls. I haven't had a land line for four years now.

It doesn't feel like a thing I want to do, call people that is. I email, I send cards, I arrange to meet folk by text message and see them face to face.

As a teenager I spent hours on the phone, often to people I'd seen a few short moments before. When did my aversion to the phone appear? I'm not certain.

There are a very small handful of people I actively call. Even then, I prefer to call them rather than be caught out. I don't mind if it's a purely practical thing, but the notion of calling just to chat isn't something I enjoy.

I never quite figured it out. It's impossible to read people in the same way as it is face to face, but the same can be said of email.

A ringing phone should be a nice surprise or an opportunity to catch up with someone you haven't seen for a while. Instead it just seems intrusive. In a world of mobile technology calls can be screened, and I do.

Boyfriends seem to be the exception to this. There's a excitement in getting to know someone, knowing chat is just chat. Knowing they want to talk to you. Knowing you can do just that, and nothing else. There is an anticipation or, further down the line, comfort in hearing the voice of someone you want to be close to.

Despite my reluctance to communicate this way, I've just spent an hour chatting a friend and it was lovely.

Decisions, decisions....

I'm just back after a lovely week or so of a conference, visiting friends and another wedding – the second in two weeks. I've also just agreed to a week's holiday for a friend's 40th and I am number 13, the only single person.


What do all of these have in common – I was the token single girl in amongst a multitude of couples. It stings a bit. Not because I am unhappy or jealous but because as others bring their plotting and planning to the table, I only have my voice. Being the minority isn't much fun.

There's a trip afoot for Hogmanay to a tiny Scottish island off the west coast. I'd love to feel the bitter cold sea air on my face and walk the island's paths and hills.

But, there's a but.

The group is, once again, made up of couples and the token gay man – too I become the gay man's substitute partner at social occasions. I love these people, they are my friends but I don't love an unmixed group.

It makes me feel lonely.

As others turn to kiss each other and welcome in another year, I will wait in line until someone remembers I am there.

Of course, I can host another party here at home or be amongst different friends. I wish I didn't have to decide now. A deadline is looming.

If don't go I know I will be sad to miss it. If I do, I know I will be sad that there is no one to kiss me a happy new year. I know I'd be fine. Feeling left out, no matter how unintentionally on the part of others or self indulgently on my part, is never much fun.

A Journey

Somehow two weeks have slipped by without me writing a word here, and as I now sit in front of my laptop, I still don't know what is is I have to say. But, I do feel like typing.


It's been an odd couple of weeks which culminated in a very unplanned day out. A morning coffee turned into a day of confessions, sharing of heartaches and much fun.

I have a friend whose heart is broken. We found him on his own in the pub on Saturday afternoon in a pitiful state. He was brave and tired.

He met a girl in the US a few months ago. A relationship and anticipation began. He's just returned from her. When he set off he never doubted that a plan would be made, that he'd found he girl of his dreams. His 'one'.

He told us his story of days at the zoo and walking in new places, of promise and the future. Tears so close we couldn't hug him, he had to just keep talking without interference.

This vision was quickly robbed from him as it all started to fall to pieces. The girl sounds unsettled, insecure. The reasons why of the tale don't really matter.

What matters is that he tried. He believed in the dream and travelled thousands of miles to find out if she would share it with him. He still believes that one day he will be loved in the way he so much wants. Despite the failed relationships of his past, he's moving towards that person.

I admire him. He is scared and still keeps trying. He is braver than me, who hides from the very risks that are worth taking and doesn't really believe that she will ever be loved.
 
We ended the evening a group of single frineds, relying on each other for solace and companionship - an alternative family - laughing.

Letter to an ex flatmate, former friend

I don't know what to do. You write or email every few months. Your last, a month ago, telling me you had dreamt about me twice. I don't respond. I don't know how to.


Still, you keep trying.

You don't understand why we don't speak any more, and I doubt you ever will. I wish you could, but you are too self absorbed.

I was excited when you moved to Scotland. I looked forward to getting you back. I looked forward to rediscovering the fun and talk of hopes, politics, dreams, men and history that we'd had as flatmates, university chums from the start. I introduced you to my network that you adopted as your own. I found you a room in a house with my friends. It was wonderful to have you back.

I listened to you for hours with patience and kindness as your relationships fell to pieces, minor blips happened at work, all sorts of 'dramas' occurred.

I didn't mind listening and counselling you. We trusted each other and it's what friends are for. But, eventually it, you, became a burden when I couldn't even carry the weight of my own problems.

When my life changed, you'd ask after my sick parents but you didn't ask me how I was. Not that I remember anyway. I moved to my home city and we spoke often. You visited me too.

When you did come, you could only talk about yourself. You couldn't listen.

I was falling to pieces and you didn't see that one of your best friends was coming apart at the seams. I don't know if I knew how to tell you. I still struggle to tell people now when I'm all at sea. That is not your fault.

I tried to tell you I needed you, and you didn't understand what that meant. I tired to explain why I was upset with you, you couldn't see my point of view. I was always the strong one, the care taker. The shoes didn't fit the other way round.

It has been two and half years since I last saw you. Less since we last spoke. I miss you, but I don't know if I will ever write back.

I think about you often.

Letter to an ex lover former friend 2

I have a scar on my wrist, less visible than it was.

Earlier this year you told me it was a 'cat scratch' and dismissed it. It didn't hurt. I still don't know how I got it. It was just there, bloody and red. Bold, painless.

After we decided our friendship was at an end, I thought 'by the time this fades, I will have forgotten about you'. It's still there, less so than before.

Still.

Each time I think you are in my past, your name appears in unexpected places.

Your voice has interrupted my day through radio 4. Your name has appeared in professional circles. Your county appears in my work conversations, them knowing I know a little of the region and some of its players. I can't not make a recommendation if I need to when the question comes round in earnest, there is a bigger picture of community well being that I cannot be selfish about.

This evening, over a casual and unexpected drink, a mutual acquaintance told me he'd met my friend.

But, you're no longer my friend. You're no longer the person who gets my inner geek and is excited about all those things.

You're no longer the person I trusted with my heartfelt sadnesses, silence and dreams.

There are many we meet and pass time with. There are many we meet and whose company is to be enjoyed, embraced even. There are few, however, we trust easily. There are few who understand. You were one of those few, I thought. My naivete perhaps.

You are one of the few, fortunately, who have betrayed my friendship, my trust, hurt me.

You are someone who the thought of makes me sad that you are no longer part of my life.

Will I always have a scar?  Do you even care?

The Last Weekend

It feels like the end of summer. The British weather is unpredictable at best, so it's not so much about temperature, or rain, but a change in the light. It is that shift in seasons that creeps up that we only feel when it is upon us.

I was camping this weekend with old friends. As the boys went to collect more kindling for the fire, I sat by the loch looking over the hills at the low sun and the rain closer than before.

I love this stirring in the seasons and the light. I look forward to the change that will come with autumn.

We walked in the late summer sunshine, with the odd shower at our backs, high above the loch. After two months of my mother's limbs regaining their strength, mine have been losing theirs. My old back and hip aches returning, caused by hospital visiting instead of exercising. As we walked I could feel my joints loosening and muscles working. The freedom of our land and air challenging my body. Steps towards being more powerful again. I will walk through the autumn.

Wild camping is a wonderful privilege in a country which supports outdoor access. There is a national park an hour from my home, where informal camp sites are well used and tolerated by the rangers as long as we are respectful of these places. We spent two nights with sunshine, violent wind, drizzle and heavy rain all at play.

It is easy to be quiet in this place, and with three men who are happy to share silence as much as chatter.

Yesterday morning I woke first. I sat sheltering from the rain, listening to the Canada geese, reading and drinking coffee made on my little stove. The light coloured front section of my tent is quite transparent as the rain runs from the canvas. I love the simplicity of this. I love watching the water turn into little rivulets. I love that such uncomplicated constructions – when was the first first tent made? How many centuries ago? - can protect us from the elements and can be bundled on to our backs. Fabric and modern day sticks, that's all.

I am glad of this weekend. I have missed much of this summer and am glad to see it out.

Letter to an ex lover, former friend

I was standing in a field in my wellies watching one of our greatest folk musicians on my own. Friends had wandered off elsewhere, interested in other things. Surrounded by people, noise and hills, I was happy. I turned to share this music, this moment: my pleasure, my thoughts, my smile, my tapping feet.

It was you I thought of.

It was you who would have loved this. It was you who understood and shared the passions of my inner geek.

Sometimes, I miss you. I miss your friendship and joy in simple things.

Instead, I chatted to a random stranger.

My Vertical Village

I live in a traditional Scottish Victorian tenement. There are six flats; three unmarried ladies of different generations (one of which is me), a single mum, a middle aged bloke – unusually, a professor of popular music - and two lesbians, four kids and a cat. We're an eclectic bunch, and it's only as I write I realise that not one of these homes hosts a 'traditional' family.


Tenement living is little like existing in an upright village. We know each others business to a point, help each other when we can and unite against our evil property managers. They wield too much power over us as factors – a strange landlord hybrid - despite us owning our own homes and, communally, the building that brings us together.

We're sacking them as they hinder rather help us take care of the old place and our bank accounts. Tonight I hosted our meeting to figure out the way forward for this little vertical gathering of homes.

Living like this, in a big formerly industrial city, brings a comforting sense of community and reassurance.

We are merely keepers of this place for our life times. The building will be here long after we're all gone, if we look after it.

Who will inhabit these rooms after me? Who has lived and died here, broken hearts or given birth?

Will my predecessors take care of the cornicing , the century old sash windows or the elderly lady upstairs? No-one can know, but for now this building and the lives contained within it are ours. We look out for each other and this place.

I like it.

A year and a thank you

I've been neglecting my blog a bit due to wishing to escape my computer as quickly as possible at the end of some very long days. But today I can't let pass without marking it.


It is a year today since I left work. I walked out of the office, not wanting fuss or bother, sad and nervous about the future.

I'd taken a huge step. I could have fought it, but instead put my hand up and said 'I'll go'. I negotiated hard over my redundancy, buying myself some time and a little security in an uncertain world.

I think there have been two things that have surprised me, and made me happier than I'd expected of this past year. Firstly, I hadn't quite realised how determined I could be, how stubborn in the face of all I worked towards crumbling around me. I decided to be brave, fight, take some risks. I'm still not quite earning as much as I was, but doing well enough and life's pace is more manageable, flexible and pleasant.

The other is finding one of the best friends I think I've ever had, right under my nose.

My friend Tash (Violet Sands) was made redundant shortly before me, and shortly before me she'd also crumpled. I've known her more than five or six years through volunteering with young people. We'd always got on, but things changed very quickly once we started talking redundancy, the future, hopes, dreams, work, counselling, new worlds.

Without her, I'm not sure I would have come as far as I have. And, I know it goes both ways.

We're two single thirty-something freelancers in the not for profit world (she's an artist as well, clever girl). Although she lives about an hour away, she is probably more present in my life than anyone else.

We speak almost every day, a morning phone call instead of the chat over the kettle with a colleague. We listen to each others ups and downs, proof read work, share ideas, refer clients, eat Chinese, check the other hasn't hit the 'snooze' button once too often, laugh, cry. Cry some more! Then laugh about it....

She is one of only three 'real' people who has ever read my blog. So, Tash, thank you for everything.

To friendship, lives lived differently and the future.

Bad Dreams

Today I am unravelled a bit.


I am distracted by a situation I know I need to make a decision about. I have no clue what I truly want (or am afraid to admit it to myself), or even if I have to make a whole decision now when I could perhaps just throw my thoughts out there see what comes back.

I am so used to pleasing people that I don't know what I want. I know I need not to do what will please someone else, but look after me – it's just not so easy to do.

My dreams are plagued by strangeness, a manifestation of my addled brain disturbing my sleep. Last night's featured an overnight stay in a grand country house hotel for a wedding. I was with lots of friends, and my very grand bedroom (when they were all stuck in tiny turret rooms) was crawling with spiders which initially looked like they were part of the carpet's design. Horrid. I hate spiders.

Action or inaction, or even half an action? I can't move. I am frozen by it.

'To Do' List

Today is my 35th birthday. I am tired and am writing to remember things I want to remember and write about;

1. Being 35 and letting go of the old list
2. McCaffrey's lovely 'Honest Scrap' - I will do something with this. It is not forgotten.
3. My birthday
4. Figuring out how to let go, and possibly say goodbye

Movement

I'm so pleased that a few days of hard work, music and seeing and speaking with people I haven't seen for a while have helped bring things back to centre.


I know I need to make myself do things that are fun, or worthwhile, or challenging or interesting to get myself back even if I don't much feel like it. By the time I've gone through the motions, I forget that I wasn't ok in the first place.

How I am rises and falls, and like everyone else, it will always be like this. Some times the troughs are deeper, and crests higher than others but they will continue to come and go no matter what. I am glad of this. Glad of both.

A horrid couple of days have been left in the past by allowing myself, making myself, embrace some things that I was ready not to do. I'm looking back at a weekend of both hilarity and beauty, and some real movement at work. I am grateful for the people in my life who bring these moments, and who care enough to ask how I am even if they know the answer might not be 'Fine', and to laugh with me if it is.

Comfort and microwaves

The cold weather and snow of the past few weeks has had me thinking about food.


I love it. From salty olives and strong blue cheese to a simple slice of toast, it plays a huge role in my life. It's not simply a functional thing for me. Cooking centres me, the process of making and doing and laying a table gives me great contentment.

I love to have friends here to eat. A simple supper on New Year's Day of baked ham and mashed potatoes was wonderful, shared with friends laughing and reminiscing. The two or three hours of tidying and pottering, listening to BBC Radio 4, just stumbled by without me noticing. I like feeding other people. I like making them happy and bringing them together. Sharing.

One of the best gifts someone can share with me is to set the table, light a candle, and let me drink a glass of wine while they cook. It is a thoughtful act of caring. It is so elementary and still feels so special. When someone cooks for me I feel privileged and loved. I appreciate this gift not just for the food, but for the chatter and moments of quiet creativity (or burnt hilarity) of a Sunday evening when the real world is being held at bay.

Whether I'm cooking for myself, for a crowd, a lover or dining out in celebration with family it will always be a vehicle for conversation, satisfaction, pleasure and comfort.

I wish we could ban the microwave meal.

Feeling 14 again!

It's official. I have pre party nerves!

All the cleaning, organising and scrubbing are doing nothing to allay the feelings that are reminiscent of being a school girl waiting for her first date to arrive. Excited, nervous.

I know it'll be great. I have wonderful, generous friends who'll relax and have a ball, and so will I once the doorbell starts ringing. In the meantime, I'll run around making things right, changing beds, wondering if I've done enough shopping and full of nervous energy.

On being Selfish

Whether we are great celebrators of New Year, makers of resolutions, or not: it is that strange time when one year tips into the next and is a marker on our journey. I've been looking back and forward a little. Reflection being no bad thing.


I sometimes wonder how people respond to the title of my blog. It's called what it is for a very specific reason. I needed to learn to look after me, not just those around me. The demands of caring for sick parents and other stresses had exhausted me and I fell to pieces. I needed to take some time for myself. After all, I'm useless to others if I'm not ok.

I guess to today I'm wondering if it's still as relevant as it was. I think it is, but in a different way. Dictionary.com defines 'Selfish' thus;

'devoted to or caring only for oneself; concerned primarily with one's own interests, benefits, welfare, etc., regardless of others.'

I agree still that this is what I needed to do - although it has never been regardless of others - but I did, and still do, need to push my needs up the hierarchy. Those needs have changed now. I've learned to say 'no', and not push my feelings to one side. The eldest sister in me will always struggle with this a bit.

More importantly, I think I'm beginning to believe that I deserve to be loved and supported too. Not just by looking after myself, but also in accepting these things from others. For so many years I have been so very scared of being vulnerable that I've succeeded in pushing people away, coping on my own and not letting them love me. I don't trust easily but I am learning. I am learning that other people may want to be part of my journey, not out of pity but from companionship, love and friendship. Finally I feel like I deserve it. They deserve not to be pushed away.

The walls are crumbling, and it's time that I understand that I too can to be cared for, and accept the love and support on offer. Being vulnerable still scares me, but now I am also a little excited by learning to receive and letting people see me.

The 'selfish' in my title will stay a while.

"The times when things go wrong often make the best memories"

This little truth of another blogger's family wisdom struck a chord with me (although in browsing I lost track of where I read it so apologies for the lack of reference),but it's not an uncommon sentiment. These things do make the best stories in the pub, and generate moments of laughter and connection that would not have existed otherwise.

My recent holiday (captive in Marrakesh) was a classic example of this, and we reminded ourselves along the way that one day it would all make a great tale of adventure and the absurd, even though it felt very far from it. My companion enjoys spinning a good yarn and I look forward to hearing how the tale evolves!

It also reminds me that sometimes it serves me well to be grateful for the things I have/had, rather than the things I haven't (like making it to the mountains, seeing the flamingos or the ferry from Africa to Europe....). Trite and sentimental perhaps but, hey, we all need to find a little joy where can, so here are some of the things I'm grateful for in the adventure gone wrong;

1.Four people, from three different countries, laughing uncontrollably over breakfast in shared moment of seeing the ridiculousness of the on going van part/can we stay another night saga...

2.Laughing so hard I that I cried about names that sound insulting but are actually a Yorkshire man's compliments – apparently!

3.Not rushing anywhere, we couldn't

4.Being covered in mud whilst my companion wore paper pants (I use the term very loosely – and for Americans, not sure what you call men's underwear, but I don't mean trousers!)

5.Being shown kindness without words

6.Eating fish and chips, Moroccan style, on the square amongst the locals and watching bits of sheep being carved up from parts that I didn't even recognise

7.Remembering that people are people the world over, and that teenagers don't change much either as we listened to them play guitar, singing and laughing under the stand in municipal gardens

8.Content and easy silences

9.Chatting like school kids in bunk beds after lights out in the loveliest camp site I've seen

10.Regretting teaching him how to play gin rummy........

Not bad at all.

Walk beside me

Some of you will be wondering how I've fared holidaying with an ex. I had wondered too.

Despite all the ups and downs of an adventure that didn't work out as planned, thanks to mechanics, it's been great in many ways.

I feel rather like I've rediscovered a friend. I've remembered why I liked him in the first instance.

We have been in each other's company almost 24/7 for ten days. Depsite some frustrations at our situation spilling over in minor moments, there are very few people whose company I could so easily share without having needed more space by now.

We have had conversations and not others, and ticked along with a little understanding and patience, with moments of much good humour. In his company, I can relax. I am me, and he is he. I hope.

Our silences are comfortable and safe.

I had worried that we may fight, or be frustrated by history. Instead, I have learned to cede control and trust him (I have also learned that I am bad at crossing roads in foreign countries!).

It is uncertain if people can ever fundamentally change too much of who they are (and with this in mind I wondered if demons of my past would reappear), but I am sure that we can use what tools we have differently. Maybe my hard work over the past year or so has bourne fruit after all and I have learned a little a least.

Once I had him on a pedastel. Now I hold him in regard, and as an equal.