First Day Back

I have to put on the clodhoppers, enormous steel toe capped boots which were part of the required kit. No one on the gardening course enjoys putting on their boots, mine are particularly ungainly, gurt, great, black, moon-shaped things, suitably caked in mud. 

The boots do not compliment my outfit, skinny black jeans, and a smart black coat with a lapel full of diamante beetle and poppy brooches. I pull on a woolly hat and get out of the door. It’s commuter time, so there is no point trying to get on a bus, they are all steamed-up and standing-room only, whizzing past all the bus stops to deposit everyone at the tube station.

I set off, my bunioned toes screaming at me, pick up the pace girl, if you’re going to walk it, you might as well walk it. An efficient looking lady with a purple rucksack in one hand and purple bag in the other, wearing trainers is coming up on my left. I stop to contemplate crossing over to walk through the woods, but decide against it. 

I pick up my pace again, catching up wit the purple lady.

‘How dare you be faster than me.’ She says, as I pass her.

‘I was contemplating walking through the woods but decided not to.’ I offer.

‘I could tell you were a walker by the boots.’ She says.

‘I’m gardening today!’ I say

‘Oh lovely, have a good day’, she responds

‘You too!’

Now I have to keep up my pace! I consider slowing down and actually walking with the purple lady. 

The tube is crowded, no seats, I feel safe in my boots, no block –heel or man foot is getting anywhere near my toes in these.

I squeeze out of the train at Camden and walk again, straight up Parkway, through Regent’s Park, squelch, squish, squelch, squish, through the muddy grass besides the new children’s playground still being constructed. A sign informs that it will be opening in Autumn 2019. It’s January 2020 now, it will probably be open in time for the Summer…

Everyone on my course is lovely, we all greet and ask how various different Christmas and New Years were, the tutor arrives and the lesson begins.

Himalayan Poppy Seedlings in the poly tunnel

We all started out as individuals, each having applied for our own reasons, nobody knowing anyone else, (apart from the two sisters). Now, after a term we have become a cohesive group. There are 21 of us. Some complain about the disorganisation, some about the facilities but we are unanimous in our respect and affection for our tutor. 

At lunchtime a group of us go to the café near the open air theatre in the Park. Someone has brought banoffee pie from home to share. We get student discount for our coffees. 

I leave early to get to my annual check-up at UCH Macmillan Centre, which entails walking to the other side of the park, the side we used to live next to, it all feels beautifully familiar, I spot a patch of snowdrops and yellow aconite under the great plane tree by the railings. Ah, there’s the wiggly hazel and the two fountains - still not working!

Winter Aconite - Regent's Park

I go out of my way slightly to buy The Belle Mere a cake. She is 80 today, after my appointment, I am to go straight there and meet Erbie and TheGR. 

I text TheGR to remind him to take the candles.

‘Four Candles‘ he responds.

Fork Handles’ I reply

The Macmillan Centre

Rotating door.

Reception.

Stairs.

Lift.

Fourth floor waiting room.

I'm handed a survey.  How was your doctor?

I haven’t seen the doctor yet, so give back the pen and say I’ll fill it on my way out. 

The floor in this building is amazing. 

Waiting Room Floor - Macmillan Centre, London

The suspended mobile type, sculpture type, thing above the reception desk in the entrance foyer is also amazing. The staff are all amazing. It is the one place I really don’t mind feeling imposter syndrome. 

I’m seen by my doctor remarkably quickly, which is unusual, as previously I’ve had to wait an hour or more. The survey perhaps – box ticked.

I sit in a room with my young lady doctor, she has an unpronounceable name, which my grasp of is improving with each visit. I express my fears, I am reassured, she suggests blood tests anyway. 

Survey. Tick boxes.

Basement for bloods.

Take a ticket – number 31. 

Number 22 flashes up. 

I try not to take in the other people seated around me. To my right, An elderly gentleman is being spoken to by a young lady, about a clinical trial. 

A mother and son sit to my left. 

They go in, she exchanges politeness with the elderly gentleman, whom is Irish.

 ‘Nice cup of tea‘… she says

‘More like a nice pint of Guinness.’ he says. They laugh.

A dad and daughter come out and walk up the stairs, she is really thin and has very short haircut. 

Number 31.

‘Do you have your letter? 

You will always need your hospital number’. 

‘Put it in your phone’. The phlebotomist says as she hands me a piece of paper with it on. 

‘I’m going to look away, because I’m squeamish’ I say.

’Don’t worry‘ 

‘We are all squeamish when it comes to it. It’s fine doing it to other people but if it’s yourself it’s a different story.’ she says.

People taking blood tend to say ‘sharp prick’ or ‘small scratch’ when they are about to take blood.

My phlebotomist says neither. I count to 10, and again; and again. 

‘Hold this here for me,’ 

I place a finger on the cotton-wool over the puncture in my arm as she adds tape to keep it in place. 

‘Thank-you very much’ I say, 

I’m not sure why I’m thanking her, but that’s okay, it’s good to be polite, even if it is to someone whose just stuck a needle in you.

‘I didn’t feel a thing, thank you very much, good bye’. I say over my shoulder

Back walking in the big, heavy boots, they weigh a lot, I consider jumping on a tube to get me to The Belle Mere’s faster, but choose the bus which takes me more or less all the way there - much less walking .

I text TheGR

‘All hunky-dory, see you soon’.

‘Party!’ he replies.

I arrive to an atmosphere that could be cut with a knife, the plan to have take-away curry seems to have changed. The Belle Mere is wandering around with a plate with 3 trout on it. TheGR and Erbie are sat on the sofa facing forward concentrating very hard on the television. 

I go into the kitchen with The Belle Mere and listen as she describes her day.

I go to say hello to the boys and give them kisses.

TheGR and I make a joke about the huge bag of ice we have leftover from Christmas Day. TheBelleMere shouts at TheGR thinking, mistakenly we are laughing about the fish. 

TheGR leaves. 

I explain that we were not talking about the fish to The Belle Mere.

I take my hat and coat off and pour myself a glass, then get on with cooking supper, it will be trout.

TheGR calls, I placate him. TheGR returns, TheBelleMere apologises, we eat. 

We light the candles on the cake, sing Happy Birthday and presents are opened. We have a game of Charades, it is a little like pulling teeth. Everyone smiles.

‘I really need to get Erbie home for a bath and bed, as it’s his first day back to school tomorrow’.  I proffer.

It’s good to be polite.

Eventually we arrive at home.

I take off the boots.

Thank fuck!

Olafur Eliasson : In Real Life

Tate Modern

It could be our thing, I consider saying to Erbie.

Erbie could say: ‘My mother and I go to an exhibition once a month and then have an apple juice afterwards’. 

When he grows up, he could say : ‘I am going to meet my mother at the Royal Academy or the Tate or the National’. 

I could tell him: ‘Did you know the National is where Stubb’s picture of Whistlejacket is – the horse painting, where you said your first word?’

I have these thoughts but the reality never quite pans out - in real life.

Love lock, Millennium Bridge 

In real life, the only way I got Erbie to the exhibition at the Tate today was by offering to pay him an hourly rate - the first and last time I will do this. The only slot I could book was the 10am one, as the show is coming to an end this week and it’s fully booked. I only wanted to take Erbie as I’d heard it was quite fun for kids. There is a fog tunnel and several light installations, plus I’d booked a ticket for myself already. Erbie, as a child was free. Only it meant we needed to leave at 9am. 9am to an 11 year old boy, on Christmas holiday is too early, hence the bribe.

St Pauls, London

We sped walked across the millennium bridge, me dragging Erbie, because, of course we were already late for our 10am slot. I couldn’t find where to enter the actual exhibition. We started on the correct level but on the wrong side of the bridge. Words were said. ‘Help me’ being some of them, and I got to explain the meaning of the phrase ‘blood from a stone’.

Olafur Eliasson, Tate Modern

We went through the foggy tunnel, it changes colour whilst you are inside, from bright white, to yellow to pink, you really can't see anything and it is dream like, the colours surrounding you evoke different emotions. 

There was also a really cool blacked-out room that only revealed it's contents when an ultra-violet light flashed on then off, freezing splashes of water in a fountain, so that it looked like a solid sculptured object that changed shape with each reveal.

One room had a mirrored ceiling and a semi circular tube in black that became round in the reflection. Erbie suggested we lay on the floor. ‘I won’t be able to get back up again’, I only half joked.

Olafur Eliasson, Tate Modern

Interactive Olafur Eliasson, Tate Modern

We look at books in the gift shop and buy TheGR a pencil. 

I can feel myself getting annoyed, Erbie is trying to eek out time, yet I had to drag him out in the first place. We get the tube back. I see a poster for a dating app. with interests hashtags. The models look like children to me. At least it is hopefully a move in the right direction from Tinder. 

New dating app

On the way home I say to Erbie: ‘I was going to say, going to exhibitions together once a month could be our thing, when you’re older and have left home we could meet up...’ 

but I cannot finish. His HSP won’t allow him to go there. 

‘Stop, stop, I don’t like it. I don’t want to talk about the future. ’ he blurts out

I tentatively ask why he doesn't like to talk about the future. ‘Because it makes me think.’ he says and burrows himself deep within his coat pulling his hood so that his face is hidden. 

When we get home I let it be known that the next time I visit the Tate it will be alone.

I take myself off to another room to write this and feel my equilibrium return. After about 40 minutes Erbie asks me to give him a hug. I go and give him a hug and he apologises, I apologise too, for many things, although neither of us are really sure exactly what for, in real life.