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I loved you best

| SallyBee007

Curly in Cornwall - small crop

When I got up this morning the sun was streaming through the blinds and the kitchen light was on, left to provide a glow in case our boy, with his failing eyesight and mild dementia, should wake in the night and wander off to his bed in the sitting room. One of a hundred ways in which I have already noticed how he has permeated every molecule of our beings.

How we’d unlock the door and turn to pick him up when the stairs became too much for him, how we’d put an extra piece of fish or egg on for him when we were cooking, or stoop to refresh his water bowl when we turned on the tap to fill the kettle, the dozen or so times I’d look over at his bed in the evening to check he was okay. Now that bed is empty. No sound of claws on the floorboards as he faithfully follows you to the loo, no comical face appearing round the side of the fridge when you’ve crept to the kitchen whilst he was snoring, no head lifting to see if you’ve got good snacks when you walk in to the room.

Just 15 days short of our fourth Curlyversary our boy is gone.

Yesterday, as his soft furry head lowered on to my hand on the vet’s table and I kissed the top of his nose one last time, I gave thanks for the day I was too polite to say I wasn’t sure he was right for me when I went to meet him, the day I’d dragged my husband 175 miles to see a 10-year-old dog that ‘no-one but us would want’, a dog that didn’t even acknowledge our presence when he walked in, let alone come bounding over.

An hour later I was sitting in the passenger seat of our Fiat, constantly looking back over my shoulder at the ball of fluff on our back seat.

It looked grumpy. And sad. It wasn’t the cute, waggy-tailed dog I’d always imagined owning. I secretly thought I’d been too hasty when I said we’d take him. I didn’t know then that it was fate, that we were perfectly matched, and that a few weeks later we would fall, head over heels, totally and utterly, down the slippery slope of love and it would be quite impossible to climb back up and out of it ever again.

When we got him home we were excited, taking photos of his poor bemused face, admiring the bushy eyebrows that looked just like my dear departed dad’s. Now that I know that dear little face inside out I can’t bear to look at those first pictures; what I see in them now makes my stomach churn. My dog was then still very much someone else’s, a hound who’d spent 10 years loyally sitting by his master’s side, only to wake one day and find she was gone – he just happened to be standing in my sitting room.

For those first few days it was weird. I had waited all my adult life for my own dog, six years from the day my cat-loving husband said if I gave up smoking we could get one. And there he was.

Every night for weeks he woke us repeatedly, jumping on to the sofa and scratching it with all his might. We tried Super Nanny’s tricks, putting him straight back to bed, no eye contact, no talking, no cuddles. Eventually he gave up but he was never happy at night-time until we accidentally stumbled upon the solution. I bought a dog mattress but decided to return it so left it in the bedroom until I had time. Curly clambered on and claimed it. From then on he slept there peacefully every night. Sometimes I’d wake to the sound of both him and my husband snoring gently in harmony.
All he ever wanted was to be close to us.

Now I know that, I berate myself for making a stupid mistake. Six months in we left him unattended in a holiday cottage whilst we went to get a cup of tea. We stood across the street and listened as he ran up and down three flights of stairs desperately searching for us, the sheer terror of being abandoned again painfully evident in his bark.

We don’t know how long he was left alone when his owner died. We couldn’t comprehend his fear. But after a few more episodes and the discovery of his heart condition we abandoned the training at the point where I could put the recycling out without him reaching full-scale panic. He only had a few years left, we reasoned, how hard would it be to adjust our lives and never leave him alone?

And so our generous friends sent the invites as two + one.
Four feet, four paws.

Curly attended two weddings, two wakes, a Baptism, the cinema, exhibitions, and a car test drive where he manoeuvred himself on to the saleswoman’s lap so he could see out the window. He came to beauty salons and shops, cafes and pubs, to welcome new babies and sit with those who were about to leave this world. And he behaved impeccably throughout.

I’m thankful that in spite of all those days when we couldn’t go for a decent walk or sit in the sunshine because it was too much for his old bones, all those days we couldn’t socialise together, go on dates or travel, all the lovely things we missed out on and the sacrifices we made, I still noticed the moments when this gentle soul enriched my life.

Nothing in life gave me more joy than watching his ears bounce up and down as he trotted along the seafront, the way he seemed to relish being buffeted by the wind as much as I did, or the perfect shadow matching his steps when the sun was just so.
I loved seeing him jump about like a baby goat when he felt sand underneath his feet, his stubby tail wagging when he found a piece of fish we’d hidden for a game of hide-and-seek, hearing the noises he made when I was on work calls and he was dreaming, his furry feet twitching as ran free of arthritis whilst sound asleep in his bed, feeling the weight of his muzzle on my lap when I was engrossed in my computer and he decided it was time for tea.

Now those things are just memories, temporarily tainted by the distress of seeing his bed on top of a pile of other people’s junk at the tip, remembering how his velvety ear used to flop over the side it when he was tired; tainted by the horrible realization that he’d been so ill for such a long time, but remembering how, still, he quietly came everywhere we went; tainted by the burning pain of having to leave his lifeless body behind when we said goodbye and stepped out in to the sunshine on his last day, remembering how his beautiful black eyes locked on mine as he sank down on the table after one last biscuit from the vet’s pocket.

Whoever knew that this boy, who I was so unsure of when we first met, would become so much a part of me. My anam cara, my soul friend.

It feels like my ribs are caving in and piercing my lungs when I think about him; when I think that I didn’t give him enough time, I didn’t give him enough porridge, and I didn’t get one more day to enjoy an unexpected cuddle as another cup of tea went cold on the coffee table.

But I know my Curly Wurly, my Chumpy, my Bian, my Koweth, my Noodles, my Boodie, my Boise, knew without a shadow of a doubt that I loved him with every tiny fragment of my heart. And I always will.

 

 

Hair Today, Gone In November

| SallyBee007

I’ve got a funny shaped head. I swear it’s because I was hit so many times by the blackboard rubber when I was a kid.

For those who don’t remember the good old days before white boards and i-Pads or whatever gizmos they have in school these days, the blackboard rubber was about six inches long, a big piece of felt mounted on a thick wooden base. My geography teacher, who bizarrely I still think of fondly, used to stand at the back of the classroom and lob it at the back of my head when she thought I was sleeping in class.

She was a damn good shot, old Miss Wright.

So, if I shave my head, when I shave my head, I expect I’ll look quite weird. I look quite weird anyway but my hair helps to distract from that. Let’s just say I think it’s unlikely I’ll be getting signed up to be a Sinead O’Connor lookylike.

I expect people who see it and know I did it for Macmillan will think, ‘wow, she should have done a marathon instead’.

But I’m a ‘go big or go home’ kinda girl. Actually, I’m a ‘go big or don’t bother leaving the house’ kinda girl.

I’ve rattled a collecting tin for charity on a few occasions, I’ve had monthly direct debits to good causes for more than two decades, and I’ve given money to friends doing really tough things that made them sweaty and took some gumption, but the last time I actually got off my butt and did something worthy of sponsorship was 20+ years ago.

So I’m not sure why I’m doing this. I really like my hair. It’s pretty much the only thing about my appearance I do like. It’s taken me years to grow it this long, I like it in low-hippy bunches, tied up, let loose, sleek and straightened or totally wind-blown. My hairdresser, whose word is law, refuses to cut it any shorter – he doesn’t think everyone can carry off short hair so no doubt he will f.r.e.a.k out when I tell him I’m going chop it all off.

But I hate crappy, crappy, horrible, shitty cancer and I know heaps of you feel the same. And, the thing is, I’m choosing to Brave The Shave. So many people don’t have that choice.

I’m sure I will wonder why I did it when I’m walking the dog at 6.30am in the depths of winter, and I’ve just gone into the bathroom and scraped all my hair back and looked in the mirror and I do indeed look weird but all those people at Macmillan, the nurses, the financial advisors, the people who lend an ear, they’re pretty darn cool, eh?

sx

Oh, PS. I made this decision totally on a whim. If you’re one of the first ones to read this, my lovely husband will find out I’m doing it about the same time as you did. That’s got to be worth a quid or two, eh?

If you would like to donate you can do so here  https://bravetheshave.org.uk/shavers/sally-b/

Jar of Hearts

| SallyBee007

It has taken me somewhat by surprise to notice, just a moment ago, that I have started using my mother’s handcream. That’s an odd statement I know. But after years spent trying different pots, fussily discounting brand after brand, pooh-poohing other people’s recommendations, I had found my Holy Grail of handcreams. Without it I am lost. My hands feel rubbish, and that makes me a bit tetchy.

I consider it such an essential that when my mum was dying my husband bought me a little emergency tube to put in my handbag for days when I needed a pick-me-up as I sat by her bedside.

When I occasionally used Mum’s handcream at her house I always thought it was sticky and a bit cheap, the old-fashioned label had, I don’t think, changed since I was a baby. If you try to rub it in too much it leaves bits on your hands. I have never been someone patient enough to let handcream dry on its own.

At £1.29 a pot it is perfectly good but most definitely not a luxury beauty product.

But Mum never showed any interest in trying other brands. She loved it so much that when she thought it had been discontinued our family started searching for it in every Boots we went near.

Between us we tracked down about six pots, three of which were the last three in stock in some town I was on a day trip to. I was thrilled – though felt a tad guilty that there might be someone else out there who only used Cremolia and didn’t have children looking for it in four different counties. Not guilty enough to leave one on the shelf for them though. Mum’s cupboard was replenished and we all rested easy again.

After some considerable time it came back in to stock, one wonders if it was by public demand, hoardes of rampaging old ladies complaining that the handcream that had been used by generations was no longer deemed worthy in a modern society.

And therein lies the rub – used by generations.

When Mum died and we came to clear out her house we got to the point where we were all tired and emotional.

But with so much to do we needed to press on. After a restorative cuppa, my sister and I chose the bathroom – an ‘easy hit’ we said, nothing sentimental in there, right? My sister started by taking down a laminated Mabel Lucie Attwell poster off the wall, a reprint of a poem Mum had loved when she was little and recited to me when I was a child. From behind it fell a note, handwritten by my Mum on a paper bag, saying the poster was for me because I liked it as much as she did.

An ‘easy hit’ this room was not. I remained relatively composed. Relatively being the key word.

So armed with a bin liner we opened the cupboard ready to scoop up moisturisers and tubes of squeezed-in-the-middle toothpaste. One of the first things my sister pulled out and lobbed in the bag was a jar of Cremolia, one of my mother’s own little secret stockpile should she ever be faced with production stopping again. I lost it. I don’t know why. It was just a jar of handcream. But I reached in the bag, fished it out, and scurried into my room.

That jar of Cremolia made me cry as much as pretty much anything we dealt with save for a few notes and her clothes. I had seen my mother unscrew the golden lid a hundred thousand times over almost 50 years, dabbing just one finger inside as the washing up water glugged down the plughole. It smelled like her hands, the ones that had dressed me when I was little, cuddled me, stroked my hair when I was having the ‘screaming habdabs’.

Now it’s sitting on my desk, with another waiting in the cupboard near the kitchen sink. And several times a day I absent-mindedly unscrew the lid and dab just one finger inside like she did. And I get it. Mum didn’t use that handcream because it was the best on the market. She didn’t use it because it was cheap and she had little money for luxury items. She used it because her mother had used it. And probably her mother’s mother before her.

So now my lovely L’Occitane with shea butter sits in my desk drawer, pulled out from time to time when I feel the need for something more nourishing than the gooey stuff that I can buy 14 pots of for the same price. But I have a feeling that the makers of Smith’s Cremolia didn’t lose one more customer when Mum died, they simply gained a new generation.

My Life In Books: Story Of My Life  

| SallyBee007

“I want you to read this one out,” she said, and I raised my eyes to find her looking straight at me.

The words struck fear in to my heart. My novel writing teacher, a quirkily-brilliant, uber-cool author, wanted me to read the opening chapter of the proffered book out loud in class.

Despite being well into my thirties, I instantly became the little kid who was asked to go outside the classroom and read the big clock on the wall, then tell the teacher what it said. All eyes were on me – and I couldn’t tell the time.

I refused. Didn’t fancy it. Rubbish at reading out loud, yada yada yada. But Daphne insisted.

“I know you will love this book,” she said. “I just know it.”

And so I made a snap decision; which made me look more pathetic, not being confident enough to read out loud, or being a bit crap at it?

So I picked up the book and read.

From line one I was hooked.

‘I’m like, I don’t believe this shit,’ it said.

When I look back at that opening line and the content of the story I have no idea what Daphne thought I would love about it. Although I do cuss and curse, I had never done so in front of her. I have a reasonably pleasant accent that was nothing like the New York street slang in the narrative. And drugs are really not my bag.

But on my way home from the college I went to the bookshop, bought a copy, took it home and read it cover to cover. Daphne was right, I loved it.

It’s not so much that this book was the most incredible thing I have ever read, more that it opened my eyes to what I was missing. It was the book that really properly turned me in to a reader.

From that experience onwards I ditched the pot-boilers and light-hearted holiday reads and started to take recommendations. I read pretty-much every book Daphne mentioned, I sucked up E. Annie Proulx and Anne Tyler who were among her favourite writers (and now mine), and then I started choosing books by authors I had never heard of before. Sometimes I just picked titles I liked, sometimes I judged books by their covers. Some of them I hated, others I loved so much I re-read the last few chapters because I hadn’t wanted them to end.

Story Of My Life proved to be pivotal in my reading history. So although Jay McInerney is not my favourite writer and I was later disappointed by his better-known titles, Story Of My Life is officially my favourite book.

I have, in fact, three copies, none of which I can bear to get rid of.

When I worked in a bar one of the other barmaids, a girl called Karen, was doing a writing course and I couldn’t wait to share this novel with her. Big mistake. Huge.

Sometime later, when I had been feeling twitchy about the fact that she had had it so long, I asked her if she had finished reading it.

She looked at me blankly. I reminded her. Described the cover. Re-capped the story.

“Oh,” she said. And then went on to tell me how when she’d split up with her dunderhead boyfriend she’d left loads of stuff at their flat and she really didn’t want to phone him and ask for it back. He’d probably dumped everything of hers in the bin, anyway, she said.

I politely brushed over it, told her it wasn’t important, it was just a book after all. But secretly I was gutted. So my bezzie and me started the search for another copy. We found plenty. None of them had the right cover with the black and white photo on the front. Others found their way on to my bookshelf along the way. A beautiful little Bloomsbury edition that I felt I could lend out. One that arrived all wrapped up with a postcard from the friend who had scoured second-hand bookshops across the land – right cover, but a hardback.

I read each one to make them mine, and then I became attached. Finally she found one that looked right. It came with the inscription that simply said: “I believe you may have been looking for this.” And I loved it, I loved the quest she’d been on to find me a replacement; it was a special thing. Now all three copies sit in among the thinned-out books that remain on my shelves.

But in the same way that some people think fondly of their first teenage love, sometimes I wonder if that first copy that changed my reading habits forever made someone else happy or is sitting at the bottom of a landfill dump somewhere.

Like a first love it has a special place in my memory and I will sometimes think of it wistfully and sigh.

My Life In Books: The Alchemist

| SallyBee007

It has to be said that The Alchemist is not a book for everyone. Some I’m sure will think it’s utter poppycock. It’s just a novel after all and yet many hundreds of people live their lives by its message. And I am one of them.

Paulo Coelho’s most-loved title is one of my treasured possessions. It was given to me many years ago by a person with a truly beautiful personality; September 12, 2002 to be exact.

Through a combination of house moves, new jobs, and being in very different places with our lives she is no longer in mine, well, not properly anyway. But I have always believed that special people come to you at certain points in your life and, although they might not stay forever, you carry a bit of them with you always; a notion The Alchemist echoes.

I miss her because she is wise, and funny, and kind. Because when my dad died she wrote me a letter that spun straight to my broken heart. Even though she doesn’t yet know that pain of losing your father she got it in a single sentence.

I miss her because she made me run through enormous puddles when we got caught in a thunderstorm on our way to a night out, and then she laughed when we had to spend the evening with panda eyes because the rain had smudged our mascara.

I miss her because she tucked me up in her spare bed one night when I was wracked with insomnia and I woke hours later to a hot cup of tea and the smell of a bathtub rammed with expensive Penhaligon’s bubbles.

And I will always think fondly of her for giving me her own copy of a book she loved at a time when I didn’t even know I needed it.

She told me that tradition dictated The Alchemist should be read then passed on to someone in need and that’s what I should do. I have bought copies for other people but if you’re reading this, darling, I’m sorry but I still have the one you gave me and I will still have it when I’m old and grey.

I can’t tell you that much about the story. I’m one of those people who shuts the back cover and can’t quite remember what the plot was by the following day. What I remember is some little nugget that struck a chord or how it made me feel.

And The Alchemist made me feel like I understood life just a tiny bit better. It made me feel like any time I was faced with a difficult decision I simply had to look for a sign and I would know the way.

One day, standing in the shower with my mind unusually quiet, the words: “It’s time to go,” came in to my head and the decision that had rattled around in my brain for weeks, the one she hoped the book would help me make, was done.

Before this book my brain would have doubted the veracity of those words and set off on the never-ending cycle of ‘what ifs’ again. After it I became more aware of listening to my heart.

And so I scribbled out my resignation and handed it in that very day, packed up, and headed off to new horizons. I left behind all the emotional chaff that was bringing me down and swapped my wardrobe full of dull, practical suits for clothes that made me feel happy. The new job I had thought was dead and buried suddenly became mine and everything started to fall in to place in a year that was perhaps the most seminal one of my life.

The intervening years have had some deliciously happy days but in times when life has not been smooth looking for the signs the way the shepherd boy Santiago did on his journey across deserts and mountains has helped.

This book, though it will pain her greatly to know it, is part of the reason I don’t have children. One day I realised I was studiously ignoring sign after sign that it wasn’t meant to be, a veritable Las Vegas strip of great big neon pointers in fact, and I admitted defeat.

But its thinking is also quite possibly the reason I saw my dad just the week before he died after suddenly feeling like I should take a diversion on my way home from a few days away. We had what turned out to be one last lovely lunch in the sunshine at one of dad’s favourite places. I can’t remember saying goodbye but I know without a shadow of doubt that I would have hugged him and told him I loved him.

There are countless times when I have struggled to come to a decision or deal with inner turmoil and suddenly something has happened to make me know exactly what to do.

Just this week, as I have bickered relentlessly on the phone with someone I love I repeatedly pulled the same card out of my pack of inspirational quotes from the Dalai Lama, a card about using differences in a positive way. Angrily I shuffled and shuffled until I pulled out another about compassion healing inner anger. Today I tried one last time and pulled out ‘Be a nice person’. I laughed and randomly, on my way back from the loo, took out a book I haven’t looked at for years, 16 Guidelines For A Happy Life. I opened it up on a step-by-step exercise about having patience when dealing with someone you are finding difficult. Okay, okay, I get the message.

Yes, you might think it is all a load of bunkum. But really, for me, The Alchemist is just about listening to your heart, taking a little guidance when it is offered, letting something bigger than you decide your fate, falling backwards and expecting a soft landing.

I opened my copy just now and came upon these words.

“Why should I listen to my heart?”

“Because you will never again be able to keep it quiet. Even if you pretend not to have heard what it tells you, it will always be there inside you, repeating to you what you’re thinking about life and about the world.”

So to the gorgeous girl up there hundreds of miles away but always somewhere in my heart, thank you. This one is for you x

My Life In Books: The great chuck out

| SallyBee007

Several years ago I decided to get rid of the vast majority of our bookshelves. My dreams of having a personal library complete with a ladder that moved round the shelves were clearly never going to be realised and I was tired of my tiny flat being stuffed with rows and rows of books that collected dust. And so the great clear out began. Five huge shelves would be replaced with one shiny new one which would have space for 50 tomes max – everything else had to go.

As a person who treasures books and defines their life by them it was no mean feat. But, as depressing as it was, I didn’t want to be bogged down with novels I would never read again, even more so the ones that I had never completed or even got past the first par with.

Bouyed by an interview I did with Nick Hornby I clung to what he told me: “If a book is killing you, for God’s sake put it down.”

I promised Mr Hornby that I would get rid of one such book that very weekend. And so the dog-eared copy of the Lord of the Rings that had stared out accusingly at me in every house I had lived in for more than 20 years was first in the charity box, complete with the bookmark I had left somewhere about two thirds of the way through. I was free. No longer the person who had spectacularly failed to finish it in two decades but now a person who just didn’t enjoy it that much.

That, however, was the only one I felt joyful about.

The duplicates were not too hard. As fellow journalists my husband and me had several of the same titles – mine were in better condition so it was largely mine that stayed. As it wasn’t my books that were going that was a good section to get in the swing with.

Then came the old novels that hadn’t had that much impact on my life. The funny gift books went. The collections that showed my temporary fascination with one particular subject were significantly thinned; the factual and fiction books on the Mafia that sat next to dozens of books on Buddhism were pared down to a few titles (though the Buddhism books fared significantly better, you’ll be pleased to hear).

A few of those that the whole world has raved about were next – yep, it is true that my copy of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time and One Day were picked up and put down more times than I care to remember. I failed where a million others had succeeded. But I let the guilt go. Hell, I have never been a follower whether it was about politics, ra-ra skirts, or cult films, indeed I brazenly declared decades ago that I found all-bar-one Shakespeare tale turgid so why was I holding on to all these books that people told me I must enjoy? Someone else undoubtedly would, and they’d get them for the bargain price of 50 pence.

Really old books that had been bought from dusty second-hand bookshops as souvenirs of lovely days out were toughies. I was pained by the thought that they might never be loved again. An Oscar Wilde and a book about Cary Grant with a brilliant intro stayed, the others went.

And though I have on occasion mourned its loss, a prized Roald Dahl was given to a little girl I love, one whose mother I had repeatedly read the long-lost original copy with. It has since been replaced by more of the wondercrump’s witterings which made me laugh when I couldn’t focus on ‘real’ books.

In amongst the madness was the decision to keep all three copies of a Jay McInerney book that is considered to be my favourite because of its place in my reading history – each one is precious in its own way, though none is the original that I lent out and never got back.

By the end of a process that took many weeks of sorting and re-sorting we were left with one uber-tidy shelf of our very finest. Well, apart from the suitcase on top of the wardrobe and the box under the bed of ones we haven’t quite parted with yet.

And now, several years down the line, that bookcase that originally looked like something from the pages of a stylish magazine has novels laying awkwardly on top of the carefully aligned titles, big piles of books hidden behind the neat rows, and even a few balanced next to the ornaments that were chosen to break up the display.

One day, one day, I will sort them out again and pare it all back to those titles that I really treasure but for now I have to admit, I’m a bookish kinda girl.

* Hang fire for blogs about some of my favourite titles and what they mean to me.

The Last Hurrah!

| SallyBee007

Sometime between 2.32pm and 3.32pm today a parcel will arrive, a parcel I’ve kind of been waiting for for about five years. My new coat. The one that has been on the catchily-entitled ‘Big Stuff I Want’ list for quite some time.

I have scrimped and saved for this coat, tired myself out working extra hours to justify its expense, done hours of research comparing little Union Flag buttons, pocket shapes and hoods until I’d narrowed it down to my top five picks.

Then I waited, and I waited, until the moment when an email came through telling me the sale had started and I pounced. In the moment that I clicked ‘add to basket’ I saved myself more money than I had ever even paid for a coat before I became a dog walker, someone who had to brave hail storms, gales, and pea-souper fogs, whether I liked it or not (and, largely, I did not).

But this purchase comes with a hefty dose of sadness for my beloved old walking coat, the knackered green parka with the missing button that leaves my legs like icicles, the one I pulled out of a treasured friend’s charity bag almost 11 years ago.

It’s not just a coat, you see. It’s a souvenir from my safe place. It’s dozens of memories. It’s what I wore when I discovered the joy of walking without somewhere to go. Even on those days when I felt like life was lobbing lemons at my head I’d pull it on, zip it up, and feel a little bit better about everything. Those first few seconds still feel like being hugged every time.

This coat started its life with me on walks over muddy fields in the country and through Stowe’s beautiful grounds, past temples and monuments, up hill and down dale with the dearest of dear friends who took me in when I felt like I was standing in the middle of Spaghetti Junction without a road map.

They reminded me what was important in life – and that it most definitely wasn’t having all the tins in the cupboard categorised by content and perfectly aligned to the front. It was a seminal year in my life, and this old walking coat reminds me of that.

This coat was there when I walked beside a beautiful Labrador who came to stay and wished he was mine; it was there a few months later when we took our own rescue dog to the beach for the first time; I wore it when I temporarily conquered my fear of horses to go riding with a young girl who unlocks my adventurous side; and it brought me confidence and warmth when I first went collecting money for charity, but most of all it was there on countless yomps with people I really, really love.

And so we had a last hurrah, me and the coat. I delayed delivery of the new one so I could wear it one last time without the temptation of shiny new buttons that do up all the way down. We took a freezing cold walk on a favourite beach, where the wind tied huge knots in my hair and our hound ran down the sand with his ears flopping about and his stubby tail held high.

Now I’ve emptied out the pockets that once hid the massive heart-shaped pebble that I used to tell my husband I was taking his name when we married, despite swearing since I was a child that I never would; square stones from a Somerset beach; a super flat one that reminded me of a few lovely days in Cornwall; a round one from Morecambe; and a wonky red heart that has lived inside it for so long I can’t remember where it came from. I emptied out the gloves, the sand, and the last few dog biscuits.

But when it came to putting it in a bag for the charity shop, I couldn’t do it.

So now I’ve got to clear out a place in my over-stuffed wardrobe, somewhere alongside the purple glittery halter-neck top that danced me through several nights at the tail end of journalism college; next to the beautiful bouclé ‘smoking jacket’ that Dad bought me as a reward when I told him one Christmas Day that I had finally given up the old weed; and beside a skirt so loved it became slightly see-through from being washed and ironed too often but came out of retirement for one last outing to Dad’s funeral.

Perhaps when I’ve been wearing my posh new coat for a few weeks I’ll feel differently but for now the old one has to stay. I know it has had its day, I know it’s stupid to keep it, but something tells me an over-priced jacket, however smart and snug, can never wholly replace a scruffy, worn-out one that holds a decade of happiness in its lining.

Pretty Flamingos

| SallyBee007

When I see a lovely piece of Mid-Century furniture, a sequinned flapper dress, or an antique diamond ring, I love to wonder about the stories behind them; newly-weds kitting out their home with an Ercol sideboard they’ve saved up for, a dress that’s been danced in ’til dawn, a ring that marked the beginning of a happy life together.

This little table has quite a tale to tell and it’s one I know well.

It was made by my dad, back in the day when people did stuff because they had no money. Dad made this table before I was born. He was recuperating from TB and the patients were given projects to while away the long days.

When I was a kid this table was our boat. My big brother would turn it upside down and we’d climb aboard together, one at each end.

Its mottled blue Formica top made it glide across the carpet, taking us off to wonderful places (well, to the telly and back). I imagined the green and gold swirly carpet that I truly hated was a brilliant blue sea. If I was lucky my brother would sometimes become my gondolier and he’d stand behind and scoot me round the sitting room whilst I sat on-board and squealed.

Over the years it fell out of favour, got replaced by a glossy shop-bought thing, and somehow ended up in the greenhouse with dad’s prized tomatoes growing on top. The wood became parched by the sun, and split by winter’s frost, the Formica long gone.

When mum and dad downsized I went to help clear out 50-odd years of clutter and saw it poking out the top of a skip.

During those weeks I’d let a dozen things go to the charity shop that I now wish I had kept so I’m incredibly thankful that I was having one of my sentimental days.

To Dad’s surprise I insisted it was saved. We hauled it out of the skip and off it went on the removal van to sit in their new garage in Devon. Years later I collected it, sanded down for me by dad, and it sat in my spare room with dreams of giving it a Formica finish once more. Many moons passed and eventually, after dad died, it moved to my sitting room, repainted but still in a sorry state from its tomato days.

Then one day, armed with some money saved up from birthdays and after years of swooning about her marquetry work, I emailed Lucy Turner.

“Send me a picture of your little boat,” she said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

The day she met me in a car park, trundling up in her funny Citroen van with Shabba the Jack Russell by her side, was a happy day. We talked of juicy pink flamingos, she told me she suspected underneath the layers of paint that the parched old wood was teak, she was vibrant and excited and full of enthusiasm.

I had no qualms about sending this precious thing off to her workshop by the sea in Cornwall to be brought back to life.

And this, this is what she’s done. This wonderfully talented, super-lovely designer has given our little boat’s tale a happy ending. I adore it beyond belief.

I so wish my dad was here to see it.