made my day

Wal said “Something a bit more upbeat ? 

I think the last few have been a bit ..”  and I could hear his face. I said  “I don’t think so, they just didn’t appeal to you” knowing that Wal is not a writer and is an erratic reader (money and Irene Nemirovsky’s best novel).  Upbeat in a week when people are stabbed in the street and rally to riot with the help of the gutless Tommy Robinson and accursed social media ?  Tall order.

Last Thursday I went to see new work by Ilona Szalay (father Hungarian, mother Canadian) which were painted on glass .  I had to look up its long and interesting history.  And I’d cheerfully have robbed a bank for a trilogy called Landscape 1, 2 and 3.   The weather was stifling, the gallery a long rectangle so I didn’t stay long. Out in the street wasn’t any cooler, shopping crowds, tourists, gawpers so I raised an arm (trained to summon attention in NYC  ie do it like you mean it) . 

The taxi seemed to be coming, the driver said something as he went past and I thought he’d gone. 

Over the heads of the crowd a tall young black man called “ Miss !   Miss !  He’s waiting for you round the corner”   I pointed at myself – me ?  “Yes, Miss, yes “ and he pointed.   “Thank you” I said in my big voice “Thank you…”   I was beaten to the cab by a woman with 42 carrier bags so maybe she needed it more.  It was the “Miss” I loved.

Friday I lunched with an old friend the warmth of whose embrace lingers.  And she is younger and happier being blonde – strokes and folks, an object lesson.  Thank you Phoebe.

On Monday Elsie, Bebe and Alice went to glory at the hands of a teenager who stabbed them and anybody else that came his way. Stabbing (I was told by a man who was) is extremely painful and it is going to be very ugly to hear the background of that story. 

Losing a child to  violence is an unbearable thought, an even more demanding reality. 

The vigil in Southport was pushed aside with stones and bottles and violence by people who, for the most part, only know the town because they could read a map.   Pity they don’t to do maps for hell.  And Southport, like Sunderland, came out and cleaned up afterwards – those people’s comments remain largely untold – up to and including the man who bought pizza for a work crew – “It’s what I could do.”

Somewhere in there I managed to wash and dry the loose cover, ticking courtesy of Ian Mankin, whose name I looked up online and from whom, through the charming offices of his studio manager, I bought a reduced recycled cotton spread in colours I love (graphite and ochre).  

And a young woman I’ve spoken to before on the bus, swept me up with her mother and her child, to sit and have coffee

in a pretty busy street in what’s left of the ambiance that used to be Chelsea.  Her husband is in the IDF, the family are South African.  I never do this, I make better coffee cheaper – so this was a real treat for me.  

And I wandered off, to be hugged by Jen who has had health problems ever since Covid, and buy an ankle support (do laugh, knee support right leg, ankle support left leg.  Going to pot – as in poor old thing.)

And I tired – so, stiff upper lip nowhere in sight, I went for the bus where some 20 people  milled about, queues being a thing of the past.  Standing surrounded by them all was a very large very tall man, 6 feet 4 inches square, tee shirt and shorts like bell tents who, when the bus arrived and without a word stretched out his hand to me. I looked at him for a second and gave him my hand.  The people broke round him like water round a rock as he moved me in front of them, supported my right elbow so I could mount saying quietly “Here you go !”  To which I replied over my right shoulder, and into his face “Age before beauty, right ?” And was rewarded by the sweetest smile.