100TWC - Day 58: Heartfelt Apology

This is a hard one. Hard to write, almost certainly hard to read. Hard to even think about. Because there's an apology - a heartfelt apology - that I have needed to make for a long time, and I can never make it.

Do you think about it much? I bet you do. In those quiet moments, perhaps, before you go to sleep. Or if you're feeling down for any reason. Or sometimes does it hit you at the most surprising times, when everything is sunshine and warmth and happiness. And then you remember with a sudden jolt and a lump in the throat. I do.

But for me -- and I know this isn't about me, but this is how I still feel about it; the only way I can express it -- for me the worst times are whenever I see or hear stories of abandonment. Of children left behind. They always make me cry. I'm crying now, thinking about it. Writing about it. There are some scenes, in some movies, that I simply cannot watch.

Even now, with the perspective of all these years, it's still there. Like a stain on my soul. One that I can never scrub off no matter what I do to repair that old wound. It bears a scar, you see. I knew it would. I talked it over and over with people who had been through it. Talking about it like that was, partly, just a way of postponing the inevitable, but it was also a way of validating the hard decision. I needed to be certain that, of all the bad choices I could make, the one I ended up with was the least bad for the most number of people. Which is why it took me so long to go. Even though I knew for a long time I had to, I couldn't bring myself to do it for years. Because I would always, always rather hurt myself than hurt you.

In the end though, I knew there was nothing else for it. I had to do it. Because staying, in the long term, would have caused more hurt than going. I tried to explain, even though I knew I never would be able to. Even though I knew the message would be garbled, and infected with lies and half-truths by those more interested in serving their own agenda. You couldn't possibly have understood, back then. And knowing that you understand now, now that you're all grown up and out there, doing your own things and living your own lives and, no doubt, making your own mistakes the way all of us do. Stumbling around in the dark looking for the way forward. Now I know you understand, it helps. A little. But you didn't understand at the time. You were bewildered, frightened, angry, and lost.

And that's the hurt I can never mend, no matter how many times I apologise. I can't go back there and be there for you, help you through it the way I always had up to that point. The way I started to again, much later. So this isn't only an apology to you today, though you surely deserve one. It is also -- or even mainly, perhaps -- an apology to the 11-year-old you, and the 6-year-old you. The frightened, tearful girls I left behind who grew up, in spite of all the pain and loss, to be the most wonderful, talented, beautiful daughters a man could ever dream of. Love you.

100TWC - Day 18: Love

wow love i mean such an overused word i love you like in the song those three words they're said too much and not enough i love it where it could be anything you vaguely like or you're trying to impress the person who has it whatever it is and you don't really like it all that much but you're all oh yeah i love it baby i love it you love your friends that's a different kind of love to the love you have for your mum or your dog or your favourite pencil and then there's those weird kinds of love that some people have but other people that's most of us think are icky or embarrassing or just plain wrong those kinds of love have to be hidden away in special words with philia in them like necrophilia or coprophilia look it up or paedophilia not the kind of love i really want to talk about but then there's the usual kind and that comes in all different flavours too like love of your life and unrequited love usually love for the girl next door i used to think i loved the girl next door but it was just an adolescent thing really i only wanted to see her tits and she just thought it was kinda handy to have someone her own age living next door who she could play silly games with she never really loved me and in the end she moved away anyway and i never even heard from her again but i think about her from time to time but even that wasn't my first experience of love oh no i was only six years old when i fell in love the first time and my parents were all oh don't be so silly boys of your age don't fall in love but it sure felt like it to me when i was feeling all sick in my stomach and thinking about her all the time and making sure my fingernails were clean when i went to school and deliberately putting my tie on crooked so she could straighten it for me because she was a proper little girl who wanted to grow up to be a wife and mother and she'd seen her mother straighten her dad's tie so obviously that's the kind of thing you did when you loved somebody so she used to do it for me too made my head tingle anyway we only ever kissed a few times and then it all kinda blew over i never did really find out why she went off me for that other guy he even had dirty fingernails and she always told me she couldn't stand that i guess that's the thing about love you can have all these rules about the kind of person who's ideal and all that but when the right one comes along all those rules go out the window i used to ask my mum how will i know when i'm really in love and she used to say you'll just know that didn't really help me very much cos every time it happened to me i thought i knew but then it turned out i didn't know after all especially with that helen i used to let her do all sorts of stupid stuff to me just to try and spend time around her but then it turned out she was just making fun of me and talking about me behind my back saying how dumb i was to let her do all that stuff i used to get that sick feeling in my stomach when i was with her too but later on it turned into a different kind of sick anyway that was all a long time ago when i was only a little kid things got even worse when i was an older kid and i started getting all these urges i never realised it was so easy to mix up love and lust i spent a long time trying to sort that one out and it got me in one whole heap of a heck of a lot of trouble i can tell you i don't know what it was but when a girl kissed me i went kinda mad i think i remember reading once that love is a kind of madness or at least that hormonal buzz that comes with it you can get addicted to that a lot of people stay that way their whole  life like rock stars and film stars and other folk with a lot of money they always say they're looking for love in their songs and films but really they're just addicted to hormones or the thrill of the chase or something i don't think that's real love at all but then when you get to thinking about real love and comparing it to that flirty kind of young love and chasing about all over the place it can seem kinda boring from the outside you know when two people have been together a long time like them old folk you see walking along holding hands and people will say oh look at that old couple isn't that wonderful and all the young people start to feel a bit sick not the kind of sick that i mentioned earlier but you know kind of embarrassed and ewww and like that because all they can think about the young people that is all they can think about is the old people doing it and i think it's universally recognised that the thought of old people doing it is kinda yucky until you're an old person that is and then i guess it's perfect natural even though you don't do it as often as you used to but that's because by the time you're that old you've discovered that love really isn't about doing it at all that's only one very small part of it and all the rest the stuff that sounds boring to the youngsters well that's the stuff that love is really about caring and sharing and understanding and being gentle and kind and doing stuff for each other because you want to make their lives easier and taking pleasure from simple things like a warm sunny morning or a kitten playing or your grandchildren bringing you a daisy chain so all in all i reckon love means different things to different people at different times of their lives but it always means something to somebody at every time of their life and that's why they say it makes the world go round.

Wedding of the Year

Can't be many happier occasions than witnessing two of your best friends getting spliced, and that's exactly where we were yesterday afternoon, in the company of most of the rest of our best friends, their friends, family and a bunch of very energetic small people. The kind that make weddings... um... loud. No, fun. That's it. Fun.

Starting as we meant to go on with a glass of bubbly at Phil & Vicky's (excellent hosts as always), we wended our slightly circuitous way (on account of an overturned lorry on the A617) to Mansfield Registry office for the ceremony and then, with the day's official business out of the way, we settled down to the more important business of celebrating the nuptials with further champagne, and related (and unrelated) beverages, relieved on occasion by the odd sausage roll (really nice ones, as it happened) and dollop of coleslaw.

Called upon - owing to my acclaimed position as "resident wordsmith" - to pen something in the wedding book on behalf of the mates, I can't help feeling I disgraced myself somewhat, on account of the evening's overindulgences and the ebullient flavour of the day, but what's done is done, and whatever I wrote it was written from the heart, with feeling, and with relatively little time for reflection or composition, so f**k it. As long as it's not the last thing I write in a public place, I'll be alright. I think.

Anyway many, many congratulations to Ritchie & Helena (or Helena and Ritchie as they are in the above photo). May your days be long and your troubles few, your friendship strong and your love stay true, and if things go wrong and the air turns blue, just bite your tongue and have a damn good screw.

E.J.Thribb has got nothing on me.

Perspectives

Into each life a little rain must fall. An old, trite phrase that, like all old, trite phrases contains a kernel of truth. Everyone has their own shit to deal with; their own bucket to carry; etc. Parents always tell you that they'll never stop worrying about you, and that you won't understand how they feel until you have children of your own. And then, when you have children of your own... yes. You understand. With a depth of understanding that sits somewhere below bone-deep. In a subterranean cavern of the soul that you didn't really know existed.

And you watch your children dealing with their shit - that small proportion of it that they're prepared to share with you, or you learn about indirectly - and wish that you could help them with it. And know that you can't. Worse than that, sometimes, someheartbreakingtimes that stay with you in a way you know you'll never shake off, you're the cause of the rain that fell into their lives. Rain? It was more like a fireman's hose, with your hand on the valve.

Which is why these days we like to try and make our home a haven of shitlessness. Dump your shit at the door, no shit here thank you. That's not to say we don't have "serious conversations" - just that we like to try and resolve more problems than we cause, and generally accentuate the positive. But sometimes, being a parent, I worry (see above) that it all gets a bit boring here. Cos, you know, we don't really do much most of the time (apart from the odd trip here and there). The weekend days generally have a beat to them - lazy breakfast; do our own thing for a few hours; pot of tea with optional snacks; movie; dinner; evening telly usually followed by another movie - but is it ENOUGH?

This morning, in a rare shaft of sunlight that shone into that dark cavern I was talking about, I discovered that maybe it's more than enough. Maybe it's exactly right. I happened across this answer in one of Blythe's online quizzes. (I hope this doesn't count as 'parental surveillance' but hey - if it's on t'Internet it's public domain, right?)

Were you happy when you woke up today?
Yes, because it was the weekend, I could hear my sister coming out of the car and through the front gate, and I was at my dads. Being at my dads is like therapy; I get away, literally as far as I can, from everything thats currently happening. It's like a small two day holiday every two weeks.

As you might imagine, that cheered me right up! So that's why this post is called 'perspectives'. Because things always look different depending on who's doing the looking, and because you don't often know the effect what you do has on others, even those closest to you, and even when you think you're not doing much.

Letter meme

This came to me from Chris, via Diane. I have to tell you about 10 things I love that start with the letter L. If you want to play along for yourself, leave a comment here and I'll assign you a letter so you can list your own 10 lovely things in your journal and start giving out letters of your own.

So here we go, in the order they occurred to me:

1. Lakes
Whether it's "The Lakes" - where we'll be spending a week with mates around the last bank holiday in May - or Lake Ontario - or any other large inland body of water, I love 'em. Even a reservoir has some of the attraction, if it's been landscaped.

2. Licorice
Not too keen on licorice allsorts, which tend to be too sweet, but I love the plain black stuff and the red stringy stuff is even better!

3. Love
It makes the world go round, you can't live without it, and the more you give it out the more you get back. I love the feeling of being in love, I love the company of loved ones. Lovely.

4. Legs
Some men are said to be "tit men" while others claim to be "bum men." I'm a leg man. A shapely leg, a glimpse of thigh as a skirt sways or parts, that tantalising shadow as legs are crossed and uncrossed. All will always set my pulse racing. Bare, for preference, and definitely none o' them nasty tights thengyoberrymuds.

5. Lightning
I could sit and watch it for hours, as well as the accompanying torrential rain and cracking thunderclaps. Nature's raw power. God's firework display. Dangerous, exciting, unpredictable.

6. Leaves
Swishing through the fallen ones in autumn, breathing in the heady scent of sweet decay, or listening to the wind through them, or watching the different shades of green flash and twist as they blow about. The smell of fresh rain on them. The multitude of shapes, sizes and colours. And, if you want to get technical, their bountiful offering of oxygen. There's a lot to like about leaves.

7. Laughter
I love to lie on my back and make myself laugh, but even more I like to laugh uncontrollably, helplessly, tear-rollingly, side-splittingly, until I gasp for breath. And even more than either of those, I love to make other people laugh. It can lighten your load, help your day move faster through its boring bits, and oil the wheels of friendship.

8. Lazy Sunday Afternoons
Sundays can be boring, but when you hit that sweet spot on a Sunday afternoon, when nothing needs doing and you can please yourself, and no-one will mind if you read a book, listen to some sounds, watch a movie or just have a nap, and there's the traditional English summer sounds of lawnmowers in the distant background and fat bees humming over the hollyhocks; that's when Sundays can be perfect.

9. Legends
I've always felt a particular affinity for the Arthurian legend, but legends in general intrigue and fascinate me.

10. Lindos
A bit of a cheat this one, because my favourite holiday spot is Pefkos, which is about 5km further south on Rhodes, but Lindos is a pretty little town and we've had some great times there, so it's not a total cheat.

What goes around does indeed come around

I guess there are some things that you can't blog about. Sometimes this is because it's simply inadvisable to reveal too much, and other times it's because, although something may have gone on around you, it's not really your story to tell.

So by way of allegory I'll recount a tale from my university days. Maybe this explains why the "how old are you" quiz on Facebook declared me to be 75 today. One of my answers was that I start my conversations with "When I was a kid..." Well hey, when the other choices are "You can't even talk anymore"; "wow, did you see those boobs/abs"; "MOOOOOOM..."; "yo, yo..."; and "listen to me..." wtf else am I going to pick? Anyway, I digress.

Around the beginning of my second year at Uni I started going out with a girl and pretty soon we got pretty serious, if you know what I mean. If we weren't staying at mine we were staying at hers and there weren't many nights we were staying at mine AND hers individually. During the holidays I drove down to Buckinghamshire to spend some time with her at her folks' place and was surprised (not to mention delighted) that her parents just quietly assumed we'd be sleeping together. Remember this is 1976/77 we're talking about. The summer of love was ten years old but parents weren't really part of it, at least not in my world.

So time ticked by, we carried on seeing each other, and eventually in the Easter break she wanted to repay the favour and come up to Nottingham to meet my folks. My folks who had always claimed to be very broad minded, and open minded, but who...well...maybe we'll save that story for another day. Let's just say they didn't always practice what they preached. Which gave me a bit of a dilemma. Did I let things ride and submit to sleeping on the sofa, which I knew would be the default option? Or did I make a stand for human rights (not a very well-used phrase in 1977), which would clearly be the more uncomfortable option parentally speaking?

In the end I decided to make a stand. Pun not intended. I took my parents on one side and said, basically "look, Sue and I sleep together while we're at Uni, and we sleep together while we're at her parents' house. This is your house and what goes on here is up to you, but in the light of what's already going on, are you really going to make me sleep on the sofa?" I didn't plead or cajole or try to make them feel inferior, I just put the facts in front of them and then we went out to the pub.

When we got back, there were two Cadbury's Creme Eggs sitting side by side on the pillow in my bedroom. My Dad's uniquely cryptic and non-embarrassing way of telling me they'd decided to accept the inevitable.

Right there and then something crystallised for me. Although it was never in any doubt in a subconscious way, I made a conscious decision never to put any offspring of mine in a similar position, be they male or female. Because to my mind, if a young person is ready to make that kind of decision, then as a parent you have to be ready to let them. During the intervening years, on the odd occasion when this kind of topic has cropped up in conversation with friends and colleagues, I've come in for some stick on this point. The general consensus of the rest of humanity seems to be "you'll feel differently when it's your own daughter," or "no-one will ever be good enough." But I never subscribed to those views while the conversation was hypothetical, and I'm pleased to say I continue to hold true to my decision, and my principles, now the topic has become material.

A place for everything...

When we moved back into the study after the extended decorating saga the objective uppermost in our minds was to clear all the junk out of the other rooms. We'd been shuffling and edging past it for months and we just wanted our space back. We took a few things up into the attic and obviously we set up the desks and the PCs the way we wanted them, but pretty much everything else got dumped in piles all over the study.

And not even logical piles. Simply the piles they'd been in during the refurb, and some of them were consolidated during the move back.

Today was the day we agreed we'd left it long enough. Those "few precious weeks" of relaxation that I referred to the day we moved back in have become seven weeks and it's time to tidy up!

We didn't finish, but in the end I was pleased with progress. All of the piles of paper have gone from the floor, as have all the boxes except those containing CDs (there's a reason they are being left behind). There's been much throwing away, a deal of sorting, and some more carrying up into the attic. The wireless printer is now in its permanent home atop the filing cabinet and we're down to a single table's worth of sorting and filing.

We both would have made more progress today had it not been for our mutual distraction with the contents of two small boxes left over from the house move. The contents of our bedside tables. Sorting through these was like a walk back through the memories of the last few years. Programmes from the Royal Exchange, tickets from concerts, birthday, Christmas, and Father's Day cards going back to when Natalie had only just learned to write her name, and several large piles of cards from Nikki, from the days when we lived apart. Still smelling faintly of her perfume (we used to spray them before sending them) and still holding their secret messages. Those two small boxes - one each - took us more than half the day to sort through, but the rediscovered memories made it time well spent and our smiles stayed with us the rest of the weekend.

Back in the Study

Having run out of excuses, I started the gloss painting this morning, with the large window on "my side" of the study. I'd been dreading this - the first time I'd painted sash windows that weren't already painted shut. Worse: windows we'd paid to have refurbished. It turned out not as bad as I expected (yet more proof that the fear of something is always worse than the thing itself) and although the end result will require some scraping of paint off glass, at least the windows still move freely.

After a short break for lunch I resumed with the door frame and skirting board, but I hadn't quite finished half of the skirting before Nikki came upstairs to point out that if I wasn't careful I'd have spent the entire Bank Holiday painting, and enquire whether I wouldn't rather stop soon and relax?

I don't think I'll ever stop being awed by Nikki's capacity to (a) know how I'm feeling; (b) say the right thing; and (c) make me feel OK about not achieving some self-imposed target. I'd wanted to get the first coat on the whole room today but this would certainly have taken up the rest of the afternoon and left me feeling pretty knackered. Not to mention it not being entirely necessary to finish the whole of one coat in one session.

With a sigh of relief I painted up to the next corner and called it a day.

While I was painting Nikki had been researching PCs online and I soon discovered an ulterior motive to the "stop painting" suggestion when she wondered whether it would be worth a quick jaunt to PC World to look at what was on offer.

Once we'd completed a circuit of the store the machine we wanted was a no-brainer. We both stood drooling over the latest top-spec Compaq machine with 3GB RAM, a 500GB hard drive and built-in wireless networking and TV card. We had to rein ourselves in though and be realistic. This was to be a new machine for Nikki and since she uses it for email and browsing, with a little low-end gaming thrown in, this tasty machine was totally over spec'd. For about £500 less we found a more sensible machine bundled with a 20" flat panel monitor, and rushed home to find a better deal online. To our surprise the best offer we could find was £40 MORE than the store price, so I guess we'll be returning later this week to part with some cash.

Get back, funky cat

If my day out last November accompanying Natalie to her interview day at Manchester University could be called surreal, then today's trip was like being drawn back into that nightmare land of exams and, more to the point, results.

As we drove from Manchester to Huddersfield the radio news was full of reports that today was the day half a million students would be receiving their 'A' level results. We already knew. We were on our way to college to pick them up.

Although we arrived in Huddersfield town earlier than results were supposedly available there was still a fairly strong current of students wending its way collegewards. We elected to stick to our plan and breakfasted in the little coffee shop which Nat and her friends frequented. Later, hearts firmly in our mouths, we made the short walk to the college gates. "See you in a bit then," said Natalie, her nonchalance belying her undoubted trepidation as she crossed the road and disappeared past the throng of students who were already gathered by the gates, their congratulations and commiserations communicated only by body language at this distance.

The wait seemed endless. After the first hundred years Blythe and I were starting to get a little hungry again, breakfast having been so many decades earlier. But we only had to wait another three hundred years before Natalie appeared back at the gate accompanied by her boyfriend. She crossed the road and handed me her papers, beaming. The results were good. Very good. But the grades were slightly at odds with her offer from Manchester University. One equal with the requirement, one higher, but one lower. We headed off for the village to give Mum the good news and also to get on the Internet and find out whether Nat had, after all, secured that much wanted place.

Manchester has a very enlightened entrance policy. Their courses are so oversubscribed that they only offer places to students whom they really want to attend. They hand-pick them at interview not just for academic ability but for what else they can bring to the party. Natalie, being skilled in many extra-curricular activities and interests, is exactly the kind of student they look for. Their offer came with a promise that, even if the grade quota was not quite achieved, she would still secure her place.

Even so, those minutes between leaving college and arriving at the house, and the extra minutes standing in the hall while Natalie rushed upstairs to the computer to check the university admittance website added another couple of hundred years to the morning.

"I got in!!" she shouted from the study.

We all breathed again and time resumed its normal pace.

With the next three years now mapped out before her and most of the worries of the last two years beginning to be replaced by worries of what is to come (for such is life, leaving one worry behind so as to confront another), we drove home and celebrated first with another afternoon in the company of the X-Men (I'm starting to make quite a handy Ice Man with my slow ice beam and my shards) and later with a trip to the Nawaab for an excellent curry dinner and a glass of mango lassi.

I've spent most of the latter half of the day fairly bursting with pride at the achievements of my first born, and also reassuring Blythe that there really is no pressure to equal or better the "bar" Nat has set. We shared a joke about that on the way back to the car this morning, but there was an undercurrent of seriousness to the humour. I never knew what it was like to have an older sibling, but I guess sometimes it can feel like you have to run just to stand still. For me though, there is never any of that sort of comparison between them. Both my daughters are wonderful, each in their own way. Each better at some things than the other, each with their own unique qualities, their own outlook on life and their own path to tread. I see my job as just being there to provide a shoulder to lean on, a listening ear when they need to share, and to move some of the rocks off their path when necessary. What else is a Dad for? Oh, yeah, a cuddle now and then :o)

A death in the family

Late tonight we received the sad news that Blythe's brown tabby cat Twig was killed on the road outside their house earlier today.

We'd spent a happy family evening watching the three X-Men movies together and were preparing for bed when Blythe checked her voicemail messages at almost exactly the same time as I was reading the email from her mother marked "urgent."

I don't think I've ever been so pierced as I was when I heard her scream of anguish from her bedroom, nor ever climbed the stairs so quickly. And I know for a fact that I've never felt so helpless as I did while I sat beside her on her bed, cradling her in my arms as she sobbed for the loss of her beloved pet.

I never knew him, but from Blythe's measured and moving obituary it's obvious he was both a very loving and a very loved member of the family.

Birthday relaxation for a special person

Nikki's birthday today and we were planning a day out in the Lakes. Some of the Chorlton Players had decided to spend a few hours wombling around Haweswater and we also have a much-delayed appointment at Jennings brewery in Cockermouth to return the empty barrel from our housewarming party, so it seemed like a good idea to combine the two and meet up with the Players just in time for them to hit the pub.

In the event the forecast was for inclement weather so we cried off. I wouldn't say I jumped at the excuse not to go - I would have been perfectly happy either way - but as it's Nikki's special day it was only fair for her to have the final say. She opted for an afternoon/evening in front of the TV with a plate full of comfort food and a double bill of her favourite movies on DVD, preceded by one which was new to both of us, but which could well become a favourite: The Devil Wears Prada.

I was all set to hate it. On the face of it, there's very little to recommend it apart from Meryl Streep. It was a bonus to discover Stanley Tucci also stars - I've been a fan of his since watching Murder One many moons ago - but the subject matter? Haut couture in the offices of a New York fashion magazine? Didn't sound like my kind of thing at all.

Was I ever wrong. With consummate writing in general and razor-sharp dialogue in particular; with beautifully nuanced performances from just about every cast member; this is an absolute gem of a movie that had me laughing out loud many times over. And while it was having a great laugh poking fun at the vacuous fashion industry it was also driving home a carefully crafted message about being true to yourself and your core values, and demonstrating how hard this is when you get sucked in by something as superficially big and glossy and important as a job with a major magazine. How something that presents itself as the opportunity of a lifetime, a must-have can't-miss drop-dead life changing chance can indeed change your life and not for the better. You may find yourself chasing a dream that was never yours to begin with. Turned around and chewed up and spat out until you are not only unrecognisable to your friends and family but you don't know who you are any more either.

Fortunately for the main character (wonderfully played by Anne Hathaway), not only did she recognise this was happening before it was too late and walk away (literally), she also enjoyed the beneficence of an employer who, although cold and demanding on the outside, had a heart hidden deep beneath her crusty exterior and recognised the worth of her deputy assistant to the point where she was prepared to give her a good reference. Outside of the Hollywood version of high fashion and even higher corporate power broking, this would be highly unlikely. Made for a happy ending though!

A concert even closer to my heart

Last Saturday I saw a concert on a grand scale. Last night I was on my way to something a little smaller and more intimate - although as I drove over Saddleworth moor the newscaster on Radio 4 did say "we're just over an hour away from one of the biggest music festivals in the world" and I thought - blimey! The BBC are coming to Holme Valley Music Centre's evening of guitar music!

But of course they were talking about the first night of the Proms, whereas my destination was slightly less high-blown but much more important. After ten years of spending at least part of Saturday morning (and more recently, by virtue of helping out with junior and intermediate classes as well as still being part of the senior group, virtually ALL of Saturday morning) at guitar class, my elder daughter was bowing out of Music Centre concerts with the keynote solo performance of the night.

I arrived early as usual and secured a seat with a good view. The concert got off to a slightly late start with the senior guitars performing four pieces followed by a series of solos from the more junior members of the group. Watching these youngsters - ranging in age from 8 to about 12, some of them doing their first solo - reminded me of concerts past as Nat slowly gained in both confidence and ability. Some of tonight's young 'uns showed great promise, either being note perfect or playing with good expression considering their age and experience. Others missed the odd note and played on with wry grins or shakes of heads, mentally beating themselves up for not being at their best. But all enjoyed resounding rounds of applause. This was, after all, a friendly audience of family and locals, many of whom probably went through similar ordeals as children. There is a strong vein of musical appreciation and participation in the Holme Valley, and the important thing was the taking part and the wish to do one's bit to entertain.

After the solos and four more group pieces, this time from the junior guitars, we had an interval. Time for a narsecappatee and a piece of cake. There were also raffle tickets on sale. At £1 a strip I normally would have bought only one strip, but my little voice was quite insistent that I should buy two, so for once I listened to it and forked out my £2. The raffle was drawn at the end of the interval, before the second half of the show, and the very first ticket out of the draw was the first number on my SECOND strip. Thank you very much, little voice, for that rather nice bottle of Rioja!

Then it was time to settle back down to hear the intermediate guitars perform their set. By the time they'd finished my palms were becoming quite sweaty with referred stress on Nat's behalf. I took a few deep breaths. Three or four more solos and finally it was Nat's turn. She enduredjoyed a rather lengthy intro from her guitar tutor and then began to play.

She'd left her selection of music until the last minute, so the programme read simply: "Solo" but in the event she elected to play her tutor's (by now actually more colleague than teacher) favourite: Julia Florida - Barcarola by Agustin Barrios - also, it has to be said, a firm family favourite. As this was the last solo of the evening and many in the audience were either thinking they'd "heard it all before" or preparing to leave, the noise level in the room was quite high at the beginning. But as the strains of her beautiful guitar playing drifted across the hall a ripple of silence travelled back through the crowd until everyone was listening in rapt attention and you could have heard a pin drop.

When the last note died away the vacuum left by the music was filled with the most thunderous round of applause of the entire evening. I thought I was going to burst with love and pride, but I couldn't even join in with the clapping - both hands were firmly clamped around Nikki's camera with which I'd recorded Nat's whole performance! Wonderful, wonderful stuff and a fine end to her long years with the Music Centre.

After taking a brief bow she was presented with her "long service award" for sticking with her classes right through junior, intermediate and senior guitars and even during her 'A' levels, and also with a special present in recognition of all her hard work on Saturday mornings since passing her Grade 8. I wonder if her tutor knows how close she came to giving it all up? Behind tonight's virtuoso performance were the memories of years during which she plugged away playing the second or third part, the boring part that no-one notices but which is essential to the overall sound of the performance, when she was more than capable of playing the lead. More able, usually, than the person playing it, who was chosen out of seniority, or because it was their turn. When playing in a group, everyone has to be given a chance to shine, but it always seemed as though Natalie's potential was passed over more often than most.

Even though she came close to giving up out of sheer frustration and exasperation at the weeks upon weeks of playing a single note for a performance where the lead player didn't practice properly or didn't turn up, she stuck with it, showing maturity, dedication and commitment. I think too that she realised how important it is to do something because it has personal meaning. That the benefit you glean from an activity can be just for yourself, for your own satisfaction. It doesn't necessarily have to be public.

So she came through those years where her light was hidden and reached a point where her excellence was recognised and she had her chance to shine. Tonight was the pinnacle where she reaped the rewards of all her hard work and long hours of practice, and she did much more than shine. She blazed.

Someone loves you

That's how my horoscope started this morning. "Someone loves you," it said. "They see right down to your deepest, murky bits and still want to hold your hand. So don't hurt them just because you don't like those murky bits yourself."

You always hurt the one you love, the old song used to go. The one you shouldn't hurt at all. When you live with someone with whom you feel able to be completely and utterly yourself, shorn of the glamour and glitz you put on for the outside world, it's easy to hurt them by omission, rather than by commission.

You may not think you put on any glamour for other people. You don't dress up, you don't fix your hair, or shine your shoes, or wear any bling or fragrance. So no obvious prettification, but when those other people greet you and ask how you are, you put on a smile and say "fine, thanks. You?" Maybe behind your smile all you want to do is ignore them. To not have to say anything, and especially not smile, because today is not a good day and you really can't be arsed.

So that's your glamour. You make more of an effort, even if you're not conscious of it.

But back home? Well, home is home. You can be yourself. You can slob around in your old trackie bottoms and the same T-shirt you've had on all week. You can avoid shaving for as long as possible. You can leave the lipstick off. And yet home is also the place where that someone lives. The someone who loves you. The someone who is quite possibly the only one who deserves your glamour.

That's what I mean by "hurting someone by omission." You reserve your glamour for the outside world and at home you do your own thing. Did you forget how special that someone is? No. But maybe, subconsciously, you trade on the fact that they want you to be comfortable being yourself and you translate that into: I don't have to make an effort.

So what's this about the deepest murky bits? They're the bits about yourself that you like to keep hidden, or about which you may not even be aware. If there are aspects of yourself that you don't like, then you must know about them. But there may also be parts of your character that aren't especially likeable, but are hidden from you.

In the 1950s, two researchers at the University of California devised the Johari window. By observing how subjects expressed their personalities they discovered that there are aspects of our personality that we're open about, and other elements that we keep to ourselves. There are also things that others see in us that we're not aware of. Combining these it's possible to draw up a four-box grid, which includes a fourth group of character traits that are unknown to anyone:

1. The public area ("Public Self") holds things that are openly known and talked about - and which may be seen as strengths or weaknesses. This is the self that we choose to share with others
2. The hidden area ("Blind Spots") contains things that others observe but which we are unaware of. Again, they could be positive or negative behaviours, and affect the way others act towards us
3. The unknown area ("Unconscious Self") is those things nobody knows about us - including ourselves. This may be because we've never exposed those areas of our personality, or because they're buried deep in the subconscious
4. The private area ("Hidden Self") covers aspects of our self that we know about and keep hidden from others.
   

Although the boxes are shown the same size, in reality they are unequal in content and indeed much therapy involves using regular and honest exchange of feedback, promoting a willingness to disclose personal feelings so that the Public Self is expanded and the other three areas made as small as possible. People will then come to understand what "makes you tick," and what you find easy or difficult to do. Knowing that about you, they are in an even stronger position to offer appropriate support.

Knowing the worst about you, whether you have chosen to hide it from most other people, or even from yourself, and yet still loving you because it's the whole you they love, is an extraordinary thing. And if some of those parts of you are things you don't like to think about, or talk about, or which make you unhappy, then the only correct response is for you to do something about them. Not spend the anger you feel at yourself, on those who are closest to you and deserve it the least.

The language of love

Yesterday, after Phil & Vicky had left, we caught up with all the soaps we'd missed while I was away last week. As a result I'm still thinking about Valentine's Day, which was at the heart of many storylines last week: some people trying to ignore it because it's a rip-off; some because they're just too selfish to do anything nice for their partners; others making a really special effort (and some of those being rebuffed); people on the periphery, without partners, feeling left out - the way many people feel at Christmas when the whole world seems to be celebrating.

So I thought it would be a good time to post this love test that I found on the blog of a friend of a friend. It lets you check if you're speaking the same love language as your beau or belle. Haha! Just had a funny thought about that. Yanno when you accidentally overhear people making out?Is that the sound of beau belles?

Anyway, I digress. Not sure I agree with the "love tank" theory expressed below, although if it means you have to feel good about yourself to be in your best giving state I couldn't argue with that. If you have aching ankles, a headache, you've been put upon all day, everything's gone wrong and you just found out you have an important deadline you'd totally forgotten (or not been told) about, that's probably not such a good time for your partner to expect to be serenaded or given a foot massage.

I'm not particularly surprised by my results. I already knew time together and touching were at the top of my list. No, it doesn't have to be that kind of touching! A tender touch when you least expect and most need it can often be enough to move you to tears.

By a strange coincidence when we were in HMV on Saturday I bought a remastered CD of one of my favourite bands of all time - Caravan. This was a continuation of the (slow!) process of replacing my vinyl collection and the first Caravan CD I'd bought, so it was a hard choice which album to go for. In the end I plumped (obscure Caravan reference there for other fans) for Waterloo Lily, primarily because it contains one of the most evocative lyrics of my youth. The first two verses of The Love In Your Eye:

In dreams of you I wish a song on everyone
A gift of love to fill your eyes, to fill your eyes
And if I turn your head awhile, my heart will sing
Thunder songs of love to make you smile

I've travelled far in search of things I didn't know
I could have found as well at home as in the skies
There's so much time misspent in dreams of wealth and fame
When all you need is love in your eye

(Lyrics by Pye Hastings). Those words echo across the years to me now. Now that I've spent the thirty-odd years in between travelling far in search of things I didn't know, and which I could as easily have found at home. At least I remembered the last part, and didn't waste my time on dreams of wealth and fame. Here are my results in the love language test, and a link for you to take it for yourselves:

The Five Love Languages

My primary love language is probably
Quality Time
with a secondary love language being
Physical Touch.

Complete set of results

Quality Time: 10
Physical Touch: 9
Words of Affirmation: 7
Acts of Service: 4
Receiving Gifts: 0

Information

Unhappiness in relationships, according to Dr. Gary Chapman, is often due to the fact that we speak different love languages. Sometimes we don't understand our partner's requirements, or even our own. We all have a "love tank" that needs to be filled in order for us to express love to others, but there are different means by which our tank can be filled, and there are different ways that we can express love to others.

Take the quiz

Rituals

Rituals or ritualistic behaviours run through every human and animal society like the string that holds a pearl necklace together. Whether it's the annual rut of the deer, the mating dance of the bird of paradise, the coronation of a monarch or a common man's funeral - the ritual ceremony, the dress code, the formally observed "rules of engagement" all come together to mark whatever occasion is being celebrated, the most obvious ones being Christenings/Baptisms, weddings and funerals, or "hatch, match and despatch" as they are sometimes called. The sense of a familiar order to the events can make what might otherwise be an extremely stressful time for the "main players" into a more relaxed, enjoyable affair (or, in the case of funerals, forms a framework of support for the mourners).

If you can take a step back from occasions such as these and act as an impartial observer, they can look faintly ridiculous. Especially weddings. Perhaps with two failed marriages behind me I have a tendency to look on them as the triumph of hope over experience, but of course in the case of first-time couples, like the ones whose evening wedding party we attended last night, there is no "experience" that needs to be triumphed over.

It was with thoughts like these that I drove Nikki through thick freezing fog last night to Statham Lodge, to celebrate the marriage of Charlotte & Paul. While I don't particularly enjoy driving in fog I do love the way it makes everything feel mysterious and special.

We quickly found the bar and secured a comfy sofa and a couple of pints, greeted those members of Charlotte's family we knew and sat back to await the main event. The guests had all made an effort to follow the ritual dress code (with one notable exception, who drew sidelong glances and muffled tuts from the older guests which I found extremely amusing) and the penguin suits of the principal players were quite restrained, looking smart and slightly Edwardian, rather than completely buttoned-up and over the top, as they sometimes can.

Being a bloke I'm not about to wax lyrical on how beautiful "the dress" was. Suffice to say that Charlotte, when she appeared, looked radiant as only a bride can and provided proof, if proof were needed, that fat-bottomed girls do indeed make the lovin' world go round. She and Paul did a very thorough job of touring the floor and making sure they spoke to everyone during the course of the night, which I thought was a nice touch.

When the function room (the Gainsborough Suite) opened around 8pm it wasn't long before the happy couple took the floor for the first dance. Immediately following her dance with her new husband, Charlotte had arranged one with her Dad to the strains of This Is The Moment from Jekyll & Hyde ("This is the moment! This is the day, when I send all my doubts and demons on their way!"). I couldn't help wondering if either of my daughters will ever want a massive do like this, complete with "proper" dancing. I'd be in bits before I ever got anywhere near the dance floor.

Gradually Nikki & Charlotte's other workmates and their partners started drifting in. We'd grabbed a table which seated a perfect ten - just enough for us all since our party also included Anita and her husband, who Nikki worked with at Sage a few years back. It was good to catch up with them again. We sat and watched a lot of traditional wedding "Dad dancing" - including one guy who looked a lot like Buzz Lightyear and danced about as convincingly. To infinity and beyond! Nikki persuaded me up onto the floor for one slow number, but as I was driving it was always unlikely I'd get drunk enough to spend much time dancing :)

The evening had a lovely warm, friendly feel to it, which I guess isn't really surprising for a wedding party. Indeed, Charlotte's whole family is a warm and friendly one. Not that a strong family is any guarantee of a happy lasting marriage (living proof of that is sitting right here), but you just had to wish them well - which I did, in writing, when the Guest Book came round.

A walk in the park

Waking after the party to a beautiful sunny, crisp, breezy January day, Nikki and I had the same thought independently: what a great day for a walk in the park.

When I used to live next door to a pub, it was so close and convenient that it lost its appeal. I sincerely hope the same doesn't happen with the park. It would be a shame not to take advantage of it.

Alexandra Park featured large in my student life. Lying on its sward listening to a transistor radio in the early summer was where I did most of my second year revision. Maybe that's why I didn't do too well in those exams! Today was the first time I had set foot in the part since those days back in 1977. Another couple of months and it would have been thirty years.

The wonderful day, and having Nikki with me, dispelled any thought of dwelling on those intervening thirty years. I just enjoyed the park: the footballers, the locals walking their dogs and children, the lake with its various waterfowl, the fabulous sweet smell of old autumn leaves and wet mud. Our conversation ambled along at the same pace as we did. After all this time Ally Park can still work its magic on your soul. We returned home feeling buoyed up by our walk and I found I was actually looking forward to the chance to do it again, but this time in the rain!

Read Nikki's thoughts on our walk (with extra pictures!) here.