Crying in my sleep

Things were going to be all good now.

But I woke up crying in my sleep.

How can that even be possible?

And what do I do now?

Travelling Romantically by Train

Train Station

A long held ambition of mine is to take more train trips. I do make a lot of train trips but these are usually on cross country Birmingham to London. I want to take the Trans-Siberian railway to Mongolia; I want to spend days on the train finding it’s rhythm. I want to take the train from Settle to Carlisle and see what is supposed to be the most beautiful route in England. I want to travel by train across a border. I want to take a sleeper train.

In Slovenia we took some time out from snowboarding for a trip to Ljubljana. I have been to Ljubljana before and loved it. It is a beautiful romantic city with old buildings and a river. It is how I imagine Prague before the event of stag weekends. I wanted to take my family and show them the castle, the buildings, the square…It lies 86km from the mountain we were visiting and the travel rep offered a trip. We’re not trip people, we didn’t want the sightseeing tour, or the coach or the guide. I visited the tourist information office and got bus and train timetables. We took the local bus, which was interesting…giving us a view of the countryside and small towns. Amusingly when we got to Ljubjana I didn’t remember it in any detail leading my husband to ask..where did you go when you said you were in Ljubjana?

On the return journey we decided to take the train (and the bus…the train didn’t go to the correct part of the mountains). It was wonderful. We arrived at the station slightly late and rushed due to travelling with a small dancing boy. My husband got tickets and we rushed for the train. The station platforms are low to the ground and the railway is not fenced of the way it is in England. There were gates along the railway and we cut across the tracks to get to our platform. The train was high with big meatle vertical steps to climb into the carriage. The carriages were divided into compartments with big wooden doors, sprung seats and individual lighting. We travelled across the country stunned by the beautiful snowy country side unveiling itself along the tracks. The buildings disappeared and we saw great expanses of farm land, rivers, snow and in the distance, mountains. We watched the sun set as we speeded along. My husband read to us; a story about a dragon.

The compartment had high luggage racks and Tempest said ‘I almost wish I could ride up there’. I remembered catching the train in London with my (real) dad and him lifting me up into the racks and lying behind the suitcases. Unfortunately I feel unable to lift my son so neatly and I’m nervous of the foreign guard. We get off the train and exit the station through an old building with tiled walls and no star-bucks. It reminded me of stations preserved at Keighly and along the Worth Valley but without the fake good cheer and cleanliness. To our relief we climb straight onto a bus and back for tea.

An evening with my family

I realise now that an evening with my family makes me want to die. Really and truthfully.

Tonight was my brothers birthday. Conversations I’d like not to have had…

Mum: he had a date with the girl from the funeral*

Brother: she had a fat arse…nice lass… I had her up against the wall.

*yes it was only me who had a problem with the date/funeral situation.

Mum: I’d never take antidepressants everything I feel is real..

Brother: the music you played as a teenager gave me nightmares

Me: the things you say about women make me want to hide under the bed and never come out…

Me: (describing an experience in a coffee shop)…when I went to pay the waitress said a man had taken care of our bill and left. It was hugely romantic (coffee and truffles) he hadn’t left a name or card..

Brother: you’re married for christ sake I don’t know how your husband puts up with you*

*is it really my fault if people chat me up? I didn’t speak to him or meet his eye or fuck him on the table. I hate that it’s hard to go out in the world without these encounters.

Ljubljana

This mad pursuit of pleasure

This mad pursuit of pleasure can be considered the blight of modern society> That’s what I told myself anyway.

After another night of coughing (chest infection) I woke up feeling awful, my husband looked sceptical as I pulled on the clothes required for snowboarding. My body felt like it was being caged: first a sports bra which neatly holds breasts flat to the chest; then base layer; a fleece, snow trousers; a jacket; gloves; the helmet; goggles and boots. The boots are awful holding my legs stiff in what must be an unnatural position.  I’m exhausted before we get to the slope I gamely work through the warm up, move to the right (no the left) ….three squats if you fail to catch the fellow participants snowboard ….does anybody have any exercises they want to share? I manage to perform the tricks we learnt yesterday then I sit in the snow for too long unable to get up, the instructor comes and takes me through today’s drill. I can sort of do it, and can see his point that the first time is hardest but it’s no good I can’t possibly do something hard, I can barely stand and I return to my hotel room for several hours of coughing and crying.

When my husband and son return they say…I hope you don’t regret it I do regret it. I’m terribly disappointed in myself but there is no way. I can’t do it.

I have however found the chemist

A postcard from Slovenia

Nice, nice …EXCELLENT…. falling there Storm. I’m loving board school, two hours a day snowboarding hampered only slightly by my chronic lack of fitness poor coordination and unwieldiness once I’m wearing enough clothes to brave the arctic conditions. After the first day I can make it down the slope steering slightly to the right or left, unfortunately I can’t stand up on my own so every time I fall I have to be assisted to my feet. It’s an amazing feeling….the bit before the falling.

I’m also loving sledging, skating, walking and swimming. I feel I could also love lying in bed reading a book if anyone felt they wanted to give it a try. When holidaying with children it’s always hard to be totally sure that your having a good time as it’s such hard work…I have to mutter a constant refrain of put your coat on, where’s your hat, don’t forget your gloves. Also finding food for children away from home is tricky, and hungry children are trickier. Although I did agree that the hotel breakfast of stir-fried aubergine, scrambled eggs and boiled frankfurters was a little hard to face. There was also some chocolate breakfast cereal but this struck him as much too much of an unlikely prospect to really try.  Luckily we dined like Kings on home made pasta, asperagus and salad.

The landscape is amazing ..so vertical, mountains covered in snow dispersed with rocks and trees. The strata of the rocks and the trees are also vertical, looking like they’ve been drawn on with charcoal. Tempest was entranced as drove in from the airport looking at the occasional fort perched on rocky ….well rocks actually. There are occasional wooden buildings.

Now that we are here there seems to be no motivation to go anywhere else. The mountains surround us and the resort seems to offer all the activity we could desire.

The only thing I’m missing from back home is the look of shock on people’s faces when my brother explains that he hasn’t told his son that our dad has died.

Funny things..

Someone came from Orkney for the funeral but bizarrely went to Chorley instead of Chorlton and missed it.
My drunken brother was under the bizarre impression that I’d been left in his care after the funeral. He got so drunk he couldn’t remember where he left me (in a taxi after I’d dropped him home). So I woke to a number of frantic calls and messages enquiring into my where abouts and safety.
He took an envelop around to collect donations from those standing outside and ‘lost’ it. In the pub.
My brothers who came up with my (real/remaining) dad were both terrified on the journey. My cousin came up with my uncle and spent the funeral trying to find ‘another’ way home. They got in the car, my uncle started smoking, as they got going it became apparent that the 3 other occupants of the car were going to chain smoke all the way. He opened the window but as my uncle drove at a breath taking 105 miles an hour the whole car shook when he did so. My other cousin flew from Switzerland to London so was also able to ‘enjoy’ the trip… Although he was amongst the smokers.
My (real/remaining) dad has started smoking again…although he was managing the cravings etc he felt it was stifling his creativity. Great; he’ll be able to write more of those truly awful badly edited books before he dies.

Things I didn’t know

Over 300 came to the funeral and many had to stand outside.
The carrying of the coffin to the music I choose was hugely emotive and my husband watched me dissolve as we walked up the aisle. I was unable to read and those sitting behind me watched the tears roll down my hair whilst willing me to stop crying.
Tears were an effective barrier to most random hugging strangers.
Apart from my exboyfriend whose presence at the funeral was inexplicable but took the opportunity to make his move.
This surprised me. Two of my brothers friends made their moves too.
Apparently it is what people do at funerals.
Christ knows why. It’s probably all the random hugging.
But I do feel rather grateful to those who didn’t think it was a flirting opportunity. Or simply didn’t fancy me. Or found my husband standing by an impediment.
I assume some men like vulnerable women.
Bastards.

I don’t want to…

I don’t want to go to the funeral. I feel so tired I can hardly lift my limbs which feel lumpen and leaden. I’m too tired to speak properly.

I will go and endure a myriad of unwanted hugs. I’ll carry the coffin, read the incomprehensible reading and eat the vegetarian buffet. I will even make small talk with the various snake oil salesmen who did quite well out of this. People will tell me how lovely my brothers speech was, ‘from the heart’. I will not tell them that it was from my heart.

If my arch enemy (leader of the snake oil salesmen) attends I will not push her into the grave and stamp on her stupid smug face.

So damn funny…

I don’t think I’ll be able to grieve properly whilst I’m finding everything so damn funny….my brother said to me (about the funeral)…I don’t want to bloody read I want to say my own thing about my dad….will you write it for me?

I wrote this.

I can remember as a child sitting with my dad under the blankets whilst he made up stories to tell us.  He would hold he blankets above our heads whilst spinning magical tales. He did it with his grandsons too.

This picture of my dad holding up the roof of my world is how I remember him. When I was growing up there was no part of my world where he didn’t help me; steadying my bike when I learnt to cycle; helping me with school projects and advising me on my first relationships.

The world always felt a better place for having him as part of its architecture.  I never envied other people their dads because I knew that ours was the best,.