Middlest created this with her boyfriend. I just love it.
I laughed out loud at The Observers Emma Beddington recollection of her Mothers Day experiences- (Observer,https://www.google.com/amp/s/amp.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2022/mar/27/mapping-out-my-life-in-mothers-days-emma-beddington )- moments she recalls and those she would rather forget. It’s an article which many will relate to and with and when you have travelled the full stretch of child rearing , like Emma , you look back and find that its the weird memories that make you smile.
Like many Mums, my memories of the years running up to the teens were filled with hand made presents; some created at home others at the childminder’s or at school. The kind of gifts that make you smile even if you if you don’t know what you are looking at.
The small clay pots, the little boxes filled with chocolates, the glitter covered portraits, the ‘interesting’ cardboard animals with my name written on them. (Yes, I was once portrayed as a cute kitten and a not so cute tortoise).
I think when I look at them; I am reminded of something of them, their capability, their personality .
Of course one of the many consequences of having more than one child is that sometimes there is fierce competition to get the best gift, which is quickly replaced in teen years with reminding each other that Mothers Day even exists.
Anyway for me , the early competition quickly faded into a phase of collaborative gift giving and as the teen years settled in, more standard presents arrived – a box of chocolates, perfume, a stuffed monkey (!), a wind up monkey on a surfboard bath toy (there’s a theme here) until the years arrived when they appreciated the things I really liked and I received books and LPs.
In the last couple if years though there has been a return to the creative years and alongside the book or monkey on a surfboard (brilliant) I have received a little something more.
And this year I waited for it.
Sitting at the dinner table, eating a meal cooked by eldest and middlest, we chatted , smallest becoming increasingly itchy to get ‘on with it’. I admit, I feel slightly excited at his revelation, what could it be? perhaps a message from Pop Idols Wagner , mentioned by eldest a couple of weeks prior.(https://www.wagnerxfactor.com/)
At the moment, I am mentally prepared for , no I am hoping for something way out of the ordinary. Last year, after dinner, I came face to face with myself on the screen of a laptop at the table , and as said picture of faded, I was told to press play. Ten slides later I had been taken back twenty odd years, via a power-point of my best ‘Mumming moments’ (the verb , to Mum has since become entrenched in family talk). Number one was my difficulty in receiving houseguests without recourse to a super-clean; a complete deep clean of the house, even the rooms which the visitor wont be using. This included a link to their favourite you tube representation of me https://youtu.be/GBwELzvnrQg
So, plates clared away, i came back o the table to find smallest seated middlest seated not so odd and eldest still in the room all v odd , I was told to sit and as I did a beat box from smallest who held the rhythm while middlest rapped and eldest danced
“Hip, hip, hooray, it’s mother’s day , here is what we say………….”.
And so on.
Usually I end on what my Dad would say is a soupy or philosophical point but there is nothing to be added here. Other than to say it was a priceless moment that words can add nothing to nor can take away from. 3 kids being themselves a moment that i will never forget.
“Life moves pretty fast, if you don’t stop and look around once in a while ……. you could miss it.”
Matthew Broderick; Ferris Buellers Day Off.Eldest has left home…………. they actually left before Christmas, but it’s taken me a while to face it squarely, an age to clean his old room and even longer to write about him leaving. I have wondered why it has taken nearly five months to acknowledge this. Why, when it’s such a significant moment in both our lives? Some might say denial, some that I am a slow processor – some might even say perhaps it’s not that bigger deal for me. On consideration though I feel it’s because I have struggled to come to terms with the fact that his childhood is over. His leaving home has created a gap. One that no matter how much I try to fill with work or hobbies or through busying myself with middlest and smallest, is still there, gaping, loud and definite. There is also a part of me which is struggling to manage the reality that life is passing by. When children are young, they are with you constantly and to an extent time stands still. Having smallest certainly stalled that sense of aging but now, despite travelling alongside smallest through another childhood – I cannot ignore it. Eldest leaving has reminded me that I am in middle age, and he has reached adulthood. Childhood passes incredibly quickly. With that stark realisation comes a plethora of memories of childhood- the happy times and the struggles that I experienced in becoming a mother; inexperienced, immature and scared. Days spent grappling around for internal resources which I didn’t have but days which I nonetheless filled. Thinking about how and what with, it’s tricky to put it all together. I’ve forgotten a lot. So intent was I on filling their days, that it seems I didn’t stop to see half of them; so, when they come to me with a ‘do you remember narrative’, I’m ashamed to say, no I don’t. Listening to the radio one evening, I caught the tail end of a discussion where the narrator speaks about the slow movement, a group which focuses upon the work of Carl Honoré, who advocated a slowing down of what has become an amazingly fast paced world. Honoré advocates the consideration of slow parenting, a method of child rearing in which the parent allows the child more agency in their days at a pace they are comfortable with. It is juxtaposed with helicopter parenting in which parents are hypervigilant and look to fill up the days and the lives of their children, with a constant stream of activities and through the consumption of material goods. As I write this it occurs to me that how overwhelmed you might feel depends upon many factors, but I suspect of many parents a child leaving home allows them to glimpse the future. One where you will be left with what you began with. Yourself. For now, though that’s a long way off. I am blessed to have them all; still by my side are two others, the smallest of which I watched this morning as he buzzed from room to room, in and out of stories and in between various games. As he stilled, I sat next to him, and I said, “Do you know what, if I had to choose one thing only that I wanted to teach you, it would be to remember just to slow down. I have spent my entire life rushing around and I can’t help feeling that I have missed an awful lot”. So that’s my goal. To stop and take notice. Worry less about what I think I should do and focus on the present; so, the next time this happens it won’t be so difficult to try and remember the life of the child, who has just left home to make their way on their own.
I met a lady the other day who has given up her career in health visiting to become a therapist in alternative medicine. . She described her training as, ‘life changing’ and listening to her; watching her speak, her experience is visceral -for her and for me.
The joy she gleaned from learning about something different and it became the impetus for a lifestyle revision and placing it alongside a neighbours recollection of their career change, the disaffection of careers and motherhood was apparent. They too had become disillusioned by their role, this time in education and sought to apply their craft in its purest form, through drawing for a living rather than teaching others to do so. made over a decade ago, “the move”, she recounts firmly, ‘was the very the best thing she ever did”. And as she says this you believe her- struck by the notion of a gut decision, regarding something that she knew was right for her and her family.
Each account has been framed as an epiphany type episode , a decision made in an instant after hearing the latest vagal dispatch of unhappiness. They were not happy , they recognised it, they did something about it. If I listen to my gut then perhaps I could make the change too.
The desire to do the same has overcome me on more than one occasion. The dream to write – not to teach others to do it, has run on throughout my life. But I have never tried do so professionally. One reason is doubt in my ability , the other is the children and the impact it would have if I were to take a job that required me to work outside of school hours. So the dream became a hobby, but going back to my teaching role this year ,the idea has wandered back in. It is my gut feeling that I should take the plunge, follow my desire and hearing the lifechanging decisions of people in my life, has made me wonder further about my own choices.
There was , of course, another thought cheering them on. Their role as a mother. Certainly , ‘The Artist’ recalls how the travails of motherhood had put pressure on their time , constraining their availability to work and so made looking for suitable work tricky. They said, “Its like having two jobs and being expected to work both full time, you cant do it”.
“Except”, we both laughed, “you have to!”.
And if you are lucky enough to be a single Mum, you may need benefit support; in which case the expectation is that you do do it. You make yourself available for work. Not an issue for most, however the bone of contention for many, is the amount of hours that you are expected to make yourself available. 25 hours a week in my case, with a child of 5 in school. This is fine until you factor in school holidays- to which my work coaches response is-,”well what about childcare?”
Childcare is , extortionate and taking away the economic implications, there is also the fact that, it is , for some of us , it is just not an option. I brought my children into this world to raise them myself not to have someone else do it for me. I didn’t factor in the doing it independently but that doesn’t mean to say that my child should be made to endure childcare because of my failure (if you want to call it that) in having a solid relationship. In June last year, the work coach and I scrolled for employment vacancies together and suitable roles were limited. All were for 48 weeks a year. Most for 37 hours per week. She looked at me expectantly and I shrugged my shoulders. “I cant do that”, I said stoicly.
“Well you need to be a bit more flexible”, she states.
“Right“, I reply, “or perhaps the rules need to include a little more flexibility for people in my situation”.
The coach frowned and I continued, “You are assuming a stalwart of support and suitable childcare availability, neither which I have”.
Silence and she looks at me and then at the screen. Feeling emboldened I decide to continue,” and perhaps a consideration in the labour market of an increase of part time roles for Mums who would like to do something else other than teach.
“But you are a teacher,” she argues.
“Yes I know that- but what if I didn’t want to teach anymore?”, I finish feeling flustered (as she is right) , and lean back in my chair.
She didn’t respond and I didn’t expect her to as the question was beyond her role – and it was maybe unfair of me to have raised the issue with her.
Instead , I considered all this and with time running out before I received a sanction, I receded – I am limited and it saddens me that I can’t make the change that I feel my gut is demanding.
Of course change is inevitable and so after speaking to another neighbour about her passion for her job a few weeks ago, I decided to take the plunge and I applied for a job as a community reporter. I pushed aside the maternal worries and sent over my CV with the words, “life is too short to be going to a job you dislike”, still rolling around in my mind.
And i waited. And I thought about what I had done and was excited but before long there was something else bothering me. That something else, slapped me in the face when I heard nothing from the news desk. I was disappointed. Disappointment which highlighted to me just how much I want to write but also disappointed that i could even have considered leaving the kids at a point when they and I am not really ready for me to.
Ok, technically I wouldn’t be leaving them, but I would be making the kind of change that, they, especially smallest would struggle with. I couldn’t do that.
So perhaps that was my epiphany.
I too have grasped the messages being communicated by my vagal nerve. The discomfort of chasing something at odds with what I have, was too much for me to bear and so I have turned around and decided to stop seeking change and sit with what I have.
(A spoken word piece)
I have always been a stickler for a story.
In class at Primary, I would set my imagination to work, creating lengthy tales for my creative writing lessons.
Time spent picking at words, shifting them on the fine lines of the creative blue workbook;
That was the same as my best friend Paula’s, which was the same as Nathan’s, which was the same as Ben’s, which was the same as Kelly’s.
But inside it wasn’t the same- inside mine, the words wound their way round margins, beyond pages and into gaps until there was no option but to ‘give that girl a star’; A house point; A recommendation slip; A cup in assembly.
So perhaps it was inevitable,
That I would take the need to make a story that bit further
than the notebook and use the landscape of life as a pencil.
Now I am in that story that I created.
That I have waited for, My reality is one that I have carefully crafted -this,
this life, an attempt to become some One
(With the emphasis on the one, because the other part
Of the story has not begun, the part where the stranger walks in and you realise that they arnt a stranger, they are the person that you have known, but just haven’t met them fully yet.)
And it is funny because in this story I have created on purpose,
The thoughts and the plans the characters and settings are now a reality. I am,
living it. Living the dream except you could take the ‘dre’ and perhaps place another three letters alongside them. Like ‘ad’ or ‘ary’. Because it is tiring and its convoluted and its lonely at times.
But at the end of the week there is the sense of having done something worthwhile
And I guess to me, that is important, to do something worthwhile
But when it takes the smile off your face, what does that say
When the end of yesterday
Is still chasing you, even after you have turned into the street of today
And the life you have made has taken a little too much energy
Replacing it with complacency
In how I present words, muddying the narrative of my role as a Mum.
And there was smallest insisting they bring the red ball and I said no and carefully explained why in my best, “I’m pretty tired, but here is my last bit of text book mumming for the day, way’.
” No, I am not listening to you”, arms folded, head turns.
And then I exploded and having run dry of real reason, I stuck with what I gave and got a blast of five year old obstinance which I deftly swallowed and internalized as my own. And there we sat head to head, horns locked, until I eventually decided that sitting in the car while I waited for the situation to deescalate was probably not the best use of our time and so I ordered us both out. Hand in hand we marched, hum shouting out his annoyance at me, me, who he wanted to run away from at the that moment, because I was not being fair, and I had made him angry.
Me asking him not to shout at me, otherwise mute , in the rain, crossing the road in the spotlight of the car head lamps illuminating his red face and my staunch frown
Until we got home and the temper rises and then falls, the words getting put on paper, (I cannot help at this moment being amazed at his ability to write a sentence. telling me what he would like to do, which is to give me a hug) ,and so we embrace and he goes upstairs to tell middlest about his love for his family, while they cruise round the kitchen preparing tea and singing.
His evening sets off again at a pace more suited to him.
I meanwhile, sit on the floor in the bathroom
And deplore, in that instant, myself, the feeling , sweeps over me and tucks itself in around my feet and mind, where it stays like a shroud, reminding me of what I should have been in that instant what I should have done, how I should have felt and what I have done to his small mind, just by failing to be what he needed right then.
Then upstairs to help prepare tea
And clean the living room
And play Mandy and Norman with smallest
And finish the washing
And put smallest to bed
He tells me I am wonderful
And I feel the punch of mother guilt that I was not calm.
I was cross. How could I have been annoyed at that face?
And we read a book
And middlest serves tea and we listen to NKOTB on single which she brought me from the charity shop, and we chat about Spotify, and we listen to the Sweet Harmony by Liquid and then I drink a glass of wine.
And it should be fine because its Friday, it’s my free day
And it is my night
Where I write and listen to Tom Ravenscroft
With incense and chocolate
But not tonight. I escape to the bath and lay and then go back
And sit with dirty traces of cortisol that have left
Me sad and uninhabitable
And watch the EastEnders omnibus
(You are not being nice)
And stir hot milk in the pan
(No I will not)
Where I can see a line of burned milk forming
(You are so unfair)
And I drink the hot chocolate and read Ali Smith
(You have made me so cross)
And resist the urge to look at what Putin’s doing to the world
(I am so sad mummy)
And turn off the light
And ignore the urge to recall it again.
That will corner me tomorrow,
In the story I write now.
How many ways can I keep you entertained,
How do I keep the wolves at bay,
How do I keep the balance
When its tipping left to right,
Back towards a far off month
Where the hope of a new day lies
In a seed of thought, which allows
for just about anything
I am thinking out loud, trying make sense of a block. A block that emerged years ago I think but did not become apparent until late last year.
Abba released a new album on November 5th 2021. I started to write about it, then I stopped. I listened to it, then I pressed pause. I have tried countless times to start this copy again, each time finding something else to occupy me. I have been wondering why that is. Perhaps I was not as big a fan as I purported to be? Maybe it’s because music doesn’t play the part that it used to in my days. Not like when I would sit and listen to lots of songs. It used to be a process- an event even; I would read or hear about an album and then either go to Woolworths or travel on the 88 to Colchester. I would buy and then go home ,sit and play the album, from start to finish without interruption.
CDs emerged and with it the power of skipping forwards and backwards easily and then of course along came the streaming services; Apple, Spotify, Deezer etc. All fabulous but for someone with a naturally busy and very distractable mind, they are a nightmare sometimes. When you are a fan though, these services enable you to pick up new music in the home, especially exciting when a old band takes a new path. Like Abba.
For me, It is not like when Take That reformed, or when news came to me via The One Show that STEPS were taking to the stage again. I am not a huge fan of either; I like them, OK I really like Take That, but I do remember the reactions of people that I know; the excitement in them recalling just how significant they were in their lives. The music, the posters, the concerts; how they spoke to only you in a sea of thousands of faces- even I was smiled and waved at by Danny New Kids on the Block when I was 12.
I remember being taken to Wembley Arena by my sister to see NKOTB. The excitement when she did the big reveal in the tunnel on the way out of the tube station. I remember thinking how nice it was what she had done. Of course I am sure she had a good time, despite not being an fan, NKOTB the allure of the concert, particularly from visiting band can be incredible and music, well it has the capacity to reach across generations. My favourite band is The Jam and I was a babe when they were formed. Half the songs on eldest’s and middlests Spotify are from artist’s famous prior to her arrival.
Music is timeless and sometimes something more.
My sister loved ABBA and subsequently so did I. Still nestled in my Vinyl collection is her battered copy of the Album Super Trouper and ABBA Greatest Hits Volume 2.
At some point her love turned into our love and a second copy of Greatest Hits Vol 2 emerged, one of these remains, again in my stack of vinyl. I has always puzzled me when I requested this as I would have been 2 or three when these were released making me wonder whether this was purchased not for me but because the first had been played beyond recognition. It would not surprise me.
She loved singing and she loved all their songs;
She loved Super Trouper, I loved Chiquitta
She loved Does Your Mumma, I loved Money Money Money.
We both loved Gimme Gimme Gimme
WE would play the vinyl on an old 1970s multi record player. Not a portable affair but a proper set , housed in a teak casing, with a drop bar upon which we could line up the next record to be played. It had two speakers positioned in the room to transmit best the best of what was a predominantly abba playlist. They played one after the other although I remember the holding bar on the record player didn’t work quite as well with LPs and you would sometimes have to manually override the catch to let the record drop fully.
Every weekend at our Dads, on went the ABBA,
Chiquitta turned to Kick your teeth out,
Thank you for the Music- with a heavy emphasis on the Uh-Huh
The air guitaring to Does your Mumma
The attempt to keep up with he speed of angel eyes leaving us breathless and ready for something a bit more down tempo,
Which was usually
The winner takes it all.
All sang with much generosity on our behalf, me taking the low note and my sister the higher range performed with gusto into the obligatory plastic hairbrushes. And of course there was a bit of mirror watching on both our behalf.
Over time our tastes and lives evolved, she moved out I moved in and we would see each other less and less but the affinity through Abba remained, we would always ,always put on Abba, in the car, in the kitchen. A track for every occasion and with age our favourites altered.
She moved towards songs like Mamma Mia and Voulez Vous, songs which she played with her Nanny charge and her fellow Nannies; I started to hear more closely slower tracks like Winner takes it all, and then of course was Dancing Queen. Nights out and parties with her friendship group saw her gain a reputation for being the one who loved ABBA and she was nick named the Dancing Queen.
It was played at her wedding and as the first bars rang out it housed the only moment, the only time my Mum , Dad sister and I have danced together. Or shared any happy moment together.
And as with any good song the happiness it can facilitate is just as easily superseded by the sorrow.
At her funeral I remember looking at a wreath , the card scribed with “you will always be our dancing queen” and it was the first time I was exposed to the realisation that other people felt the same too, they associated her with Abba.
Then two months ago I was driving home, listening to BBC Radio 2 and Ken Bruce was playing. I wasn’t really paying attention until he said
And here is the new one from Abba
The first bars opened and I felt overwhelmed.
I cried. I stopped the car and I cried. Abba had reformed and she would never get to hear them,
I didn’t examine the song for imperfections – because it was perfect. The voices that came from the radio was my sisters and mine, voices from round the corner a long time ago, in the bedroom, the kitchen – definitely in the car – on the dancefloor and ……….from that flipping tape!!!
Years before, I must have been about 17, she was nannying in London and another nanny friend moved back to NZ. She really missed her and the first Christmas she was gone my sister decided, for some reason -and I never really asked her why- that we should make a tape of us (notice how I was dragged into this ),singing abba to send to her. AS a gift. Bizarre.
At home I dug the tape out , but like the new album I couldn’t bring myself to listen to it all straight away. When I did I cried. Throughout most of the tracks. I chose carefully when I would listen to it as I knew it was something I would find hard. I don’t usually cry about her anymore. But I knew this would be something I would find sorrowful.
‘Listening is bittersweet, each song plays, strums upon the memories we share, except those memories are now only mine and with every year that passes, I find reminding myself of who we were back then more exacting. Until that is I play Voyage and then you are there in the moment because when I hear them , when I listen to the lyrics I hear your voice. Listening to I still have faith in you and don’t shut me down I hear myself in conversation with you now but not ever and in return, I hear your voice in reply. And it is your voice that I hear every time I play abba and perhaps it is the reason that I know I will only play the album a few times- because it is strangely echoic of conversations we will never have, a Christmas song you have never heard from a band that you never thought would get back together – even though you have never sang those songs, I hear your voice in single one of them . To me, when I hear Abba I hear you’.
So I play back our Abba Tape. It was an odd idea of yours to make a mix tape of songs in this format, however given life’s trajectory, I am glad that you did because actually it is the only recording of your voice we have. Other than ABBA of course.
I wonder if the person in New Zealand had the same thoughts about this reunion and she was prompted to dig out her cassette of the two strange pommies singing Abba, into a battered twin cassette player mike.
“I have learned to cope to love and hope
And although I may not have done everything right
I have done it in the best way I could at the time.
I still have faith in you” (Abba,2021).
For smallest, who has started school.
Ride the wave
Here we stand at the divide,
Lining up to receive
Like swarms of insects
in the distance,
A black cloud of Mums
Wringing hands on the edge
Of a playground
Waves of memories
Flicked back through sands
Then pulled under.
Its at times like these
Our substance shows itself,
Troubles ripple against
The threat of a north east offshore,
Then caught in a riptide,
What I am is suddenly all there
My love for you laid bare,
And as the moon
Pulls against the water within,
I turn and letting go
I pray every aid I have given you
let’s you float.
Below is an extract from a novel I am writing. It is only a tiny extract but any feedback would be greatly appeciated.
The guy came out the back, he was all breathy and enlarged, with pale eyes and blonde spikey hair. His torso looked uncomfortable and overstated on top of tiny legs. He introduced himself to the room and she thought it was a bit like youth club when the leader comes in and introduces them self to the group and tells them the rules. Vi sat looking at him and around the room at all the phone accessories. The guy sat down and put his feet up on the desk. The owner of the shop was on his phone and when he came off, her friend, who she had come with, well he started to chat to him and they got onto pills and billy. Vi was interested now but played the opposite game, looking down as she played with the belt on her satin ravers skirt. She listened to them earnestly, running her fingers over the hole made by the hot rock which had landed on her, on the way back from united dance. She drank the conversation which was leading to when they were going to get the billy. The blonde man intercepted then just as quickly the shop was lit up with the sound of children who had been brought in by an older woman. The children were his and she soon learned that there was another one but he was waiting to get custody. He needed to show he could care for the kid though and so he was looking for a childminder. You any good with kids he said looking at Vi, I go to college she said- and she does billy. There was laughter. You are the Billy freak then are you? The blonde guy asked. They all laughed and Vi smiled at her new title. It made her feel like she was known.
They were shutting up shop and so Vi stood up and waited for whatever it was she was waiting for that would lead her to the Billy. The blonde guy said he would give her a lift. The lift it turned out was going to his flat which was right at the other end of town. Vi had never been to the other end of town before, in her mind or person. It was as if she was gradually irking herself away from her end, where things were private and tidy, to this end which was public and messy. It stretched up a hill and across roads like trails in a warren which seemed to stretch in every direction. Roads she had never heard of except in conversations between people that she listened to, who had once lived there. Till the council had moved them to another road 5 minutes walk from that one. Though it felt endless, the drive took no more than 5 minutes from the shop in his mark two BMW, his kids sitting like undersized kings in the back. She sat in the front, in a chair sunk so low she swore she felt like the third child, her size giving credentials to her growing sense of being under the age for any of this type of activity. She looked out the passenger window as he moved swiftly through the warren of roads, turning abruptly at each junction, as she focused on the flats and the houses all looking the same, the same red brick, the same tile roofs, the same squares of grass area spotted here and there, the pockets of kids hanging out on the pavements and in between housing blocks. The cars deposited on driveways, the bikes leaning up against them, the plastic toy ride along cars left upside down in the grass before tea. It felt as if they drove right to the edge of the town, the very last road, where flats lined the streets sandwiched between 1960s two up two down council houses. A water tower stood at the centre of it all cordoned off by a wire fence. Beyond this you cold glimpse fields of wheat, rows of rows of dancing corn, it looked pretty. Life beyond the road looked pretty. He pulled up to the second block on the road. A four storey high block with 8 flats. The front door was in the middle and as they walked up to it, a woman came out dragging a buggy and a bag of washing.
You alright kids, alright Dal, she said,
Alright Trace Darren replied. Yeh im alright mate. Trace grinned at Vi. Alright, her voice went up an octave and Vi smiled not finding her own alright forthcoming.
Ya all right trace said the eldest kid.
Yeh, Sweetie, you alright., Trace’s voice trailed off as she carried on walking
Apparently, everyone was alright in this road where things felt less than alright. This was it though, where it had all brought her, right here to this place.
“Here I am, a walking primrose.…” Sarah Harding in Girls Aloud’ , The Promise.
Yesterday Sarah Harding, who I will always remember as the core member of Girls Aloud, died at the age of 39 of advanced stage breast cancer.
I spent my evening trawling the internet news, watching micro-videos of her life as a celebrity and listening to Girls Aloud on Spotify. It is very sad to hear she lost her battle.
Sarah did not have children and I am not going to claim to be a huge follower of Girls Aloud but I bought their Greatest Hits on CD and I still rate Biology as one of the greatest pop tunes ever. They were however, one of a few bands in the noughties which formed the backdrop to ‘middlest’ and ‘eldest’s’ early years. When I hear Love Machine or No Good Advice, it reminds me of crazy dancing in the living room with the kids. The sound of Biology, conjors images of tea in the morning after school drop off and Stand By Me triggers a memory of the community in which we lived.
The music just made it past the point where I would associate it with the chaos and aftermath of their father and had become established enough to avoid being linked with losing my sister. They held their own, never attaching to bad thought or feeling so I can listen to them freely – though of course now, listening will be bittersweet.
I am sad. Her passing is another reminder that death comes to us all, it’s not selective or considerate- it just is.
May your soul rest in peace, Sarah.