Remembering Michael.

I had been to this building once before. One day last summer and seeking brief respite from another fearsomely oppressive blue day, I found myself passing under its imposing archway and walking alone through its cool stone halls. I explored its aisles, its nooks and its crannies; photographed its stained glass, its intricate carvings and I left feeling refreshed, revived. I stepped out of the dimly diffused light and contemplative air, re-entered a day which seemed to shine brighter now. Before there had been nothing but slumbering moist heat, but now there was an edge to the sun and a sharpness to the day. It spoke in a whisper, imploring you to seize it, embrace it, live it; to not be content with merely letting it pass

Today I am back in this building but this time I am not alone. Now there are hundreds sitting beside me, behind me, ahead of me. Some talk, some are silent but the building remains as I remember. The stone is still cool and the air still contemplative, another fierce day of light held in obeyance behind thick shields of stained glass. We sit in our rows in patient silence, wait for the service to begin and for the lines of his life, his protracted death to finally come together; to finally reach one concluding point.

He had been living in the UK for the last seven years, working as a teacher and hoping to one day be discovered as an actor. He was deliciously and stereotypically gay; sinfully skinny, stylishly attired and as camp as a row of tents. His facial expressions, his gestures and speech; all were overblown, melodramatic and it was no surprise that London had made him feel more welcome than this blue collar swathe of Australia to which he now returned one final time. I had only ever known the London version, introduced to him for the first time in 2003 as the new amour of an old friend from back home. He had shook my hand and smiled at me, told me that I was cute and that her and I made a beautiful couple. I liked him immediately.

Today the service begins and his life is unraveled for one final inspection. People who were closest to him take it in turns to rise from their seats, walk forward to his coffin and turn to face us. They tell us their tales from his time in their lives. They speak of moments I was not part of, emphasise qualities I was only fleetingly aware of and we sit, listen, remember. Some heads buried deep in thoughts, some held in hands and some obscured by handkerchiefs. Everybody has a piece of his history and everbody has their memories of him.

My memories are from a time five years ago, housed in the final months of a life I had lived on the other side of the world. His old friend from back home had recently become my wife and soon afterward she had left London and returned to Australia, unable to endure being separated from her son any longer. Our marriage was conducted by email; by telephone calls and letters - and some days were a struggle during these months. Life was on hold and I was listening to the music, waiting for an answer on my residency visa. How long it would take, nobody could say. What that answer would be, nobody could say. I was treading water, doing my best to keep my head dry and some days were better than others. Some days were harder than others and when I was struggling; when I felt the waves rise and threaten to overwhelm, he was one of my three anchor points. He was one of three people from her past who existed in my present - one of three people I could talk to who knew her, knew us. Knowing him had helped me through those times, speaking to him had helped me through those times. His support had helped and he had helped. Before, back then, no longer. In the past now - the tense appropriate for a life now passed.

It had happened on a Tasmanian road on December 3rd. In a car and travelling with his mother, they collided with a truck and were reduced to wreckage. His mother survived the crash but he did not. They are both here today, both at the front. His coffin is carried past us at the end of the service and it looks small, too small. His mother follows behind, her face a mask which cannot hide the truth; that no parent should be asked to bury their child.

Today the final song plays as the cathedral begins to empty; a haunting Irish ballad which fills the air as we file slowly towards the archway, out to the wide open grass outside. For all but one of us, life stretches ahead of this moment. How long it continues, how far past the horizon it will stretch is something only time will reveal. Seize it, embrace it. Live it. Do not be content with merely letting it pass.

Opening the cupboard.

It was the German writer Johann Wolfgang von Goethe who said 'enjoy when you can, and endure when you must'. I often find myself nodding sagely at his sentiment, because this blogging lark is a mixed bag at times. Granted, there have been days where inspiration has flown freely and where this is a great ride - but there have also been days where endurance has been called into play; where inspiration has slowed to a trickle and I have needed to dig deep to find even a trickle. Sometimes my blogging bucket is positively full and overflowing - but then there are other days where inspiration is fleeting; where finding a decent topic is like panning for specks of gold in a fast flowing river.

This seems to be the way of the e-world; a constant ebb and flow of ideas and inspiration to adapt to, work around. Not today though - today is a rare exception to the rule. Today is a no-brainer and involves neither inspiration or perspiration, because today is all about acknowledging and forwarding. Today is the day after Saturday and before Monday - and there's only one kind of posting I ever write on the day between Saturday and Monday. So, my fellow internet personas, welcome once again to Awards Sunday.

What do you mean it clashes with Superbowl Sunday? Don't worry - we were here first and I'm sure they'll be happy to move it to Tuesday once they realise the double booking.

So yes, my friends. Today - if just for this one day - let us flip Johann Wolfgang the bird and instead open our hearts and spirits to the soaring words of his little known brother Johann Koolandthegang. Let us celebrate good times - let us even 'come on' if we feel sufficiently enthused. Join with me, my fellow virtual personas. Take my imaginary e-hands and let us form an imaginary circle of trust, of kinship. Let us don our imaginary glad rags, pass around an award or two, maybe even open a bag of Twiglets if we start to get a vibe going and feel like getting down with our bad selves.

Three items on the agenda. Firstly, thank you very much to Nancy - she of the black-wearin' and blog of notin' fame - for inferring that I was an alright follower and offering such a pretty award by way of a bonus.



This award came with a tag condition. What I'm meant to do is answer 31 questions, then add one to the list and forward the award and the tag together. Thirty one seems like rather a lot, so what I've done is select ten from Nancy's list which will hopefully placate her and enlighten the rest of you.

1. What are you wearing today?
Shorts and a tee.
2. What are you listening to right now?
The dishwasher finish its cycle - and a weekly podcast I follow from the UK
3. What's for dinner?
Oh, we're going healthy tonight. Brown rice and roasted vegetables.
4. What's the last thing you bought?
My father's birthday card.
5. What is your dream job?
It used to be to be a football journalist. These days, probably something to do with psychology or counselling. Or writing, of course.
6. What are you going to do after this?
I am walking up to the supermarket in the rain to get some supplies and try to cool down!
7. What are your favourite movies?
Amongst others..... Goodfellas, Godfather 1 & 2, The Lives Of Others, Kadosh, Platoon, Dune.
8. What do you do when feeling low or terribly depressed?
If I'm feeling low, I try to get home. It's always better at home. As for terribly depressed, I'm lucky - can't remember how that feels.
9. Favourite dessert/sweet?
There's something wrong if I don't order the lemon tart.
10. A word that you say a lot.
Fuck. I know, you'd never have guessed, right? That noise you can hear is my mother disowning me.

This particular award has done the rounds recently, so a lot of people I could have passed it to have already received it. This made my decision to send it on to brand new faces much easier - so I did! I have picked three relatively new finds who I enjoy visiting and whose names also regularly appear in my own comments. In no particular order, thank you to Miss Overthinker, Tracie and Veronica. If you want to do the tag, all good - but regardless of that, please accept this bauble with my gratitude.

Seeing as I'm doing requests right now, JenJen asked for 5 things which made me happy. Seeing as you asked so politely, Jen......

1. Manchester United losing.
2. Football in general.
3. Music.
4. My family.
5. Looking out of an aeroplane window and seeing Melbourne as we begin our descent to land.

Time to bring this show to a close. I have saved the sweetest award for last, which was very kindly donated by Kristen over at Wanderlust. If you like cupcakes, friends and boats at anchor as the sun sets, this award is right up your alley.



The condition is that you list ten things which make you happy. How about you take the five from above, add the five below and we'll call it quits?

6. Espresso coffee.
7. Watching my stepson grow up.
8. Dogs. My own, my in-law's dog, my friend's dog - just about any dog, really.
9. Finishing a posting, pressing send and thinking yeah, that's what I was aiming for.
10.Living a life right next to the ocean.

The rules say I should hand this award on to ten people. The problem is I had already decided to pass it to three only, long before I read the rules. If I backtrack now, you will just think me weak and easily swayed - and that cannot be allowed to come to pass. Therefore please put your hands together and join me in counting to

1. Deidre at Decoybetty
2. Foxy over at the fox den
3. Kitty at Kitty Tells It As It Is

Feel free to eat this award, sail away in it, do something with it or nothing with it. Similarly, feel free to tell the world ten things that make you feel good about life. Or not. Whatever floats your boat.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, concludes Awards Sunday. Thank you for your company. Now, if someone would be kind enough to see if those guys in helmets and padding are still hanging around? After all we may as well offer them the rest of the day for this 'Superbowl' thing of theirs......

Distillation 1 : First Date.

Arrives eventually. Sorry I'm late - spent last night on a boat and by the way, not had a chance to wash, but got heaps of deodorant so should smell okay. Respond with a joke about numb arse from sitting on stone steps for this long, add cheesy smile for emphasis. Smiles back at me. Nice smile, nice face. Nice everything so far. Hope she likes me. Breakfast in this part of the city? On a Sunday? Tough call in this area and anyway, isn't it technically elevenses by now? House of Lords grounds will have to do. No thanks, you can keep your juice and yoghurt coated biscuit. I'm okay with my Marlboro for now. Not really a breakfast man, let alone an elevenses man. Back to the plan and back to The Tate. In we go. Pop Art here, Op Art there. Is there a difference? Apparently so if you know about art. Silly me. Gets up right close to the pictures, gets her face right into them and sees stuff I don't for much longer than I would. Memo to self: probably unwise to refer to them as squiggle pictures. Handy places for first dates, these galleries - plenty of opportunities to check someone out from behind as they look at the paintings. Talking easily now, nerves long gone. A smile here, a smile there. Still nice smile. Still nice everything so far. Hope she likes me.

Cheers Tate, thanks for the memories. Deep down into the bowels of the city. On the Victoria, off the Piccadilly, up the escalator and it's hello sunshine and hello Leicester Square. Drink or two? Sounds good. Text your brother? Wouldn't want him worrying. Lunch? Little hand's on the three but sure - if breakfast can be elevenses then we can just call lunch threeses and be done with it. Morroccan chicken for the lady please. I'll have something that makes me look cosmopolitan and worldly rather than the cheese and bacon burger I really want to order. Hope she's worth the sacrifice. Hope she likes me. Mustn't talk with food in mouth. Munch, sip, converse. Munch, sip, converse. Plate emptied. Place knife and fork together and relax. Split the bill in half? Oh alright then.

Trafalgar Square? Five minutes tops – cross a few roads and you're there. Just got to wait for the little green man and outofinterestwouldyoucallyourselfatactileperson? That's code for can I hold your hand in case you wondered. Okay, just so we’re clear was that technically a shriek or a laugh - and what sort of an answer is what do you think? Seeing as you're putting me on the spot, I'd say maybe you are a tactile person? Great - hand please. What? Oh - yes the green man means we should walk. Thanks for the reminder - got kind of distracted for a second or two there. So anyway, here we are. Fountains and a big lion statue and still a fair few pigeons but nowhere near as many as there used to be and...... yes - seeing as you asked, I would like to kiss you now, yes. Not that hand holding wasn't good but this kissing thing sounds good too, maybe even better than hand holding. Very better as it turns out. Drawing a few glances from passers-by now and this must be how it feels to be an Italian tourist. Does this count as one long kiss or several in quick succession? Probably doesn't matter really. Pretty certain she likes me.

A trio of losses. 3 : 1982 into 2009.

He was driving in the Paris to Dakar rally when he disappeared into thin air. Somewhere near the border between Mali and Algeria his tyre tracks evaporated and for six days he was absolutely nowhere. The media reported his mother to be 'extremely distressed' and my brother and I joined the significant majority in lapping it up and laughing like drains.

I was ten and my brother was two months removed from turning eight - and like so many people in Thatcher's Britain in 1982, all we could see was the comedic value in this story. Maggie's son couldn't even follow a map. Maggie's son was as stupid and useless as Maggie was. Maggie's son was probably dead and it served Maggie right because Maggie was horrible - because everything that was wrong with Britain was Maggie's fault at this time in the early eighties. Now she was being punished for her sins, being force-fed her just desserts and it seemed appropriate. It was perfect; the bloodthirsty and vengeful example of karma that the climate both inspired and demanded back in 1982.

My mother endured our tasteless jibes and bad jokes for two days before she lost her patience and then her temper. She called us in to the lounge room, sat us down on our velvet sofa and gave us a resounding telling off. Whatever our opinions were about Maggie as Prime Minister, we were just acting like nasty little boys who were obviously too young and immature to see the truth, she said. The truth, she went on to explain, was that Maggie was not the Prime Minister in this particular scenario. Her job was irrelevant and all that mattered, all we needed to remember was that Maggie was a human being; just a mum who loved her son and was worried sick about him right now. It was no different to the pain and worry she would feel if one of us were lost in the desert, our mother concluded.

I was still a well behaved and studious boy at this time in my life. It mattered not that that I felt my mother had overreacted and was being unfair in curtailing our fun - she was still my mother and her words still carried weight back in 1982. I listened to her, did what I was told and I apologised, promised to behave better in the future before scuttling away shamefacedly. I accepted her viewpoint but what I failed to do back then in 1982 was understand her viewpoint. That understanding did not arrive for some time - specifically some twenty seven years later, one summer evening in 2009.

Twenty seven years later and Thatcher's Britain is long gone, replaced for me by a life in Rudd's Australia. I am older, taller and wiser these days; finally settled, calm and content after years of confusion and upheaval. I have finally found my place in this world - yet this day is the exception to the rule. Today I feel displaced, panicked - for today I am late picking him up from his cricket practice and I arrive to find the oval empty. Today I arrive and there is no sign of my stepson or his team and I realise that if he is not here, I have absolutely no idea where is is. Today I have lost him - cannot find him anywhere - and I am long passed worried now, making serious progress towards frantic now.

I cannot stop thinking about Mark Thatcher. About Margaret Thatcher and my mother's words from 1982. I think about my wife; about how much she loves that boy, how much I have come to love that boy and how impossible it would be if his were the tracks that suddenly evaporated, if we were forced to cope with his disappearance from our lives. I try to calm myself and listen to my rational inner voice which tells me that I am being stupid, alarmist. It tells me that I will either find him or that he will turn up safely with a perfectly reasonable explanation for his disappearance. One of his team mate's parents will will have picked him up, dropped him home by the time I get back - or he will be on his way to that friend's house, call us from there and ask us to pick him up. There will be a simple explanation, a valid reason. Definitely, absolutely. Without question.

I keep telling myself that - yet the more kilometres I cover as I chase hope from oval to oval and house to house, the more I struggle to stay composed and rational. I go home, check with my wife to see if he has returned yet, find out if he has called yet. He has not called, not returned and I get back in my car, retrace my steps and revisit locations. I look again, look harder - but all I can see is a picture of Mark Thatcher and all I can hear are my mother's words from 1982. It has taken twenty seven years for understanding to reach me but it does so at that moment and I am finally old enough, mature enough to see the truth which escaped me in 1982. Twenty seven years on and that understanding finally hits home with force.

I am wrung out, worn out and fresh out of ideas by the time I finish my third circuit of all known haunts. All I can think to do is check back home one more time - and my heart skips a beat and jumps into my throat as I turn down our street to see his father's car parked outside our house. It is then I see my stepson, leaning on our fence and waving at me nonchalantly as I pull up. He is maddeningly oblivious, inappropriately carefree and I have the strongest urge to tell him off for something, for anything. Instead I find myself striding towards him, embracing him, holding him for the longest time. He apologises for worrying me and I hear it in his tone as he speaks - he does not get why I am making such a fuss. I know instinctively that he is confused by my reaction, that he can accept I was worried but unable to understand why I was this worried.

I allow myself a smile as I close my eyes, drag a few more seconds from our embrace. He may not understand now, but I am sure that it will come to him in time. It may take a year, it may take twenty seven, but something tells me it will reach him eventually.

A trio of losses. 2 : 1989

The police car has been following us since we joined the main road and began our journey. I should not be concerned; after all I am driving carefully, concentrating hard and making sure that I observe the speed limit. I am indicating early, changing lanes cautiously and it would be faultless, commendable even - if not for the fact that I am also drunk.

Our journey will take thirty minutes if we go via the old Bath Road road, slightly less if we join the three lane motorway that skirts the southern edges of my home town. We decide on the latter, leave my house and wind our way down the hill with our police escort in tow. We have crossed the third mini roundabout and are maybe five minutes from the motorway access lane when the car behind begins to flash me. The message is clear; I am to slow down, pull over.

Mirror, signal, manoeuvre. We slow to a halt and I know for certain that this is it; that I am busted - and all I can think, over and over again, is thank god, thank god. It has been a mere two weeks since I have passed my driving test and this is not the first time I have knowingly sat behind the wheel of this car, driven it with excess alcohol in my bloodstream. It will prove to be my last.

The days of drunk-driving being tacitly tolerated by any swathe of society have long since passed by this summer night in August 1989. Everybody knows that it is wrong; that it impairs your reactions, your judgement and that you risk killing yourself and others. I know this as well as anyone, yet I am also becoming aware that I am incapable of saying no by this time. The logical and sensible solution is obvious to all, well-publicised in the media: either drink and leave your car behind or take your car, limit your consumption accordingly. The problem lies squarely with me, for I am beyond being logical or sensible at this time. In 1989 I am a mess waiting to unravel, my problems, fears and secrets hidden away on the back seat and jostling for seatbelt space. I have known for some time that I will neither stop driving nor limit my intake; that it will take an intervention or incident of some sort to finish me - and as the policeman leaves his car and walks towards mine, all I can feel is relief that it has finally arrived.

My roadside reading is sufficient and I am arrested, taken to the nearby police station. I have passed this building many times over the years, always wondered what it looked like behind the scenes and now I find my curiosity satisfied as I am given a grand and thorough tour. I am brought through the compound entrance, taken through a narrow tiled corridor and locked in a cell which is covered in obscence graffiti and reeks of disinfectant. Later I am moved to an interview room, then on to a new room for additional corroboratory tests. I blow two more readings into this new machine, a hulking and humming system which takes up half of the room - and it confirms that I am still illegal, that my alcohol level is in fact still rising. The police have all they need now. With all avenues exhausted and all formalities concluded, I am formally charged and permitted my one free phone call.

It is close to midnight as I pick up the receiver, dial my home number. My mother answers and I speak to her; try to persuade her that no, I am not joking and yes, I really do need picking up from the police station. Finally she arrives with my father and I am released into their custody. I go home, go to bed. I probably apologise at some stage but this is just lip service; a case of saying what people expect me to say. Deep down I cannot be sorry, merely grateful that it happened this way - because rightly or wrongly, this was always going to happen sooner or later. That it happened sooner, so painlessly and safely is both consoling and encumbering - and yet another secret to add to my already-heavy pile.

I appear in court three weeks later, wearing my one and only suit and my best shirt and tie. My father takes a rare day's holiday, accompanies me to court and frets enough for the two of us. I smoke his cigarettes, meet the duty solicitor to run through the facts of my case. There is no argument to offer and no real defence to propose. The driving ban and monetary fine are mere formalities and I hand the solicitor my driver's licence, take one last look at the printed pink document I was once so proud to obtain. I will not see it again for twelve months, nor will I learn any lasting lessons from this experience. I will get my drivers licence back the following year but it will be the best part of a decade before I finally stop being a passenger, before I finally take control and steer for myself.

A trio of losses. 1 : 1988.

In 1988 she was younger than me by a year, more naive than me by five. She was intelligent, pretty and pure; a fresh girl from a private school who excelled at her studies and dreamed of being a doctor. We could not have been more different back the. Her idea of excess involved filling a second wine glass full of M&Ms - and even back then at the age of sixteen my idea of excess was much more defined, much more fervent. We had little in common, her and I. We went to different schools, lived in different areas and could easily have grown up having never crossed paths. That we met at all was due to her sister.

Her sister was three years older and was going out with Monkey, one of the three friends from whom I was inseparable at the time. Their pairing had come as a surprise to us, had spawned many jokes when it first appeared out of nowhere - yet three months had since passed and they were still together, still going strongly. We continued to make jokes at their expense but our jokes were losing their veneer, their potency - and we were losing the argument. For all the ridicule we levelled at him, Monkey knew he held a winning hand because no matter what was said or suggested, Monkey remained the only member of our close-knit and tragic group with a girlfriend. In 1988 we were sixteen and Monkey knew the truth as well as we knew it; knew that a three month relationship was serious stuff which could not, would not bear ridicule. By sixteen-year-old standards, a three month relationship equated to a lifetime of togetherness. Monkey had passed the test of time and, throughout it all, the rest of us had remained unattached and untouched. No matter how hard we tried to transfer it, the joke was always on us.

Looking back now it seems a strange concept - but it was a strange time, that sixteenth year of our lives which fell across 1988. It felt as though we dwelled in a grey no-mans land, living out our days in a compacted, concentrated world which was segmented into school terms, weekends, school holidays. We felt lost in limbo, in transit; stuck in a purgatorial stopover between every relevant landmark, every possible milestone. We were a million miles removed from becoming adults, a million miles removed from being boys again - so we set out to cope as best we could. We continued to gloss over the truth, made jokes about Monkey to try and mask our own inadequacies. We would ridicule him for his messy hair, his acne, his rag-bag clothes - and he would just smile; remind us that he had a girlfriend now, a relationship now. He would remind us that we did not and his smile would reveal a newly discovered confidence. A confidence born from knowing that he was closer to the light than we were now, closer to dragging himself out of the amorphous pool in which we lived our days and dragging himself out of our reach, onto dry land. We resented his success; resented him for it whilst all the time secretly admiring him for it.

We would gather with Monkey at his girlfriend's house, spend evenings talking and laughing, playing darts and watching television. That explains how I first met her - how I first noticed that pretty girl with the dark hair, the pale skin and the enquiring mind - but it does not explain what drew us together, what possessed us to pair up. Ultimately her and I had too little in common to last, were too different to share anything enduring - but these were strange and pupative times where compatibility mattered little to me when compared to the boundless opportunities for fulfilment that a girlfriend represented. Maybe it was a simple case of her being ready for a boyfriend in 1988 and maybe I was the best of the worst; the least poor choice available. I paid it little mind in 1988 because the rationale then was simple: she seemed to like me, I seemed to like her. She seemed to want a boyfriend, I seemed to want a girlfriend. That was as complicated as the reasoning got and finally I summoned my courage, asked her out. She said yes and like that, I found myself with a girlfriend once again. Suddenly I was on equal footing with Monkey once again. Suddenly he had me for company as he scraped for a handhold, an anchor point with which to drag himself out of the pool we existed in. Suddenly I saw that the light was closer than ever before, all the time remaining just out of reach - and it was clear that all I needed to find was one more success, one final demonstration of my maturity. Only then could I truly claim to be ready to dig my nails into earth; to pull myself free from the anchor of childhood and stride into the free expanses of illuminated and unfettered manhood.

It was 1988 and I was sixteen, a typical teenage boy complete with typically raging hormones. To my mind, there was only one solution - one very obvious demonstration which would guarantee my passport stamped and allow me to continue my journey - and I set my mind to my task with enthusiasm and intent.

My patience and gentle, empathic coercion was finally rewarded some months later, one summer afternoon in her bedroom. The act itself took longer than I was expecting, was less enjoyable than I was expecting. Ultimately it was unrewarding; giving me nothing more than an objective to cross off my teenage to-do list. It was not the rite of passage, the passport stamping I had hoped for and I did not get to watch the sun rise as a man, as the song promised. Instead I greeted the new day as the same confused and conflicted teenager; unencumbered now by the burden of my virginity but still weighed down, still unable to drag myself upwards and out of the hinterland we occupied.

The only thing which had changed was my relationship. I did not know it then, but my girlfriend and I would never be the same after that afternoon and we would part within weeks of our protracted and negotiated procreation. She would return to her normal life with her normal friends and later she would move on to university, eventually graduate from medical school and have the life she had planned. Through this time, through all of it I would stay motionless; concentrating only on my excess. She would move on quickly, successfully from 1988 and my friends would do the same - but I would stay anchored there, treading water in that familiar pool for many years to come. It would be a long time before I finally managed to find a handhold, to finally drag myself clear.

From a Sunday step.

It is inevitable that her recollections of those London days will differ from mine. Hers are memories spread over a wider expanse of time and she has more to take in, more to remember, more to forget.

There is a period of time that she carries alone; a bank of memories which I cannot help her hold and which sit in the three month pocket of London time before she entered my life and I entered hers. This time begins as she arrives at Heathrow airport, ends as she arrives on the steps of the Tate Gallery some three months later - and only at when she climbs those steps can I enter the scene, take up my share of the story and my share of the memories. Only from that moment can I pick up the pieces, fill in the blanks and help her carry our past into the present, into the future. That swatch of time which exists prior to her arrival on those steps, that is a period which does not involve me. The memories it contains are hers alone; a surprise birthday celebration in Venice, her son's first day at his new school, running through brand new surrounds and hurrying to catch a bright red bus whilst laden down with groceries. These memories and many more sit hidden in these months, this hidden period imbued with that strongest of undercurrents; the combined sense of elation, excitement and curiosity which is born when a life is plucked from its old existence, removed from its howling worries and its wailing ghosts - when it is taken to a new land and given that rarest of opportunities; a chance to start anew.

The howling and wailing in my own life had finally begun to subside some six months previously, gradually fading to the point where I could close my eyes and sleep soundly again. Those six months passed had been my own chance to start anew - a time to welcome a sense of belonging and security back into my days. Even before she arrived on those steps, this felt to be my first good time in what seemed like a long time; a sustained period of calm following a sustained period of turmoil, the peaceful months following on from years of disruption and displacement, transience and upheaval. Sitting on those steps and waiting for her on that Sunday morning late in spring, I had no idea of the impact her eventual arrival would have. I had no idea that her presence would change everything, bring disruption and upheaval back into my life. Back then I would have done anything to avoid more disruption, more upheaval - but back then I had no idea that the right kind of disruption, the right kind of upheaval could be actively craved, purposefully pursued, even welcomed with gratitude. Back then, that late spring Sunday morning I was just a man, sitting on some steps and waiting for a girl.

Eventually that girl would arrive. She would climb those steps, smile and apologise for being late and it would happen right there, right then. That would be the moment where memories began to collide, to coincide and to merge. That would be the moment I entered her scene and she entered mine. It would be our first, that defining moment which would give birth to new moments. It would be the day which created new days, new possibilities; the day which grew to days, then to weeks, to months and eventually to years - all of them packed with moments, with memories. It would start there, with that smile and that greeting on those steps. It would change so much, grow so quickly and become something unexpected, something welcomed. It would become something which exists to this day; which shows no sign of slowing, dulling, ending.

Many years and many miles removed from that Sunday on those steps, that girl and I continue to share our times, share the joint ownership of those memories. Our recollections will differ at times, each of us holding tight to different instances, adding significance and gravitas to different moments. She will take her stones, place them on certain recollections, certain memories, and when the breeze begins to rise it is those instances which are weighed down safely for posterity, for the future. Those that go unanchored, they will rise on the wind, fly away from her and it is these scraps of our time together that I reach for, aim to grasp and hold tight to my chest. Because when the winds subside and the air calms; when the breeze dies away and times are still once more; then we can come together, combine and marry these moments to form one expansive and illuminating whole. Then we can sit together on those steps, remember the past as we relish the present - as we look to the future together; with hope, with promise.