fairy

Mum loved brands. When clearing her home I took some comfort in gathering everyday items purchased by her: fabric softener, washing up liquid, soap, shampoo... and using them up in my flat. Mum's presence lingers a while longer in her favourite products, ones I wouldn't buy myself. Some items, particularly the fabric softener bring back the smell of her wardrobe, the sheets on the single beds in the front and back bedrooms. Just over three months have passed since she died and I've been using this Fairy Original, thinking of her as I squeeze green liquid into hot water. Almost used up, its time to buy another and to say goodbye to Fairy, I have not inherited my mothers loyalty to brands.

blue light

Photograph taken earlier in the day

Last week I took a few days off and became a tourist in my birth city. I'd never traveled the Thames by boat and this was the first thing I did, buying a day pass for the Thames Clipper. The day was beautiful, hot on the underground, cool on the river. London stretched out as a panoramic postcard and I enjoyed the scene from Westminster to Greenwich. It was fascinating viewing the city from the river, joining the dots on places I'd visited, familiar sights seen anew from a vantage point unchanged over centuries. Spotting the Prospect of Whitby in Wapping I made a mental note to visit in the future.

Towards the end of my trip the boat approached Tower Bridge and I noticed blue flashing lights above and wondered if a terrorist incident was unfolding. Earlier in the morning I'd disembarked at Westminster and observed the recently installed barriers around Westminster Bridge and was reminded of the terrible incident in March.

Crowds of people were pushed up against railings on one side of Tower Bridge. As we sailed under and beyond I looked back and saw a lone figure in a white t-shirt had climbed over the railings and was standing with their back to the river. The boat stopped at Tower of London and I kept my eyes on the figure, noticing police boats a safe distance below and a growing police presence on the bridge. My heart ached for the crisis that had led to this potential suicide attempt/cry for help. Around me tourists happily snapped away, unable to 'read' the city, blissfully unaware of the personal drama unfolding.

I couldn't take my eyes from the lone figure, small against the bulk of the bridge, they did not fall while in my line of vision. Disembarking from the boat I lost sight of them and found it so hard to walk away, as if I could keep them safe with my gaze. Knowing they were in capable hands helped, police and medics near who could support them, react.

On the cobblestones by Tower of London I quietly turned my body and palms towards the person in crisis, directing a prayer and wishing they felt the love and support around them and could find hope. It was all I could do. As I neared the station I heard an ambulance sirens wail, making its way towards bridge. I've wondered about them since.

high life

Last week I lived the high life! Taking a week off and ticking a few things off my London to-do list, then exploring Walton on the Naze, a place of childhood holidays with my sister, mum and aunt. 

 Canary Wharf

 The Shard and London Bridge

 London Eye

 Modern Wharf, Greenwich Peninsula

 Hampton Court Palace

 Cooking apple windfalls, Hampton Court Palace

 Hampton Court gardens

 Memorial, Walton on the Naze, Essex

 The Naze Tower in the distance

Harwich on the horizon

telling

Telling someone your Mum has died is like being interviewed for the worst job ever...

How old was she?

Was it sudden?

She must have had you when she was older?

If I answer this barrage of meaningless questions, then I feel spent, vulnerable, cross. All someone needs to say is 'I'm sorry to hear that. How are you doing?'. Then I'd feel seen, heard and my heart would soften. 

I'm keeping myself away from people. I have nil energy for flakiness, clumsiness.

strangers

When our cousin Krysia died in 2009, my sister and I were trusted with the task of clearing out her home in Elgin. There were photographs in the loft, so I took it upon myself to sort, order and place them in albums. The photos documented Krysia's life and also that of her parents, Jessie (née Logan) and Andrew (Alfons) Dabrowski.

These photographs are Jessie's, my fathers sister, born 1913 near Elgin, Scotland. Jessie trained as a nurse and while nursing during WWII met her husband to be, Alfons, a badly wounded Polish soldier. Apparently, it was love at first sight.  

The stacks of photographs were sorted into two piles, one familiar people and places and another for strangers. Below are the only images I kept of strangers, something in their expressions, fashion, informal and formal poses fascinated me and I keep them in a large decorative glass that belonged to Jessie. Some have the handwriting of the sitter on the back, to Jessie or Jerry as she was known.

What became of these friends of my aunt, did they know her little brother, Robert? My Grandmother Alexina? Here they are now, gathered together and presented to you, an insight into Scotland in the 30s and 40s, their link - Jessie Dabrowska. 

mum

My mum, Doreen Logan, died on the 2nd May. Her funeral, on the 18th May was a month ago today. Now I am paused, at times with no words to describe how I feel.

As a little girl I stitched this lavender bag for her using fabric scraps and ribbon. It still retained a trace of scent almost 40 years after its making. It was one of the items placed in her coffin.

kiss'd

Leigh Hunt 1784 - 1859

JENNY KISSED ME

Jenny kiss'd me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that heath and wealth have miss'd me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kiss'd me.