Sunday 6 November 2016

I never met Chris’s dad, Jim. He died when she was only 28, long before we got to know each other. Today, I drove with Ted to the crematorium where Jim’s ashes had been scattered, to meet Chris’s sister Helen and her mum Joan. They had brought a spring-flowering plant and a trowel and I handed them a container of Chris’s ashes for them to perform their own rite of farewell.

Ted and I waited in the car as they went off into a wooded area, beyond our sight. They’d asked for privacy and I understood that this time I needed to stand back and allow Chris’s immediate family the opportunity to say goodbye in their own way. They returned half an hour later, chilled by the damp autumn weather but smiling.

“Did it go well?” I asked.

“Would you like to come and see?” replied Joan.

I followed them back up the path to a stand of silver birches.

“Look,” said Joan. “This is the same place we scattered her dad’s ashes.”

“We put some underneath and scattered the rest,” said Helen, pointing to the newly planted Osmanthus Burkwoodii. It took a bit of doing I can tell you; the ground was as hard as a brick.”

“And we put this up,” said Joan, indicating a small brass plaque which read:

CHRIS
HERE WITH HER DAD
R.I.P.

After a little while we went to a local pub for Sunday lunch and then Helen left for Manchester and I drove Joan back to her home in Stratford-Upon-Avon. As we made our way north, she turned to me in the late afternoon half-light and said quietly:

“Chris loved her family – all of us. But she adored Jim. The two of them used to go skiing most years, you know. She was a Daddy’s Girl, really. I’m very glad they are together again.”

As youngsters, my sister (then known as Tina) and I would often go fishing at the weekend with our step-father Harry and step-brother Pete. On match days we’d sit and watch them fish but if it was a family outing, Mum would come along to keep an eye on us and we’d be allowed to cast our own lines and try to catch a few fish ourselves.

They were the happiest days of my childhood.

I loved the ritual of preparation. Mum packed our lunchboxes with enough sandwiches and cake to feed a small army while Pete and Harry boiled wheat and hempseed for bait; sprinkled tins of maggots with fresh sawdust; mixed and bagged groundbait; oiled reels and checked lines; tied various sizes of spade-ended hooks to fine leaders; attached lead weights to swim-feeders; and sorted floats by colour, size, and buoyancy.

In the evening, we would pack our gear into an old green Bedford van so we could get away early the next morning and drive to the venue before dawn. When the alarm went off, Tina and I crawled out of our beds, dressed in the dark, and climbed into the back of the van where we wedged ourselves among the half a dozen cushions that were scattered on the bare metal floor, and settled down for the journey.

As the sun rose, Tina and I craned our necks to look through the windscreen between the heads and shoulders of the three adults sitting on the bench seat in front of us. We had the crucial task of magpie spotting and we knew that the success of our entire expedition depended on our dedication and keen eyesight.

Single magpies were the problem; they brought bad luck. Pairs and groups could be ignored but if we encountered a lone magpie, the magic words Good morning Mr. Magpie. How’s your wife today? had to be yelled in unison by everyone in the van in order to avert the disaster of slack lines and empty nets.

50 years later, I rarely go fishing and I’m not superstitious by nature but I still find myself saying the same words out loud whenever I see a solitary magpie. Nursery rhymes didn’t really figure in my childhood and I had no idea why single magpies were thought to be unlucky. In fact, it makes me smile to think that until quite recently I believed that this esoteric knowledge was a family secret, handed down from one generation to the next.

For some reason, I woke up late this morning with the first two lines of the nursery rhyme going round in my head, as if they had come from a dream. The words prompted the memory of our family fishing trips and, as I pondered their meaning, they also seemed to speak a deeper truth about life and love.

One for sorrow,
Two for joy.

Of course, not all pairings are joyful and we can be happy on our own, but right now it’s the shared adventure of being and becoming a couple that most excites and delights me.

One for sorrow,
Two for joy,
Three for a girl,
Four for a boy,
Five for silver,
Six for gold,
Seven for a secret,
Never to be told.
Eight for a wish,
Nine for a kiss,
Ten for a bird,
You must not miss.

Last Friday, Hedda and I went to see La Boheme at the King’s Head Theatre in Islington. An unlikely venue you might think for an opera, but for those of you who don’t know, this pub has a thriving theatre in a back room behind the bar.

As you might imagine, the theatre is neither grand nor large. The space seats about 60-80 people, with no room on stage for elaborate sets, a chorus  or an orchestra. In fact there’s barely enough room to swing a contralto. But it was a fabulous setting for an updated version of Puccini’s popular classic performed by Opera Up Close. 

This was no 19th century spectacle to be admired from the distant reaches of the auditorium of the Royal Opera House. Set in a grungy flat near Euston, with Mimi as a dying junkie desperate to get her next fix, the production was visceral and immediate. Our bodies literally resonated with the singers’ voices and the effect was electric.

We became part of the drama as the cast threaded their way through the audience into the tiny arena in which they lived and loved in our midst. As the story unfolded, we found ourselves laughing and weeping, not at the characters, but with them. It was as though our own joys and sorrows were taken up and amplified through their voices.

Unsurprisingly, the tragedy of Mimi’s early death stirred my grief over the loss of Chris and yet, it was Mimi’s joyous love duet with Rodolfo that echoed most strongly in my mind as Hedda and I walked out arm in arm. We paused for a moment on the pavement, to hold each other close. Then we hailed a cab and headed for home.

Omnia vincit amor, as Virgil said.

Love conquers all.

My father Ray was the second of three brothers. He’s the one with the cricket bat in his hand. The youngster in the middle is Tony, and the one on the left with his arm draped over Tony’s shoulders is big brother Ken. I would guess that the picture was taken just before the Second World War.

Ken joined the RAF when war was declared and trained as a pilot. He was barely in his 20s when his Beaufighter was destroyed on a reconnaissance mission over the Friesian Islands. My father followed him into the RAF and had just completed his training as a Lancaster pilot when the war ended. He had the flying bug and stayed in the RAF until he was killed in a plane crash in 1953 at the age of 28. After his National Service in the Royal Navy, Uncle Tony followed in their father’s footsteps and worked for British Rail.

The three brothers each had one son. Ken’s wife Eve discovered she was pregnant with Ian just after Ken was killed. Ray married Vera in 1948 and I was born a year later. A few years after that, Tony and his wife Jean had Jonathan. Growing up, I knew Jonathan but Eve moved away to make a new life and I rarely, if ever, saw Ian.

We (Ian, Geoff, and Jonathan) got on with our separate lives and had no occasion to get together, until very recently when we met at Jean’s funeral. Halfway through the wake, it occurred to me to get someone to take a photograph of us some 70 years after the snap of our fathers was taken.

And here we are: Ian is on the left; I’m in the middle; Jonathan is on the right. If you were to meet us individually, I’m not sure you’d realise that we were cousins. But stick us in a line and I think you can see a certain family resemblance.

Afterwards, we persuaded the “guvnor” to join us for a second photograph. That’s Jonathan’s dad Tony, second from the left. Since my mum died, Tony is the only direct link I have to my father. He’s a lovely man and full of stories. I’m going to call him right now to see how he is getting on and arrange to go and see him again soon.

Captain Midnight here with a special trade secret for all you loyal fans.

Some of you have written, asking how we super-dogs manage to live among you undetected until our superpowers are needed. Actually, gulling the average human is pretty easy. They mostly see what they want to see, so all it takes is a little sleight of hand and a convenient telephone box for the switcheroo.

Herself is far from average but even so I had to explain the finer points to her the other evening. We’d been out to a party at her friend’s house and she seemed surprised that I hadn’t been recognised. The conversation went something like this…

“My friend liked you,” said Herself. “She thought you were sweet.”

“Happens all the time,” I said.

“She called you a Comedy Dog.”

“A what?”

“A Comedy Dog.”

“And why do you think she said that?”

“Well, you know,” said Herself. “Standing on your hind legs; chasing cats; furry dreadlocks; sleeping on your back with one leg in the air; being addicted to chicken. That sort of thing.”

“Excellent,” I said. “My C.K. seems to be working.”

“Calvin Klein?” she asked, with a raised eyebrow.

“No. No.” I replied. “Clark Kent. Superman’s mild-mannered alter ego. All super beings need an alter ego, so they can pass as normal. We call them C.K.s.”

“And yours is Ted the Comedy Dog?”

“Correctamundo.”

“Really,” she gasped. “You mean all that stuff is just part of your disguise?”

“Yup.”

“All of it?”

“Except for the chicken thing,” I confessed. “That’s for real.”

She took the hint and raided the fridge for a late-night, poultry-based snack.

So there we have it super-dog fans. That’s why you never see Captain Midnight and Ted the Comedy Dog in the same room at the same time. I don’t mind you knowing but you must promise not to blow my cover or I will be forced to leave Planet Earth and return home to my birthplace on the furthest moon of Kanis.

Oh alright, I’m just kidding.

It’s the third moon.

#ComedyDog   #CapMidnight   #Gottcha

An Australian friend, Cathryn Lloyd, recently sent me this cartoon by Michael Leunig. I’ve enjoyed his work since I first came across it in Melbourne 10 years ago. I’ve got several collections of his cartoons and Chris once bought me a book based on his larger artworks, which we both loved.

Unbeknownst to Chris, another friend wrote to Leuning while she was ill, asking if he would send her an original drawing. He agreed but Chris died before the plan came to fruition. So it was a double pleasure to receive this gift.

The grief adaptor is an inspired idea: when grief flows from our hearts instead of being trapped inside, it carries us through life. Leunig’s special genius is to recognise that joy functions in the same way. His insight chimes with my experience of bereavement: that I am only open to joy to the extent that I acknowledge my grief.

Somehow the heart has to expand to allow both at the same time. Leunig tells us to plug the cable into our bicycle and let our grief and joy carry us through life, he doesn’t ask us to understand them, which reminds me somewhat of Rainer Maria Rilke’s famous advice to a young poet:

And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.

We all suffer loss and bereavement; we all mourn something or someone. If I have learned anything in the last two years, it is that grief and joy are inseparable aspects of the human condition.

Thank you Cathryn for sending the cartoon, and thank you Michael Leunig, for reminding us that although we cannot choose when grief and joy will appear in our lives, we can choose how to respond to them.

It’s been three weeks since the previous post, which is an unusually long interval. That’s partly due to being distracted by the headlong rush of work since the end of a long summer break. But I’ve also been finishing the manuscript of a new book.

Writing has been my solace since Chris died: a memoir of her last 18 months; 150 blogs; and 40 or so poems have poured onto the page. I found that as I wrote these stories and verses, I could hold my memories more lightly. I no longer had to cling to them like a drowning man to keep my head above water.

Although I wrote primarily for myself, some of you have kindly said that you’ve also found my writing helpful, which encouraged me to approach a friendly publisher with the idea of a book based on my experience of loss and bereavement. Now the manuscript is ready, I need some “critical friends” to read it and let me know how well it works and what else I need to do before sending it off to the publisher.

I’m hoping that it has something of the immediacy of The Year of Magical Thinking: Joan Didion’s memoir of the year following her husband’s death. Her account helped me to understand how such a bereavement suspends the usual logic that governs our lives. For example, when Didion wrote that, for months after he died, she couldn’t bring herself to throw out her husband’s shoes “because he might need them” it made perfect sense to me.

If my book also provides such moments of insight and recognition then writing it will have been worthwhile. Although each of us must find our own way through this terra incognita, it is comforting to know that we do not voyage alone.

Hedda and I have just spent six glorious days in Shetland for the 10^th Annual Screenplay Film Festival. Hedda spent an hour or two filming blogs and interviews on most days, but otherwise the time was our own to explore the island and to enjoy the cinematic riches of the festival.

Favourite films were Love is All (2014) directed by Kim Longinotto with music by Richard Hawley, who gave a brilliant concert afterwards; a famous old black and white silent documentary about Herring Fishing, Drifters (1929) directed by John Grierson with an astonishing live soundtrack from beat box virtuoso Jason Singh; and an extremely funny, laugh-out-loud, must-see comedy from New Zealand, Hunt for the Wilderpeople (2016) directed by Taika Waititi.

On Monday evening we entered the Screenplay Film Quiz (coming a creditable 8th out of 25 teams since you ask). The quiz included a round of famous film quotations spoken in Shetland dialect. Can you guess which films were the sources of these three cracking quotes?

Luke. I am de faider!

A’ll hae whit shu’s haein

Yippee Ki-Yay Muckle Flugga

The last one is a particularly clever pun as Muckle Flugga is the name of a rocky island off Unst, which is said to be the northernmost location in the British Isles. I’ve been laughing at this joke all week, but then I’m a simple soul.

As well as laughing at suggestive place names, Hedda and I watched seals and sea otters; walked on pristine beaches; photographed spectacular cliffs; visited an architect turned silversmith; had many cups of tea and cake; found a couple of good selkie tales; and bought locally made jumpers at half the price we would have paid in London.

We both missed the comforting presence of Captain Midnight but we still had a lot of fun hanging out and getting to know each other better. Tonight, I’m back on my own in Folly Cottage and counting the days until we’ll be together again. Meeting Hedda has been an extraordinary and unexpected delight: she brings love, beauty, and joy into my life.

Answers:

Darth Vader in The Empire Strikes Back
Fake orgasm scene in When Harry Met Sally
John McClane in Die Hard

Captain Midnight here in the studio ready to give my first Ted Talk.

I’ve sent Himself and Hedda off to Shetland for the week so I can get some peace and quiet to compose my talk. I must say, it was very kind of you humans to create a whole media channel to celebrate my wit and wisdom and I shall endeavour not to disappoint my many fans.

“Talk about what you know,” the producer advised, so I thought I’d start the ball rolling (oops, there it goes… must chase… must run… must fetch… got it… that’s better) with a subject close to my heart: How to be Happy.

We super-dogs are very good at being happy and at spreading happiness. It’s not difficult once you get the hang of it. I’m going to share my top ten tips with you, absolutely free of charge (although treats are always welcome).

1. House train your humans from an early age, as it’s very embarrassing if they do their business in the street. Also, if they are properly trained you don’t have to follow them around the house with poo bags.

2. Never pass up the chance to lie down in muddy puddles or to swim in rivers, lakes, ponds etc. Your human will pull you out if the bank is too steep for you to get back up. Stay close when you shake yourself dry. They like that.

3. Opinions are divided on this one but I recommend that you allow your humans to share your bed. It makes them feel loved and secure. You can easily prevent unwanted hanky-panky by lying between them.

4. Humans have very little sense of smell. This is why it’s important to roll in pungent things like fox poo and dead birds to help them detect your presence from afar. They appreciate little kindnesses like this.

5. Snooze whenever possible as you never know when your humans will want to exercise themselves with a riotous game of tug-of-war or ball-chucking. My best places for snoozing are: the window seat in the kitchen; the sitting room sofa; and the upstairs landing.

6. Always bark furiously at postmen to scare them away. If they get through your first line of defence, grab the letters out of their hand as they push them through the letterbox and chew them. It’s your sacred duty to wage war on the Royal Mail.

7. When out in the car, make a beeline for the passenger seat as this encourages human passengers to sit in the back. If that fails, look appealing and jump onto their lap to make sure you still get a good view.

8. Try teaching your human a few tricks. It’s fun for you and it’s good for their physical and mental agility. A favourite of mine is to stand on my hind legs and twirl around until a treat is proffered. It never fails to amuse me.

9. Wag mightily whenever your human hoves into view. They always seem to enjoy seeing a good wag and it’s well known that wagging releases doggy endorphins that make us feel good too.

10. Lastly, choose a “rescue human” like I did, if you get the chance. They sometimes have behavioural difficulties and they’re usually a bit more effort. But they are very rewarding and make lovely pets.

Humans have a tendency to overcomplicate things and make themselves sad, which is where we come in. Regular practice of my top ten tips is guaranteed to bring joy both to dogs and humans (except postmen and they don’t count).

And there you have it; I hope you enjoyed my first Ted Talk.

Coming Soon: Sticks, Stones, and Buried Bones.

Bye for now.

24 August 2016

Captain Midnight here, reporting from Talybont in Brecon.

I brought Himself and Hedda here for a walk today. You know how it is with humans: they need to get out and stretch their legs now and again. Himself drove us from Crickhowell and parked up, then I showed them the way along the riverbank to the waterfall. As you can see, I put Hedda on the lead when we got close to make sure she didn’t fall in.

It was jolly nice to see my humans having fun. I chewed several sticks to indicate my approval and jumped onto Hedda’s lap when we got back into Rosie the Camper Van to show how much I like her. I think she appreciated how wet I was as she said it was like standing under the waterfall, before inviting me politely to go and sit in the back on my customary seat. I also took this picture of them both by the river (which is tricky without opposable thumbs).

I liked our stay in Crickhowell. We went everyday to a place called a Public House where I could sit in the garden while they drank tea and beer, stared at their phones, and got excited about something called a “wifi signal.” I was also allowed to go into the food shops and help them choose what to buy for supper (Black Bomber cheese and Welsh Dragon sausages were my favourites).

Himself and I are back in Folly Cottage this evening. It’s very quiet here and he seems a bit miserable on his own. I hope the pack gets together again soon.