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.

Rewriting, reposting, remembering.

When it finally happened there was no Hollywood moment and no string section accompaniment. In the end, it came down to a group of us gathered around his bed, in a private room removed from the ward he had occupied for the last four days of his life. This new room was too big for him, for us. The ward had been intimate and we had milled around him to talk, to sit close and to spend time with him. This room was one that we could not fill with conversation or bodies, silence or tears. It dwarfed us, made him look even less substantial than previously. The distance had become all too great, all too quickly.

His decline when it came had been rapid. Four days ago he had left the High Dependency Unit and moved onto a shared ward, seemingly on the road to recovery. He looked different, more sallow and his features more defined - and when he smiled it was an old man's smile, frail and fragile. Even his eyes had changed, as though some unspoken fear had finally been allowed to rise from where he had kept it hidden all these months, been permitted to take up residence in his face. Despite everything, he still joked and alluded to the life he would have when he finally returned home. He even found himself at loggerheads with his wife once more - a sure sign that he was feeling better. We still recognised him, hidden in this new sinewy, skinny body covered with a voluminous blue nightgown – and we recognised him more with every visit that passed; convinced ourselves that we had more time, that he had more time. We booked to go on holiday for a week, sure that he would be there to hear all about it when we returned.

One night he went to sleep and when he woke, things had begun to change, to deteriorate. His concentration fell away and his speech began to fail, become slurred. Words which had always come so readily to him became lost in an effort to breathe, to concentrate. Under that nightgown and that thin, bruised skin which now broke and bled so easily, his body began to shut down. There had been too many years of abuse, too much trauma from the surgery he had endured for it to renew itself. Within 24 hours he was on oxygen and reduced to writing his thoughts, instructions and observations on a notepad; reduced to pointing at letters hastily scribbled on a piece of A4 paper - a rudimentary ouija board designed to speak with those who were not yet dead, yet no longer fully alive. Conversations were torturous, filled with mistakes and misinterpretations but they were still conversations, still a chance to connect and communicate. Even at the end he was correcting his English; ensuring that we did not just understand the basics of his point but that we fully grasped every single word – correctly and exactly as he intended his thoughts to be heard. This man was the reason that my stepson always referred to 'X and I' as opposed to 'me and X'. I had tried my best to educate my stepson for months with no lasting success, yet this man had managed it instantly, effortlessly. Words were important to him and if he had to leave us now, he was doing so using the appropriate phraseology - and if we didn't like that, if it made conversations last longer than they needed to, well that was just too bad.

The medical staff were honest with us - the next twenty four hours would be crucial. His body would either find the reserves it needed or his body would not. It was that straightforward in the end, that simple - and we cancelled our holiday that night, made plans to be nowhere but here, nothing but available. Whichever way it went, this was not the week to be leaving town.

So we did not leave. He did though - at around two o'clock the next afternoon, in that large room that was just too large. We had been in the corridor waiting for him to be moved and we all knew the significance; knew that this was his final move and final stop, separated now from the prying eyes of the ward, from the other patients still focused on surviving. His focus had gone now; he was still and wax-like, his skin a strange yellow hue and if there was breathing, I could not see it. The nun came to baptise him, said that she felt a weak heartbeat as she performed the short ceremony - and at the time, it angered me, for he was no catholic, had no time for religion. I thought he would not have agreed to it, but now I know better. He would have have understood, as I do now, that these moments are as much about the people who survive you, who are left behind when you depart. His wife will spend her life with a multitude of questions, a plethora of what-if's running through her mind. His baptism, whether in time or not, gave her one less thing to worry about. He would have understood that, accepted that - and I often wonder what took me so long to see it.

The nun offered some words of comfort and left us. He had gone too. Looking at his body, I recognised aspects of the man I had known for a short five years but, as always when a life departs, something personal departs with it. The man who lay motionless in the bed before me was almost a stranger; a vessel which no longer carred the essence of the man I had known, the man who had given me a hard, hard time until he trusted that I loved his daughter as much as he did. He had been a man had I looked at, recognised parts of myself in over the years - but today he had gone, leaving just a thin, still shell behind. Even though I knew this was the last time I would ever see him, it made leaving the room just a bit easier.

Having said that, we have seen him since then. Every so often we will be walking down a street, walking through the club and, out of the corner of the eye, there he will be. We will look back to say hello but the moment will have passed and somebody else will be stood in his place. It turns out that there are a lot of old men walking around in polo shirts, short shorts and gnarled old sandals; many more than I ever realised when he was still with us. I know – I have very nearly said hello to them all over these past twelve months.

Twelve months, Bill - how quickly the time has passed and how vivid your memory remains. Twelve whole months ago I wrote a farewell message to you and this is not meant to be another. No; this is just a chance to pay my respects again, another opportunity to say again that you are remembered, missed. I guess when you boil it down, this is just my way of saying hello again twelve months after I said goodbye; of thanking you for the enduring memories and letting you know once more, one final time that you are missed and remembered and talked about still. And that is it - that is all I came to say.

Shadows revisited.

This current posting is actually old news; a reposting exhumed from six months ago and a time when my readership was in single figures. As a result I am hoping that this will be new to the vast majority of people.

Not that 'new' is an entirely accurate description, it transpires. Comparing the present to the past is illuminating and there are obvious similarities between my last posting, written yesterday, and this one, written mid-way through last year. The same is equally true of many other postings sandwiched between these two. All I can say in my defence is that it seems as though we all have our favoured phrases, recurring themes, preferred points of emphasis. Pictures, images, memories - these appear to be mine.

If you are one of the single figures who saw this piece before, thank you for having endured my repetition and regurgitation for the past six months. As a reward, feel free to skip direct to the credits this time if you would like.


Her family moved from Sydney when she was young, travelling a few hours up the highway and settling in a small lakeside village many miles from the nearest settlement of any significance. Her father and mother ran the local boat hire and her younger brother grew up wearing a lifejacket, safeguarding him in the event that he wandered away and fell off the wharf. It happened frequently, so she tells it. She went on long bush walks with her twin sister, sailed catamarans on the lake and caught fish, eels and squid armed only with a hook and a line. She had her first kiss there - the boy with soft lips who became a man and who, years after her life had moved on from this lakeside settlement, would take his life and extinguish it for reasons he never explained. She did unspeakably cruel things to Toadfish, the kind of things you can only get away with as a child. Ants and magnifying glasses, Toadfish and stamping feet. Curiosity is a defence against a multitude of childhood crimes.

When she talks about these years at the lake, it always sounds idyllic to me. Winter never happens in these tales and I picture her existing in a blaze of heat and sunshine, her skin brown from a life spent outdoors, not inside playing on gaming consoles or glued to a computer. She shows me photographs taken during these years and I recognise the woman in those pictures of a girl. I wish I'd met her sooner, been her friend back then. My lips were as soft as his, I'm sure - but I'm equally sure that we'd not have kissed, her and I. She would have been kind and friendly but nothing more. I was trying too hard to be somebody else back then, somebody cool. Turns out that she never went for the cool kids much.

Inevitably there is a darker side to this life. She talks of nights barricading her door, protecting herself from the drunken, angry noises on the other side. She talks of shouting, of arguments, of crying. She talks of her brother, the boy who grew up in a lifejacket, and of slipping notes under his door when he was sad, when he had been banished in a maelstrom of harsh words for some minor offence, blown out of proportion by too many wines or beers. She speaks of tears and fear, of wishing she could leave and of her mother bundling the children into a bomby old car and leaving him again, this time for good. They always returned, the summers continued and the photographs from this time show the smiles, only the smiles. Photographs cannot tell a whole story though; all they can capture is a moment, an instant. Sometimes all we see are the smiles. Look at the eyes though, and sometimes you can see shadows there if you look closely.

Today, some thirty years later, that lakeside settlement has moved on. Her family moved on too, moving out long ago. The boat hire is gone but the house still stands, with new owners forming new memories within its walls. We have been back to the house and to the lake on a few occasions over these past years. When we do so, the memories she talks of are the good ones, the ones captured on film which show a time when summers seemed eternal and nothing bad ever happened. Sometimes when we are alone, we touch on the negatives hidden in the pouch behind those photographs. She accepts them as part of her life, who she was and who she is. I see her as strong, resilient and I tell her that. She tells me that some days she doesn't feel strong and I tell her that it's okay; that we all have days like that.

I look back at the photographs we take together now, photographs which her son will use one day to remember his own childhood. We look happy and carefree, smiles as fierce as the sun which blazed down upon her, a young girl in a small settlement on the side of a lake all those years ago. I look back at the photographs we take that day, looking for shadows in her eyes, in her son's eyes, in my own. I look closely and I look for a long time but see none. Today at least, in this frozen moment, all eyes are clear.

The undercurrent of 2001.

It is unfair and she deserves better, deserves more. She has fought against, struggled through some gale force times to arrive at this point and it should be calmer from here, more certain from here. This should be a time defined by the soothing caress of calm breezes; the certainty that new days will dawn as moments of beauty, red suns rising to reflect and dance upon seas as flat as morning glass. Instead this will be a time with different definitions, different waters.

She will look ahead and see only a bright future, see only clear skies. She will not see the grey of the storm clouds in the blue of his eyes as she asks him to smile, takes his picture against the backdrop of a hot, foreign land. She will not sense the crack in his smile and does not know yet what he fears now; that a union they once declared immortal may soon be given the last rites; that the pictures they take today, take tomorrow will grow in significance and become more than just holiday snaps. She does not know that they will become their last ever pictures from their last ever holiday, that the couple in those pictures will have parted within two months of that shutter's final click.

Their two weeks on this island will be centred around relaxing. They will focus on casting their cares and concerns into the ocean which sits at their window each new day; a brooding expanse of azure which invades each morning as heavy wooden shutters are unlatched and thrown open again to let a new day blaze in. The ocean below their window will look calm from the safety of their whitewashed rustic building set high, hidden amongst the expanse of olive groves. Only the occasional patch on the ocean, hues of darker, more forceful currents will offer any indication of the hidden threat contained within; offer any evidence of the power it possesses, the ease with which it could pull them under, drag them down to tumble them or hold them tight until their last breaths are expelled as bubbles.

From this high vantage point they will see only azure, pay those darker patches no mind and later when they immerse themselves in that same sea, when they swim and laugh, play in the surf and swim in the shallows they will do so safely. They will not venture further, closer to the forceful rips and the threatening currents that breathe and circle in those deeper, darker patches. They will stay in the surf, and he will look at her, look at them both in the shallows, choose not to see the threat lying beyond these warm waters. He will start to believe that they may be safe after all, safer still with each baptising wave that breaks upon them. Each new day that dawns, each new wave that breaks he will trust more that his fears can be unfounded and his hope renewed - and each new day that dawns, each new wave that breaks will bring them closer to their departure, to their return; to that shutter's final click.

Two weeks concluded, they will leave this place and this break from their routine. They will return to their cool grey normality in their cool grey country; return to their shared life with its responsibilities, its bills. Their films will be processed, their pictures developed and they will buy an album, fill an album. They will sit together, look at those moments captured but see different images through increasingly different eyes. She will see their smiles, their beach, their surf; yet his eyes will be drawn to the darker waters now, those patches he failed to see then, yet sees so clearly now. It will begin that way and with each new day that passes, each grey day that breaks he will know more that his fears are not unfounded and that that hope, like tans, can quickly fade to nothing without heat and light to sustain them.

Two months after that last click and long after their bags are unpacked, he will not fight the current when it finds him, swells around him. Instead he will allow himself to drift away without so much as a cry; allow himself to be carried from the shallows and into the stronger, darker waters without making a sound. Only when he is already distant will she realise the danger and only when he disappears beneath the surface will she realise that he is gone; that he will not return now. Only then will she look at their pictures, finally see those clouds in his eyes, the cracks in his smiles, the dark patches in the ocean. It will come too late though and it is unfair because she deserved better. She deserved more.

A tale of two times.

Confession time. If you have read my postings and think that this comes easily to me, that documenting these moments is effortless for me then you may wish to revise your opinion.

I will let you in on a secret: at best, writing this page is a challenge. At worst, at those most taxing times, it can be a gut-wrenching and energy-sapping journey through the emotional wringer - because when you choose to write from personal experience, you are left with no choice but to revisit those times, search them and scour them for detail. The depth with which you revisit these experiences and instances is irrevocably linked to the intensity with which you are able resurrect them, convey them. And that is where I come unstuck again - because I do not want you to merely read these postings of mine; I want you to feel them, live them. I want to place you at the epicentre of the instant and have you feel the tremors under your feet. Where there are highs, I want you to be able to raise your head and see them blazing in the sky above you - and where there are lows, I want you to feel them as the cold and bitter weight that settles in the pit of your stomach.

But above all, I want you to understand and enjoy - because without understanding, this becomes nothing more than a collection of verbose essays constructed from cumbersome sentences that wind on forever, looping over upon themselves until the words do nothing but swim across the page. My hope is that understanding can prevent this; can crystallise these tales and transform these recollections into something more. My hope is that the recalled moments of contentment, of love, of acceptance will be sufficient when added to the mix; that they will be enough to purify the darker and more pervasive stain of grief, of loss, of regret. My hope is that the end result will combine to produce something I can be proud of, revisit years from now and remember fondly. My hope is that I can look at this, that you can look at this; see not a dishevelled grouping of rusted parts and tarnished cogs but a clean and finished product, a shining and glittering whole.

And without enjoyment? Quite simply, I am here alone.

That I am not here alone - that so many of you drop in and keep me company is something I value intensely. When I am feeling tired, flat or lacklustre, I take great comfort in returning the courtesy; dropping by and read your own words. This is as cathartic as it is entertaining as it is inspiring - and I wanted to find a way to express my gratitude; to thank you for giving my home that lived-in feel and for opening your own doors and welcoming me with such warmth, such regularity.

To that end, I have created this, the Feels Like Home award.



There is only one rule for handing this out, passing it on - and I have tried to keep it simple:

Pick five people who make you feel welcome; who make this strange virtual world of ours feel more comfortable, habitable - and then pass them this award as a token of your gratitude, a thank-you gift.

That is as complicated as it gets. If you choose to go into detail as to why those people are receiving the award, so be it. If you choose to hand it out with a simple thank-you, so be it. As simple and straightforward as is possible, I hope.

So without further delay, it is time to launch this award; to push it out into the ether and see how it fares, see where the tides carry it. For now, this time out out on its maiden voyage, I would like to pass this award to:

JennyMac at Let's Have A Cocktail
Nancy at f8hasit
JenJen at Jen's Voices
Dan at Vacant Mind
Indigo at IndigoWrath

This entry has left me feeling highly fortunate and highly conflicted all at once, as it was exceptionally difficult to select a mere five people to receive this new award. My comments, my followers box; both are packed full of worthy recipients - easily enough to hand this award out tenfold. Sadly the one rule that comes with this award is not open to misinterpretation and there can only be five recipients. I wish I could employ the standard 'I don't make the rules' excuse, but unfortunately it appears that I do make the rules, this time around at least. So with that in mind, all I can say is a huge and heartfelt thank you to everybody who stops by, who reads, who comments or bookmarks my page. I am honoured to have such an exquisite group of people with whom to share my times.

An unexpected solicitation.

I have been fortunate enough to receive some awards in my time - but today I received something new; something I did not know existed until now and something which was both surprising and exceptionally flattering.

I received a nomination - three of them in fact - for the 2010 Weblog Awards, also known as The Bloggies. This is an annual award ceremony currently celebrating its tenth anniversary and due to take place in Austin, Texas in March. I am not exactly sure how it works, but I gather that nominations are open for a short time, after which they are whittled down to finalists. Then, from those finalists, one eventual winner in each category is picked.

I am not expecting to muster any podium finish - there are some serious heavyweights in the running after all - but seeing as I have already been nominated I thought I would see how I fared. This is how I find myself in the somewhat surreal position of asking if you would possibly consider supporting me by adding to my nomination tally in this year's Weblog Awards.

You will be asked to nominate three blogs in whichever category or categories you choose to nominate in. The person who started this did so by nominating me in the 'best Australian or New Zealand weblog', 'best writing of a weblog' and 'best-kept secret weblog' categories. If you think this fits and you are comfortable adding your name to the pile, I would certainly appreciate your support. You will be asked to nominate two other blogs in addition to mine, so there is a chance to acknowledge other favourite reads too.Then after you have voted, simply scroll to the end of the page, enter the two verification words and your email address.

You will then receive an email with a link - only once this link is clicked will your vote nominations be entered and counted.

Nominations close on January 12 and, in case you failed to spot the two very subtle link references I have already slipped in, all you need do is click here if you feel like supporting me.

Here ends this party political broadcast on behalf of the 'enough about me, let's talk about me' party. Normal service will be resumed by the time you next tune in. Promise.

Welcoming this new unknown.

Time; turn your back for a second and it accelerates, hurtles. What is born as an instant will begin to grow immediately, threaten to evolve so rapidly and spread so relentlessly. Concepts and hopes, dreams and aspirations; all will be put to the test, threatened to be made obsolete in the blink of an eye as best-laid plans become overlaid by best-lived lives. We will start anew with hopes and expectations, casting our wishes heavenwards as the cold night sky is seared by the heat of fireworks. We will set our goals and make our resolutions as the night explodes with light and cheers, knowing deep down that all we have are hopes, prayers. For the permeating truth cannot be denied: hopes and dreams may sustain but the reality is that all bets are off when a moment arrives. Life will take its own course from here, drag us along for the ride. Time will tick and time will pass - and somewhere ahead, buried amongst those millions of seconds that will pass us by, time will eventually reveal all; bring us our challenges, give us our truths.

It is close now, late now - and only six of us remain. We sit outside this building, sit inside this building; this holiday house in a quiet and dark street, in a quiet and dark coastal town miles north of the coastal town we call home. Leave this house; leave this quiet street and travel along the shoreline, you will quickly find the light, the crowds, the palpable sense of anticipation. You will not struggle to hear the shouts, cries and laughs from the merrymakers as they build towards this crowning moment, so close now. Here though, tucked away and far from the celebrating crowd there is simply peaceful discussion; low light and low voices. Earlier things were different - earlier there was more noise, more food, more drink. Now though we are weary, ready for this moment to arrive so that we may enjoy it, acknowledge it, let it pass and look ahead. We are less than a minute from the end of that which we have known, from the beginning of a brand new unknown - and we wait here for its arrival, gathered together in this place.

Mere seconds to go now and I wait, sitting in this house and cradling my coffee in both hands, allowing its reassuring warmth to seep, to rouse. I watch the television coverage in silence, see the countdown beamed onto the bridge and the harbour that fills the screen. These are images I know well, the new and novel, old and familiar all combined - because even when my days were lived out on a different side of this planet this was the defining image, the enduring footage. As recently as five years ago this was just a recorded highlight, the recollection of a moment belonging to another country; another place that would never be visited, never known. I would wake to begin the last day of the old year, switch on the television and see the images of this bridge, this harbour. I would watch as the fireworks speckled this faraway night sky, safe in the knowledge that I was waiting for a moment which had already arrived far, far away - and knowing that it had come safely to that tropical and fragrant city on the other side of the world; that city with its iconic bridge and its harbour dotted with a flotilla of lights and a multitude of souls. I would sit in my last year's morning and watch the footage, know that the moment I was watching had long since left that city now; that it was travelling onwards, ghosting its way across the globe as it chased the mark of midnight from east to west. I would watch the footage and know that I need do nothing but wait for the inevitable; for night to fall and the celebratory crowds to gather. It was just a question of waiting; waiting for the moment to complete its journey from that city to my town, bringing the future safely across the globe to wash over my small, cold island. It would arrive and we would cheer, embrace, toast its arrival as it passed over and travelled onwards, eastwards across the ocean to other cities, other towns all waiting expectantly. Now the time has come again and now I find myself sitting again, waiting expectantly again, waiting as the seconds tick away, tick closer to consigning this present to its place in the past.

It has been seven years since I learned that all bets are off when a moment arrives, experienced the force with which reality comes to your door, knocking with an insistence that will not go unanswered. Seven years ago my life was planned out, did not resemble today's existence. Seven years ago I was content to wake to the world I knew and to watch this bridge and harbour in retrospect, from afar. Seven years ago the demise of my best-laid plans would have been feared, but these years now passed have taught me many lessons and these days I know better; know that a best-lived life is more than an adequate replacement for plans, for resolutions.

Thirty seconds remain as I rise from my seat, go to the table outside and call them into the house to herald this departure and arrival. Together we stand in the lounge room of this holiday house in this coastal town. Together we watch as the final seconds of the year are ticked off, counted down, chanted backwards in parks and parties and houses across this vast expanse of land. Finally the clock runs out of numbers, out of seconds and the wait is over; the year exhausted and the unknown time upon us - and we will raise our glasses as the moment arrives. As the cheers rise like a wave and the lights explode and dazzle; reflect from the water's surface and from the hundreds of boats which cover this harbour, we will toast the past, toast the future. We will look ahead.

The clock on the screen is motionless now, its journey concluded and stuck forever at zero. Already it is part of a memory, part of the year just gone, just passed. We turn away from the screen and look to the future, prepare to begin over; to face this new unknown armed only with our hopes, our faiths and the security of knowing that somewhere ahead, buried amongst those millions of seconds that will pass us by, time will eventually reveal all; bring us our challenges, give us our truths.