No one Sings Like You Anymore: Goodbye David

When I look back on my life so far, and think about the most fun times I've had in it, David was usually there. We met half a lifetime ago, working at UCI cinema in Sutton, during my university years. He was one of the first people I clicked with there, someone who shared my twisted sense of humour and quirky outlook. I remember one of our first conversations, in the staff minibus home one night after a late shift, when he said I had "hypnotic eyes". It didn't feel like a chat up line, though. Dave was just like that - he said what was on his mind and gave compliments without agenda. I can't remember what I said in return, but from then on we bonded and quickly became firm friends, usually to be found loitering outside the cinema screens bantering, while trying to avoid watching The Nutty Professor for the umpteenth time. We spent a lot of time together outside of work, too. He would come over to my student digs, and we'd go down to the local video store to rent a movie, or just drink a few beers and talk nonsense into the wee small hours. 

My 24th birthday party

I finished uni and left London, eventually ending up settling in Brighton for a while. I lost touch with all my university friends, but the cinema crowd stuck. David loved it down by the sea, and came to visit whenever he could, especially if there was a party in the offing, which there very often was. Mostly fancy dress occasions in those days, and though Dave rarely got organised with a costume, he was wonderfully game for letting himself be dressed up as whatever I could rustle up for him at short notice. Some of the classics included Shirley Bassey, The Wicker Man, Baron Samedi and Jimi Hendrix.  He embraced these eccentric glow-ups and he loved every minute of it. They were the best of times, with the best of people and he was always at the heart of it.

Eastbourne, late 90s

Although Dave was irreverent in his humour, he could be extremely sincere and open with his feelings towards those he loved. He had a big heart which he shared generously and widely, and was well loved in return by a wide circle of friends from different areas of his life. In recent years our texts were positively soppy, and I loved that. I can only remember one serious falling out between us over the years, a bust-up at a party which was no doubt skewed by intoxication. But we quickly made up a day or so later after some heartfelt emails back and forth. It felt too hard to do anything else. 

Brighton, early noughties

I regret that Dave and I hadn't spent any time together in recent years, since the parties stopped and my life in Eastbourne became consumed by two kids and the daily drudgery of middle age. Our lives became out of step somewhat. But we kept in touch and the fondness between us never cooled. We had made plans to get together this year, after a few abortive attempts to meet during the pandemic, and had discussed going to a comicon together (as long as I came up with his costume, of course). How sad that we now never will. 

Greatest Hits Party, 2008

The news of David's sudden and unexpected death has utterly capsized me. The thought that I could never again have a Dave hug, or share a stupid joke that only he would appreciate; that he won't get to grow old and disgraceful with the rest of us, it feels so painfully unfair. The grief has left a hollowness, like a little part of me has gone with him - the shadowy former self that I carried around in the years since we stopped hanging out all the time, of a carefree girl with a twinkle in her eye, finding a kindred spirit and holding onto that feeling inside, waiting for it to reignite. But it won't, because he's gone. And so has the girl. Perhaps she's out there somewhere with him, laughing til it hurts and watching the sunrise together in the great unknown. Yet here I am still walking and talking and acting like a fully functional human. They can't see it - the empty space - but it's there, filled only with yearning for the conversations we'll never have in a felled future that might have been.

David, without you I am less than me. I will never stop loving and missing you, or the person I was when I was with you.

"In my shoes

Walking sleep

In my youth, I pray to keep

Heaven send

Hell away

No one sings like you anymore"

(Black Hole Sun, Soundgarden)

Ode to Poppet

Poppet came into our lives five years ago when we liberated her from the Raystede animal rescue centre near Ringmer. Out of all the beautiful and charming cats needing new homes at that place, I was drawn to her intense one-eyed stare which seemed to say "take me away from this place and I will reward you with love". She came as a pair with Marcel, who, it soon transpired, was her nemesis rather than her companion; they were a classic double act in the Tom and Jerry sense. She would chase him down and beat him up daily, but I do think he eventually came it enjoy it and would even occasionally venture a retaliation. 

When we first arrived back at our flat with the two furry beasts, Poppet strutted straight in and staked her claim on the place, while poor timid Marcel hid under the bed and various other bits of furniture for two weeks before being gradually coaxed out. A creature of many moods, Poppet was by turns the most affectionate, spirited, cross and characterful cat I have ever known. She'd sit on you and purr for an entire evening and be most put out if you needed to get up - and heaven help anyone who tried to move her when she didn't want to be moved; the memory of that rage-fuelled "leave me alone" hiss still sends shivers down my spine. Her voluminous ginger fur seemed to change colour with her temperament and could be anything from deep amber to bright strawberry blonde. She was magnificently beautiful, and she knew it.

At the risk of sounding like a mad cat lady (and honestly, I don't care if I do), I have loved my mogs as if they were my children. When you get to my age and have yet to breed, your maternal instincts have to transfer somewhere - and I am not ashamed to admit that mine have been poured wholeheartedly into the two dear creatures with whom I have shared my home, my bed, my heart these past few years. They have been my constant companions, providing warmth, comfort and entertainment throughout happy times and bad. Poppet in particular would always be waiting behind the door for me when I got back from work, looking up with that "where do you think you've been?" glare, demanding attention - which I was only too happy to give.

When a lump on Poppet's neck was diagnosed as an inoperable tumour a few weeks ago, I was devastated. At first she soldiered on as normal, but gradually the growth in her mouth made it more difficult to eat, and last weekend we had to make that most awful decision to have her put to sleep. I have lost many family pets over the years, but this was the first time I'd been responsible for making that choice and to have been present while it was carried out. I held her in my arms as she slipped away, felt her heartbeat fading under my fingers and her so familiar body go limp; It was the saddest, hardest, most heartbreakingly harrowing thing I have ever done.

Losing Poppet has left a massive hole in my life, but I have no regrets about bringing her into it. She gave back as much, if not more, than I put in and though I'll never get to stroke her soft fluffy coat or watch her chase an excited Marcel down the garden ever again, I know she'll always be around. Thank you, darling Poppet, for all that you were and are to me.

Remembering Paula

It hardly seems possible that ten whole years have passed since my dear childhood friend Paula lost her fight with cancer, just months after giving birth to miracle baby, David. Today is the 10th anniversary of her death, and I have been honouring her memory in my own way - thinking about times we shared, playing music we liked and talking to other people who knew and loved her. Last night, reading my sad diary entries from that terrible time in 1999, all the grief and heartache came flooding back. Even up to the very end, she was such a forceful presence; sometimes I still can't really believe that she's gone.

Today I have been trying to focus on happy memories, as I know she would have wanted. Some of my fondest childhood recollections are of being with Paula and Natalie - at Guides and in St Philip's church choir together, running around playing games of (and swooning over) Robin Hood (Michael Praed* era of course), making up stupid stories, giggling in the cinema and generally perpetuating The Madness. One time I particularly remember was when Paula and I camped out in her back garden and were terrified by rustling noises outside the tent in the middle of the night. Taking various kitchen implements as weapons for self defence on the second night, we later disovered that our tormentors were nothing more than a couple of inquisitive hedgehogs. It became a longstanding joke between us ever after.

In what was otherwise a retrospective and somewhat melancholy day, I was delighted to receive from baby David's father some recent photos of his and Paula's now strapping 10 year old boy this evening. Seeing her unique spark twinkling on in his eyes brings immense comfort - she would have been so proud to have seen how wonderfully her little boy turned out, against all the odds.

*The copy on this website is genius

A Fond Farewell: Hettie Miller, RIP

Growing up is something I've mostly been trying to defer, but sometimes life just catches you by surprise and suddenly it can't be helped. Last week was one of those times, when we said goodbye to Ant's beloved Grandmother Hettie, aka Gaggy, who passed away peacefully at the ripe old age of 95. Having lost the last of my own grandparents some years ago, I'd adopted Ant's Gran (the last of his) as my own and had grown to love her as such over the last decade. The presence of grandparents always made childhood feel somehow more accessible, and the acceptance of adulthood now seems increasingly inevitable without them.

Final farewells are never easy, but unlike so many of the funerals I've been to - which mourned young lives cut short - Hettie's was a celebration of a full life well-lived. Of course it was still a sad occasion, but our tears were purely selfish; we felt sad because we'll miss her, not because her death was unfair. In this case, death came as a welcome relief from a life that had quite simply run out of steam. A mercifully short decline had given way to the kind of dignified departure to which most of us would aspire: surrounded by loved ones at home, ready and willing to go.

I'll always remember Gaggy as a gentle and inspiringly stoical lady, holding court at family occasions and never missing an opportunity to offer a wry opinion or crack a witty quip. Truly the grand matriarch, she was eternally proud and supportive of her three kids, eight grandchildren, and three great-grandchildren. I was touched to witness two of my contemporary in-laws, both expecting in June, comparing bumps at the wake afterwards. Soon there will be another two little lives added to Hettie's generous legacy: one generation making way for the next as the circle of life continues. Dauntingly, this also means that our parents are now the oldest generation and we have moved up one branch on the family tree ourselves. It certainly feels like the end of an era, but quite what the new one holds in store, I have yet to determine.

Snapshot of a Weekend

Seven o'clock Sunday night: We're huddled in the lounge - the only warm room in the house - fire blazing away. It seemed sensible to switch off our central heating earlier when the boiler started rattling like there was a malicious pixie in cloggs lurking inside. We've been putting off getting the thing replaced for months, knowing it was on its last legs, but reluctant to stomach the cost and inconvenience of having a new one fitted.

Freakzone is on the radio as I move from place to place around the room, trying to pick up a weak wireless signal. Another domestic job we have failed to accomplish lately is the installation of our own wi-fi router, and while my new MacBook Air(I know, far too cool for me) is both stylish and practical, its sleek design leaves no space for an ethernet socket, so this is the only way to get online at home for now.

I realise it has been nearly a week since I last blogged (apart from for work), but then I have had little of interest to report. It is my general policy not to blog about work (apart from occasional anecdotes about office Christmas parties), and working is pretty much all I have been doing for the last couple of weeks. Not that I'm complaining; I've been in my element learning all sorts of geekery for the new job, and it's fun in it's own way, but I do need to let my hair down once in a while.

A girls' night was on the cards for Friday, followed by a dinner party at ours on Saturday (all work and no play makes Ro a grumpy girl), until I was struck down with the lurgy and had to cancel my playtime plans. I haven't been out properly (house parties don't count) since my birthday bonanza back in September, and am just itching for some dancefloor action. Cue major sulk on my part.

So instead I spent Friday night at home and most of Saturday curled up on the sofa watching DVDs. Today we did venture out briefly - for Sunday lunch at the Juggs and a wander round the Antique shops of Lewes. We bought a new bookcase for the bedroom from the Flea market, and were very nearly tempted by a 1950s Danish teak table nest that we didn't need, but really really liked.

7.54: Ant has stopped reading The Rough Guide to Germanyand is now shooting Germans on his laptop(I'm hoping there isn't a direct link between the two activities). Freakzone is nearly over, reaching its usual climax of weirdness right before the end. Leftover curry and a final Wallanderepisode await; gosh we're so rock 'n roll. As if to purposefully compound my party yearnings, 'Rhythm Is a Dancer' kicks off Dave Pearce's Dance Anthems show. Memories of Kerry and me larging it at the end of the pier circa 1992 come flooding back. Sigh.

8.13: Time to microwave that massala and find out what mysteries are in store for the brooding Swedish detectivethis time.

*******

11.00: I'm brushing my teeth, listening to the news on Radio 2. Tony Hart has died. The sound of his voice and the music from 'Take Hart' - so warmly evocative of my childhood - bring tears to my eyes. I break the news to Ant as I get into bed and we spend a good 20 minutes reminiscing about the man who gave us 'The Gallery' and Morph, and made us all believe in our own creative potential. Ant remembers most fondly the string of art school assistants who appeared with Hart - invariably willowy young ladies with floaty hair, a different one for each series. I remark on the hitherto overlooked similarity between Tony Hart and Doctor Who...

One of my art teachers at Ratton, Mr Rowe, claimed to have been a college contemporary of Hart's - certainly both men shared a sweet gentlemanly demeanor and charmingly non-ironic love of cravats that sprung from a bygone era. Strangely, Ant was given a 'Make Your Own Morph'set for Christmas; he resolves to do so at the next available opportunity. I switch off the light; the weekend is ended.

Further reading
Tony Hart's Obituary in the Guardian
Official Tony Hart Website
Twitter Tributes to Tony Hart

This One's for You, Dear Craig

After a stupidly prolonged absence, I finally made my grand return to the stage last night. I had been putting it off for one reason or another (studying, working, commuting etc) and it took a little push from a friend to get me back in the saddle, so to speak. I was performing at the Hailsham Pavilion as part of a charity concert organised by the gorgeous (and talented) Natalie, in memory of her dad and our mutual friend Craig, both of whom died before their time. As I was standing in the wings, waiting to give my all in their honour, I thought back to the first time I met Craig, when we were cast opposite one another as the lead roles in The Pajama Game, back in 1993. We hit it off straight away, sharing a mutually mischevious sense of humour that made rehearsals a scream, and were soon firm friends. It was a joy to perform alongside him in that show, and the others that followed. I'd always hoped we'd get to do a turn together again one day, but it wasn't to be, as Craig died of brain cancer in 2005, aged just 30.

It was an emotional and heartfelt occasion for so many reasons. All of the adult performers had either been in shows with, or were friends of, Craig and/or David (Nat's dad), and the audience included lots of old friends and family of both men. It was also the first time my mum and I had been on stage together since we did Annie about 25 years ago! She was compering the show, and a did a grand job, without the aid of a microphone. I was slightly perturbed at having to use a hand-held mic, something I've never done before. I don't think I really needed it in such a little venue, but our sound man wanted to make sure all the singers were level. My first appearance was a duet ('For Good' from Wicked) with Natalie, which closed the first half. In the second half I had my solo spot, singing 'Hymne a l'Amour' (in English), originally recorded by Edith Piaf. This was especially emotional, as it followed straight on from a very moving performance from 10 year old Gus, singing an original composition written in memory of Craig by his ex-boyfriend, Michael England.

Me singing 'Hymne a L'Amour' (filmed by Ant from row G)

For the finale, everyone piled on stage to sing 'Seasons of Love' from Rent - not one of my favourite musicals, but Craig loved it, so we gave it our all for him and the sentiment rang true. Belting out a ridiculously high note at the end, I looked skywards and devoted it to my dear friend - gone but never forgotten. After the show, cast members and their respective entourages piled into the pub opposite for a much-needed drink and hug-fest, congratulating Natalie on a job well done. There was also much discussion of what my next theatrical venture might be, now that I've been re-initiated. The trouble is, no one seems to be doing any shows that I fancy being in, and I'm also scared of turning up to a new society and braving the inevitable cliques. I guess I'll just have to put on my own production, casting all my friends and giving myself the juiciest part of course! Watch this space for further ponderings on this subject...

Morbid Preoccupation

For someone of my age (32) , I've been to a lot of funerals. Going on twenty at the last count in fact. Of course a couple of these were for elderly relatives, who had lived full and happy lives to a ripe old age; but an upsetting proportion were for friends whose time was cut short prematurely. Some were close contemporaries who I still think about a lot - what they might be up to now if the big 'C' hadn't raised its ugly head. When I remember their funerals though, I think how blessed they were to have been so well-loved and respected during their lives, and what a shame it was that they couldn't have been there to witness the standing-room-only theatrical affairs in which they were despatched from this world.

There's nothing more depressing than a quiet funeral, and I have been to a couple of those too. We'd all like to hope, I'm sure, for a full-house, a rousing chorus or two (it helps to be part of the am-dram community to ensure this), and a passionately delivered eulogy with a few affectionately humorous anecdotes. I'll never forget the shocked faces of some of the more respectable attendees at my own grandmother's funeral, when the vicar (also a family friend) recounted the time he shared a spliff with her in my mum's back garden. I'm sure Granny would have been amused, though. And of course, everyone knows the famously scathing memorial speech in which John Cleese proclaimed "Good riddance to him, the freeloading bastard! I hope he fries" of his friend and fellow Python, Graham Chapman. This level of sarcasm wouldn't be welcome or appropriate for everyone, but personally I would be more than happy to think of someone getting a laugh at my expense as part of the proceedings.

Being both a consummate party-thrower and self-confessed control freak, I struggle with the idea of someone else organising my funeral, and actually give a worrying amount of thought to what instructions I will leave to ensure a suitably dramatic send-off. My friend Neel (incidentally listed in the Brighton Cheeky Guide as a local eccentric) was so concerned about missing his own funeral, that he decided to throw one while he was still alive to arrange and appreciate it. Some might think this a rather sick idea, but I can understand where he was coming from. I'm obviously hoping that own my plans won't be needed for some years to come, but I do already know exactly what music will be played at which parts of the ceremony, and what pictures will be shown on the tear-jerking slideshow, to be played during the cremation. I even made a friend promise recently (sorry Tim) that he will lead a chorus of 'Ding Dong the Witch is Dead' should I die before him. But this is the only detail I'm giving away, as the rest, of course, should be a surprise.

Top left: Craig Rees (with me, in The Pajama Game), RIP 2005
Bottom right: Paula Dollar, RIP 1999

Also fondly remembered: Angie Whimpenny, Michael Carpenter, Barbara Woodcock, Hilda Stanfield, Pauline Sands, Ron & Gill Wickins, Marc Meader, Geoff Fuggle, David & Pam Williams, Paul Shingler, Jean Coleman, David Harmer, and not forgetting all the creatures.

Where did that month go?

It's been a month since my last post, and though I have nothing much of interest to write about, I feel I must scrape together some sort of offering. Although I'm not a Catholic, and have never been to confession, I'm sure it's a similar thing - the need to purge one's subconsious and discharge those random thoughts which clog up the brainwaves. There'll be no disclosing of transgressions here, though...

The last month has been fairly devoid of cultural exploits about which to write, and the social calendar has been somewhat slow as well. What I've been busy doing is changing jobs... after 18 months in Chichester I decided it was time for a change and found myself a cushy gig much nearer home, in Lewes. The plan was to cycle in - to save money and get fit at the same time, but since I don't have a working bike, I've been getting the bus so far. I've discovered that Brighton buses are actually fairly reliable, even sometimes, rather annoyingly, arriving EARLY! My past experiences of using buses regularly were mainly in London when they lived up to that classic reputation of none coming for ages and then three turning up at once. Well, the job is cool, the people are lovely, and it's great being back in good-old Lewes. I've even got a bus buddy in the shape of my friend Tim, who also commutes to Lewes, to work at County Hall. We're having lunch today, and all feels right in the world.

Other stuff that's happened in the last month includes a visit from my Kiwi cousins, which involved a cheesy Brighton day - down the pier, fish & chips, swimming in the sea, buying souvenir Brighton Rock, and shopping in the Lanes. My best friend from school, Kerry, has also been over from Oz, where she now lives, but I only got to see her for one night, as it was a flying, and tightly scheduled, trip. We've had a houseful this week, with two lodgers - a bassonist from Glyndebourne and the lovely Brian, who will be staying for a few weeks before he goes of to do his PGCE in Exeter. He joined us for our regular pub quiz last night, at which we did shamefully - joint 4th - shocking! I put it down to Jo not being there, and the fact that the guest round was sport. Still, it was a fun evening, with much inter-team banter, and a spontaneous chanting of "HE SAID YACK, HE SAID YACK...!" in response to one team member's indignant remark of "I said Yack and none of you believed me". Genius.

The month has not been without its upsets - Mum lost her little Yorkie dog, Zoe, who originally belonged to Granny. I'm not usually a fan of little yappy dogs, but Zoe was real character, and her kooky personality certainly outshone her diminutive physical presence. After hosting a veritable menagerie of pets not so long ago, Mum's now left with just one cat (Go-Tabs) and one dog (Pascha). Then more sad news came yesterday from Ant's Mum that their old and very dear family cat, Dandelion, had died. We took a moment to honour her memory, and I shall do so again here. She was once a very timid, usually invisible, cat, but in recent years had mellowed into a different creature entirely. Last Christmas I took on the job of visiting her regularly in the attic rooms (see above picture), where she was confined because of Eddy and Alison's dog Papi being around. She was pathetically pleased to see me, and covered me in her soft tortoisehell fur, purring and dribbling with affection. I shall miss seeing her when we head North, dear old Dandelion.

A death in the family

We've just received some very sad news. Ant's Uncle Paul died this evening, after a long battle with cancer. Although it wasn't sudden, in that we'd known it was inevitable eventually, in the end it was a sharp decline which has come as something of a shock. Paul and Auntie Judith were a devoted couple, full of a passion for life and a sense of adventure, even when faced with the trials and traumas of Paul's ongoing cancer treatment and other problems such as his increasing loss of sight (unrelated to the cancer, but untreatable because of it).

I am so glad that we made the decision to spend last Christmas up north, which included a big Miller/Shingler family gathering in Ambleside on boxing day, hosted by Paul and Judith. It was an altogether uplifting and life-affirming occaision, punctuated by music, games, laughter, affection and a prevailing sense of fun. Memories like this give one something happy to hold onto in the grave, cruel wasteland that is grieving.

I shan't indulge in a long, cliched rant about the nature of death and grief, although it's tempting. There is nothing I can say to make it seem any better or worse than it is. It is a horrible, tragic and painful thing and unlike other life experiences, it doesn't get any easier the more it happens. Quite the reverse in fact.