The Waiting Game

This is another blog from number 1 daughter who writes so brilliantly. Things have moved on since she wrote this and I have written but not posted some rather dark blogs. However, there is more cheerful news on the horizon which I will be sharing when I am not so tired. 

Since we last spoke, you have been in hospital and had a lumpectomy and your lymph nodes removed. You jiggled a plastic cup of red stuff rather cheerfully on Skype last night which has a long tube attached to your armpit. You have been sleepy and dealing with the highs and lows that seem to strike you once the shock is over. I think. I have no idea.

I think you will agree with me when I say, rather irritatedly, that people think all cancer sufferers are the same. It is a common disease, I agree, but if I hear about your close or distant relative one more time, you I fear will be off my Christmas list with a big black stripe across your name. It is not really your fault - rather an automated response mechanism that peculiarly ricochets out of one’s mouth when they hear the big “C” word. Almost like a “please leave a message after the tone” voicemail. You know it’s coming. Beep off. 

No it is not the same. Not when it is your flesh, living blood, the most precious and sacrosanct figure in your life (+ 4 other family members), this fragile, yet strong, beautiful thing - my mother - who requires me to hold all my dreams and hopes dear. The very pinnacle of everything you look up to. And this nasty tainted thing (for there is no synonym for the word cancer) has quite literally and viciously kicked the walls down.

You call me the drama queen - you are probably right. Sorry mother.

I am at the stage now where cancer is no longer a word which is lodged in my mouth uncomfortably and uncouth. I can say it without a thick swallow. Just about. I can also be rational and logical for a sustained period of time (most importantly, at work) without needing to breathe fresh air, look up at the sky and say “Why God?” I can stop after two glasses of wine. I can talk quite companionably, laugh out loud, complete a gym session without telling my Personal Trainer to bugger off. Life has gone on. I have half-heartedly gone along with it.

We are now doing the waiting game. The waiting game consists only of a set of dice and it’s a few days before we see which numbers are up. We sit tight - patiently and impatiently - a perfect synchronicity of opposites in play. In the meantime, I revisit and revisit the past. 

Last week I was at home and I was stupendously proud of myself for not cracking every time I looked at you. On the last day, you and I went to Helperby to track down an old gravestone which belonged to the ancestor of my godfather’s mother in law - Granny Annie. We sat in the car quietly, clear blue skies and a breeze squeezing itself through the window. Country lanes and fields running past. Birds were probably singing. We did not talk of trivial things - only the important, but we gave them the air of normality. We talked of marriage, family, friendship, life after cancer (for yes, extraordinarily, you have planned that far ahead). The strangest thing which I am still dwelling on, is that you told me that finding out I was deaf was worse than being told you had cancer. It was such a incongruous statement to me. “Me - Deaf. You - Cancer” - it  has replayed itself in my head as broken English between two foreigners. 

I have no memory of when you were told, nor any understanding of what it is like to be a parent but I can tell you this. I would choose having a mother like you over being able to hear in a heartbeat. Being deaf has taught me the reward of hard work. Being deaf has taught me to be humble and to care about all human beings - the strong and the weak. Being deaf has given me an edge more than any disadvantage I face. Being deaf makes me cherish what I have rather than mourn what I don’t have. This attitude, zeal and sense of life did not come from being deaf but from your conviction that I could have the sun, the moon, the stars and more if I had the confidence, conviction and determination to go and get them. We all know the saying ‘life is a rich tapestry’ - another of those overused cliches - but I truly believe that my life is more enriched for living with broken ears. 

When we are little, we don’t know what words mean. After a while, we are told by our parents a ball is something you can bounce. A door becomes something you open. When you grow older, you learn that a ball is also a sphere. It can be made out of different materials. When we are even older, we question the validity of those definitions - is a ball always something you can bounce? Do you always open a door? When I was little, being deaf meant that I couldn’t hear. And that was ok. You told me I had these magical toys in my ears called “ear bugs” that made my ears better. When I was a little older, I realised that being deaf meant that I could do some things but some things I would find a little bit harder. And that was ok too. When I was even older, I questioned the validity in everything you had ever told me - mainly because I was a horrendous teenager - except for one thing; what being deaf meant. Because you had sold me on its meaning from Day 1. Being deaf didn’t mean that I was any less than anybody else. If anything, it made me all the more special. And I have clung, rather egocentrically perhaps, onto those magical words because they reward me with the confidence, conviction and determination to reach for the sun, the moon and the stars. As you want all your children to do. You did it.

So I suck at this waiting game and I don’t know which way the dice are going to fall. But I do take strength from the past. I hold certainty in the way you dealt with all your hurt and pain in other matters, because you did right. You came out strong and you came out on top. I know this because the rest of us have followed you.

What I want just now... I reserve the right to change my mind later.

Am I really here? It's 3.00am and I am blogging from my bed on a ward at York District Hospital because, although I am utterly exhausted, I can't sleep. It feels surreal - like I might wake up and still be going to Wimbledon tomorrow (today actually, as it turns out) with number 3, meeting up with number 1 child and staying with lovely old mate JCB. 

But I am here, wearing brand new jammies and some very fetching elasticated knee socks (boy, my feet must pen and ink by now - hot in here!) and there's a drain in my armpit and the unlikely combination of a road accident of bandages, bruising and graffiti on my left breast. On a positive note of course, it  - and I - am still here. And I feel ok - which is also good. Of course, sleep might be a possibility if the elderly and very charming bewigged lady opposite didn't snore with the randomness and sheer ferocity of my beloved. I nod off, thinking thoughts of Jonny Wilkinson (a girl must take her pleasures where she may) and then Florence lets out a rip snorter and I'm wide awake again. It is darkly humorous that her wig is pretty much immobile throughout and her mouth is like a letterbox. I may not be finding wigs so full of comedy value in the months to come. 

Not going to talk about yesterday though hopefully it's not regarded as rude to drop off mid-sentence to Graham, the anaesthetist. He must get it all the time. Anyway phase 1 of the horribleness completed and I'm waiting now for the consultant to give me the heads up on yesterday's damage limitation exercise. 

I am blessed to have truly amazing family and friends. A record-breaking eight texts yesterday morning before 6.30 whilst I was loading tweet deck for Spear Travels, and then a Skype with number 1. My friends have been wonderful, offering loads of support which is what I need now. And my nominated cancer buddy, aka my ladies doubles partner at Ripon and very dear chum, knows exactly what I need. But I don't want this bloody awful event to define me. I want my friends to entertain me with all the usual madness and not dwell on what is happening to me. And most importantly - and sorry if this sounds bossy but if I can't be bossy today when can I? - I don't need to know about anyone else's experience of cancer. I've all on dealing with this and I don't need anyone else's, however kindly meant. 

So I don't want to be the woman with breast cancer. I want to continue to be the mother of four fantastic young adults, my beloved's beloved, party animal (did I tell you I went out in thigh boots and hot pants on Saturday?), tennis nut, marketing consultant and her from the Acorn Charity. And if I turn into a cancer bore I rely on you all to tell me!  

Not quite the mother and son day I had intended but numbers 3 and 1 having a ball at Wimbledon. Excellent! 

Big C and little c

This is a blog by my number one daughter. With everything I do now, there is always one of my children that can do it better than me and with writing it's number 1. This is her take on recent events...

There is nothing quite like the sudden jolt of reality when your mum tells you she has cancer. It was Wednesday afternoon in London, 25th June, 16.54pm and I was in the middle of delivering a four day programme for 100 students at BP on the subject of ‘Smart Cities’. The sun was shining and the energy in the group was high. Halfway through delivering a session with 20 senior leaders and 100 students, I got a text from my mum saying “I need to talk to you”. This was followed by a text from my dad saying “Call your mother now”. A feeling of dread over washed me. Plain and simple.

I took off my microphone, dropped my things, marched past security and went outside. The traffic was booming and there was chatter everywhere. I couldn’t hear and I couldn’t find a quiet spot. Eventually, I walked back inside to reception and rang the number. Mum picked up. “Can you hear me ok?” she said. “Yes” I said. “Listen carefully. I have bad news, darling. I have breast cancer.”

At that moment, there was this loaded silence and a repugnant cacophony of cliches came rolling in. The world stilled. Sounds became defined. A sharp intake of breath. My heart rate went through the roof. And the surroundings stayed exactly the same - I resented that. I remember. Focus, Gen. Focus. Do not break down. Focus on the matter at hand. “Are you ok?” I asked. “I’m fine. I have been in hospital all day and I wanted to tell you as soon as it was definite.” “Who knows?” “Robbie and Sabrina and I am waiting for Antonia to get back from work.” Simple facts. I told her I would call her later. Took a breath and went back into the auditorium and into the mayhem.

My boss immediately knew something was up. I struggled to articulate the words but I did. “My mum has breast cancer.” It was a barely audible whisper - probably the best I have managed to do in my life, since most people will know whispering is not my forte. But the day went on - the only way I could function at that point was to get on with the job at hand. Mum had more information to tell me, the programme was due to finish in an hour and, more importantly, I had no battery on my phone. I could sit and be vacant or I could continue with the job.

The day went on.

My mum’s mantra has always been “My body’s my temple” and it feels mockingly ironic that the healthiest person in our entire family has been diagnosed with Grade 3 cancer. But I know that life doesn’t shoot straight. I also know that breast cancer is incredibly common, that 90% of people are ok, that a lumpectomy is followed by radiotherapy and in bad cases by chemotherapy. My mum is terrified of having chemotherapy. I am terrified for her. She goes into hospital for the lumpectomy tomorrow and she is being brave and honest and organised as much as I would expect my mum to be.

There is no rationale or logic to be had behind coping with these things. Emotions are rather haywire but I am trying not to predict or control how I feel at specific moments in the day.

There are a whole lot of precious moments and memories being savoured during this time. And part of me is doing this to process - in the only way I know how right now - by writing; but also because if I can make my mum smile through reading this, then I know I will have made her day that little bit better. And because of that, mine.

So mum, as I know you are reading this right now, here are a few precious memories to share with you. Antonia and I have already regaled over these so already you know these are the real golden nuggets.

Songs: You, me and Antonia singing to Mamma Mia the musical in London. ‘Slipping through my fingers’ - our song. The Remix to Ignition, the coolest song ever. Robbie singing ‘Obviously’ - I’m sure you can emotionally blackmail him into doing this again…though he may never forgive you!

Clothes: Some hilarious fashion statements - Antonia’s sunflower hat. My orange anorak. The pashmina dress. So - my entire teenage years. The twins dressed as sheep for the Burton Leonard feast, bawling their eyes out. Antonia’s bat costume. My chinese costume. You were a genius at this. Your James Bond costume - squeezing into my wetsuit. I was mortified then but rather proud now.

Films: Mamma Mia…nuff said. Mrs Doubtfire “He was run over by a guinness truck”. Mighty Ducks - the flying V which I spent my life trying to recreate on the lacrosse pitch.

Holidays - Salcombe - when Jon Newey wore your swimming costume. Bahamas - the black Father Christmas. Dublin - Eric Clapton and you flirting with some young stoners in a rather fashionable bin bag and heart shaped sunglasses. Ibiza - Auntie Jean, Jack the Crack and hair bobbles. Jumping off the cliff. Losing my tooth in the Spaghetti Bolognese. Portugal - the broom dance and Josh pulling down the curtains.

Birthdays - An army stripper for a 16th, a black vicar for an 18th but only at the stroke of midnight, Sabrina’s sleepover - I had supposedly pooed behind the sofa very recently. Sleepwalking and trying to climb into Robbie’s bed naked. (Sorry Robbie). Epic birthday cakes - the Lion cake to name one.

Miscellaneous - When we had Guy Wright to babysit and we made him cocktails. (Antonia felt it was of import that we dredged this back up) Our obsession with Echo the Dolphin on the Mega Drive. Very important moments - listening to the Queen on Christmas Day. Me and Sam Storey painting an L on Antonia’s nappy. @TheLPlateNappy

This list could go on, but I’m only giving you a nibble. There will be many more to come and many more to create. 

So I will leave you with a favourite quote and a last message before the big brave day tomorrow:

“When I saw you I fell in love, and you smiled because you knew.” William Shakespeare

I love you, I am so proud of you and we are with you every step of the way.

First daughter

Small c and the Big C

I'm not sure at this point whether this blog is ever going to be published but in the last few days I've been aware that as writing is one of my best releases that perhaps I need to write about what is happening in my life. Perhaps my children may want to read it and it will help them to understand.

How ironic that my last blog should include a bucket list. Might just be needing that further down the line. However, here's an update on where we are:

While we were on our fabulous 30th wedding anniversary trip to Barcelona, I found a lump. It was on my left breast almost under my armpit. No immediate cause to panic. I've had one of these before, had it checked out and it has dispersed of its own accord. Keep an eye (or rather a hand) on it and see how things go. After all, twins' A levels are just a couple of weeks away and this is a distraction we don't need. A week before the end of the exams, I am still not actually full-on panicking but the lump, though no bigger, is definitely harder - but perhaps this is a reaction to the daily poking it's getting from me in the shower. At this point, I have to state that since I have an alarming number of friends who've had breast cancer I am a virtually daily-checker of that region. I don't miss much.

Time to make an appointment with the doctor. Our doctor is also one of our closest friends and indeed we (his family and ours) are planning to holiday together in July in Majorca (of which more later, obviously). So the day before the final Maths A level, the singing dancing doctor (as he has always been known in my blog) has examined the lump and says I need to get it checked. He says that he will send me to the best of the best (as they say in Top Gun) and that means going to York. Just the two of us know any of this - the singing dancing doctor and me. My beloved is away for a couple of days on business whilst all this is going on and I don't want him worrying about me so I manage to hold off till he gets back. As ever, when told, he puts a most positive spin on the proceeds so far, but I know... because I just do... that this is not going to be good.

Normal... that's all I want at home for now. No point in scaring the children until it's definite and so we do all the usual stuff to keep up the pretence although the senior dog is giving me strange looks - maybe I'm just imagining that. I manage to play two tennis matches for two teams, officiate at a juniors match, go to the school ball and stay on the dance floor till the bitter end (though I do resist the urge to shimmy up and down the tent pole unlike some others!) and even go to see The Eagles in concert with my beloved. This was his Christmas present from me and it was a really wonderful concert. I have a feeling that the Eagles may be the soundtrack to all this in my head. After all, it was The Eagles that was playing on the radio at the moment when the twins entered the world eighteen years ago.

And that's the thing really. There is a curious symmetry about much of this. I'm 58. I had 29 years of growing up myself (not always great as I am a classic at learning things the hard way) and 29 years (nearly) of bringing up my wonderful children. Perhaps this is just my time.

My beloved and I went to York Hospital on Wednesday leaving the post-exam, snoozy twins at home. Point about the design of York Hospital. They cleverly call the Breast Cancer centre the Magnolia Centre so you're not going into a tailspin of tears just going through the doors but it is sited immediately next to the Cancer Care Centre which has its name in gigantic letters right next to it. From a facing your fears point of view, this is like a gigantic slap in the face. Trying not to cry.

The singing dancing doctor is right. I've done my fair share of hospital appointments with number 1's hearing and number 3's ability to crash into stationary objects, hockey sticks etc and a couple of dashes to A&E with the intrepid granny and this is a cut above in terms of efficiency and caring. And I am very scared.

The consultant is really kind and curiously we discover a mutual bond in 18 year old twins. I know I'm in the right place from the off. The system at York means that you go from one element of the diagnostic process to the next with hardly any waiting. Mammogram (and yes I always attend those sessions in Morrisons car park when called) and then an ultra-sound. The radiographer is very quiet and spends a lot of time not so much on the lump but on my armpit. I'm no mug... this is not good. Although my knowledge of all things breast cancer-related is about to take a seriously upward trajectory from a comparatively low level, even I know this is not a good sign.

Back to the consultant and my beloved is hoiked out of the waiting room where he has been sitting for the last hour and half or so. It's almost certainly cancer. The lump is small - less than 2cms which seems to be good news or as near as we are going to get to such a thing. More tests. Needle first to take some cells for testing and a 45 minute wait for the results which may or may not tell us anything. And while we're waiting I'm off to have some proper tissue taken. Local anaesthetic and a full-on attack with something which feels like a heavy duty staple gun. Not pleasant and I am feeling a bit battered. However, all the staff are lovely and whilst all this is going on, I manage to establish the following:

I will get back home in time to watch Andy Murray play at Wimbledon.
I can definitely have a large drink.
I can play tennis tomorrow. Actually this last one proved a bit painful. Whacking the ball was ok but the throw up on the serve with my left hand felt a bit sore. But I did it anyway - of course!

Back to the consultant. He's my kind of man. He doesn't mind my swearing. In fact, in a subsequent telephone conversation he let me know that his language has been described as tourette's once he gets behind the wheel. I have to have surgery. And I want it now. Sorry, but 58 years of being impatient to get stuff done isn't going to change now. If I'm going to feel crap, bring it on, because, in theory at least, the sooner it's done, the sooner I will be me again. And I can have it done, but not by him and not in York. So we're booked for a trip to the seaside - Scarborough with another consultant on Tuesday.

Friday - bad day. The consultant rings. This isn't in the plan, I think, as I hear his voice. He has the results and it's not good. Grade 3 cancer (and because I'm that sort of girl, I've read through the book they gave me on Wednesday so I understand that this is the most aggressive form). Cue more bad language from me. Also at least one lymph node is infected so they will be removing all the lymph nodes. He wants to do the operation himself and he's made it possible. Next Wednesday at York with himself and the very kind breast cancer nurse Kim who may well be my new best friend. And yes, chemo is very likely for eighteen weeks - joy! And that's where we are now.

Goodbyes and Bucket Lists

Number 1 child and I have been having some long conversations about where my life is going, or more accurately, what I am going to do once the final two children have (hopefully, in the nicest possible way) left home in September. You will know if you've read my ramblings before that this will bring to a close nearly 29 years of nurturing, herding, ferrying, chiding, washing, ironing, cooking, cleaning and attempting to share life's important stuff with four sometimes affectionate, once-in-a-while listening, mostly entertaining and occasionally blow-me-down amazing children. And whatever else I may or may not achieve in my life, the stand-out is always going to be them - unless they turn into axe murderers, in which case I shall deny all responsibility and blame their father!

We've had a whole week of school goodbyes, doing things for the last time and joining in a wonderful celebration at Ripon Grammar School for their final hurrah. Last Thursday evening we watched videos of them as first years on their maiden school trip to France, getting to know one another and themselves, and being generally hilarious and we could see the 11 year olds turned into now 18 year olds before our very eyes. Last day over, they just had to turn up for assembly on Friday and say goodbye to the staff - some loved, some perhaps less so, all of them patient and generous with their knowledge to the end. And now all that remains is the hard slog of too many exams, too close together in some cases, before the big summer of freedom and (worryingly) results day. Did I shed a tear? Well, nearly, but I know I already have Olympic status for being an embarrassing parent so I held it all together as best I could.

Child 1 thinks that what I need to see me through the next twelve months is a bucket list - not, of course, because I plan to depart this mortal coil, but because I should set myself some targets that might stop me from whining too much about the lack of smelly washing, loud music, television on in several different rooms - often with no one watching, dirty cups and plates scattered all over the house and those familiar sayings: "There's nothing to eat", "I haven't got a shirt" and "Can you take me to...?"

So I am currently applying myself to the construction of a bucket list. Whether I shall achieve all this lot in the twelve months beginning September 2014 remains to be seen but this is the current status and I am happy to consider any other reasonable suggestions... In no particular order:

1   Improve my golf. I am a disaster on a golf course and, as I am no quitter, in the words of Magnus Magnusson, I've started so I'll finish. Well, at least attempt to achieve a standard where I am no longer an embarrassment to myself and others.

2   The Grand Slam Plan. This is the big one so it might not be achievable in year one of the next 29 year phase of my life but this has been on the books for some time. Tennis mad, we have been to Wimbledon, Roland Garros and Flushing Meadow, scenes of three of the four Grand Slam events and only Melbourne remains unvisited. Can we do it in 2015? Well, that may depend on other items further down the list...

3    Find an agent for my novel, The Rule of Three. Please!

and

4   Actually write the novel that's currently in draft format in my head, provisionally entitled Murder in Law. This may possibly fill the 4.30pm - 6.30pm period each day which is the time I think I may miss the children the most. Since this is a crime novel which is a new genre to me, shall we push the victim down the stairs, drown her or give her an overdose?

5   Accept all those lovely invitations to visit friends which we have till now refused because of homework, exams etc. If you asked us before and we said thanks but no for the above reasons we are now available and would love to come!

6    Return to Dorset. A modest flat in a picturesque village within sight of the sea close to the setting for the recent crime thriller Broadchurch was the venue for many holidays as children and now I would like to go back and see it all again. Intrepid granny, you have been warned!

7    Autumn Internationals at Twickenham - nailed! Not sadly, the All Blacks or Australia or South Africa but Samoa at the home of English rugby and a jolly good excuse for a weekend in London.

8   Turn the garden into something other than the National Collection of Dandelions (described as such by the singing, dancing doctor and never forgotten!) If we're really lucky it will have stopped raining by September making it possible to garden in something other than a sou'wester - or not.

9   Hay Festival. I have been involved in the Raworths Harrogate Literature Festival (http://harrogateinternationalfestivals.com/literature-lecture-series/) for the last two years and we've had some great names including Michael Palin, Joanne Harris and this year, Kate Adie and Sir Ranulph Fiennes. But I'd like to go to the Big Daddy of all literature festivals and that is Hay so, maybe next year?

10  There's a long list of places I'd like to go to from the Norwegian Fjords to New Zealand. Too many to list here but if there's a 5* gap year opportunity, I'm on it!

Finally, there was another goodbye last week that can't go unheralded. Watching Toulon play Saracens in Saturday's Heineken Cup, I was interrupted by number 3 having a brief respite from A level revision. He looked at the screen and then looked at me: "You can't cry about Jonny Wilkinson when you didn't cry when we left school this week!" Well, I wasn't actually crying (again!) but it was a big moment when Jonny kicked the drop goal for Toulon because, frankly, no one kicks a drop goal like Jonny. Without doubt, an icon for sport, a humble, hard-working man and a credit to Toulon, Newcastle Falcons, England and the Lions. And, hand on heart, I can't honestly name a sporting great who has achieved more without once personally or on the field of sport, let the side down. There's a lot to learn from him. One final battle to win: the Top 14 Final against Castres and, if Toulon win, it will be the perfect fairytale ending for Jonny. And even if they don't, I'm definitely hoping for 'Arise, Sir Jonny' in the next honours list. Allez Les Rouges!

Well, I didn't see that coming!

I am the parent of four adults! How did that happen? When I was in my twenties and thirties, my beloved and I planned for a large family - well, not so much planned but certainly welcomed the idea. It did, of course, take longer than we had intended and when my friends were packing their children off to secondary school we were back at the nappies stage with the twins. And seriously, most of our friends thought we were mad, which obviously we were!

Now those little treasures who woke us up in the middle of the night and kept us short on sleep but long on smiles have grown up and they, as of last weekend, are eighteen. Nowhere in my plans or dreams did I intend to become the parent to four adults and I am now wondering how this is going to pan out.

Some things haven't changed. Two are still in residence and in school, although clearly not for much longer as A levels start in a matter of days and once that's over so is school. And the usual requests/complaints are still being made. Generally the most frequent of these are as follows:
1  I haven't got a shirt.
2  There's nothing in the fridge.
3  Can I have a lift to...
4  I can't find (insert here any article of clothing, sporting equipment or formal document ie passport, driving licence, examination paperwork etc, of which we will only have one)
And most recently...
5  There's no fuel in the car.

The latter is interesting as I keep putting fuel in Manu, the Kia Rio named after the Leicester Tigers and England centre, and then the next time I get to drive it there is something slightly more than a dribble left in the tank. Hmmm...

So can I hang up my parenting skills such as they are? I suspect not but we are moving into a new and different stage in our lives and there are hopefully new challenges ahead. I have not yet crossed into the engagement, wedding, grandchildren area of play and I can, and am, still attempting to maintain some sort of discipline here - house rules, my rules and although it's hard to call them to heel when I have to look up rather than down at them, I can still try!

Finally, tomorrow is the Acorn 100k Sponsored Bike Ride and although we have all been cooking up a storm cake-wise for 600 cyclists, the weather forecast is shocking. So if you're not cycling, marshalling or involved in other Acorn Bike Ride-related activities tomorrow, spare a thought for us lycra-clad souls who are pedalling across North Yorkshire with only the thought of cake at the end to sustain us!

Birthday dinner for three and four. Such a treat to be all together!

'Ah yes, I remember it well'

'I can remember everything as if it were yesterday...' So begins a song from the film Gigi when Maurice Chevalier (such a beautiful, romantic French accent) sings a duet with Hermione Gingold as a pair of old, long-lost lovers. Of course, in the song, she corrects his every recollection and so it often is with memories shared over 30 years. We may get the details wrong but the emotion, the spirit of the moment - that is what matters.

We're on our way back from Barcelona sitting in the airport waiting to board - an airport which incidentally packs a lot more style into every square foot than the whole of Leeds Bradford could ever aspire to - after our 30th wedding anniversary trip. It's been, well, brilliant. Thirty years ago this morning we threw in our lot together and no matter how certain you may feel at that moment, there is always that unspoken element of risk. We had no idea what life would throw at us - and it has actually thrown quite a lot - and how much more than the sum of our two parts we would become. 

Before we left home I rootled out our wedding albums - the formal one of ourselves, parents, family, ushers and bridesmaid. And then the unposed ones of some of our guests in the other album. How could we have known what lay ahead for them and us? So many family and friends no longer with us, partnerships broken, contact lost. But it was a wonderful day - not all-singing, all-dancing like weddings are now. A lunch, a few speeches and toasts and a quick change into the going away outfit (by Louis Feraud - who else!) and away to Windsor for the first night of our honeymoon. Incidentally, my beloved could plan a trip even back then: Windsor, Paris, Mauritius - the latter still being my favourite place on the planet. Yes, if I can only have one more holiday before I pop my clogs, that's where it's got to be.  

A couple of weeks ago, I didn't expect to be going anywhere this weekend and my only suggestion had been that I wanted to go somewhere further than the Hare and Hounds for dinner - no disrespect, John; but I'd have very happily settled for the Crown at Roecliffe or the Crab and Lobster. Anyway, my beloved asked where I would like to go away for the weekend and I tried to construct a list of places to suit a range of time and pocket constraints, bearing in mind A levels are just around the corner. And Barcelona was in there along with the Lake District, Venice and Cornwall, amongst others - I like to be eclectic! And Barcelona it was. 

We've been here before, nine years ago, on the day that the then Pope died causing Barcelona to close down in the manner that one would expect in a staunchly Catholic city in a staunchly Catholic country. So there was some unfinished business although we'd already had a great time - tapas, jazz clubs, shopping and sightseeing. And this time, unbeknown to me - and I realise this sounds unlikely - the ATP tour was in town, Rafa and all. So in our four-night sojourn, we've crammed in a day's tennis-watching including a brilliantly nail-biting match between two Spaniards - Rafa Nadal and Nicolas Almagro - with a very vocal and enthusiastic Spanish crowd, some shopping, eating and drinking on an epic scale, a few trips down memory lane, otherwise known as the incredibly narrow and twisting alleys that lead from Las Ramblas and a visit to the one place we especially wanted to see last time and missed due to the Papal demise - La Sagrada Familia. 

 Rafa - sometimes it's hard to tell him and my beloved apart! 

La Sagrada Familia is quite simply one of the most awe-inspiring buildings I've ever been inside. I always marvel at our ancient cathedrals, built and evolved over perhaps a hundred years apiece, wondering at the death toll that it probably took to build the lofted ceilings and fine carving dozens of feet above our heads. But to see a modern basilica growing and developing over a similarly long period, always dressed in scaffolding and netting and yet a breathing temple of light and colour is extraordinary. What sharp contrast to our own hasty post-war construction of the likes of Coventry Cathedral. Though Coventry rose rapidly and proudly from the ashes of the Blitz and is a mighty and impressive building, La Sagrada Familia is a living thing of light, movement, colour and is the seemingly endless ambition to fulfil the dream of a man now long-dead yet living on through the construction of his grand plan. In some ways, it reflects too the designs and tastes of the other architects and craftsmen who have worked on the building since Gaudi's death but it is ultimately the embodiment of his beautiful dream. We will return, because I am sure that in a few years it will hold new treasures yet to be crafted. 



The beautiful ceiling of La Sagrada Familia. 

If La Sagrada Familia, and, by contrast, the ATP tennis were new experiences, yesterday's celebration of our thirty years together was on familiar territory. We had stumbled upon Agua, a restaurant on the beach at the rather glitzy Marina, on our last trip. The memory of the superb meal, feet in the sand yet against the backdrop of the cool, chic interior had stayed with us and it was here that we shared a great meal, ate and drank too much, chatted over our thirty years of reminiscences and friends and family. Special. 

Post-script. Apart from our great meal at Agua, we tapassed our way round Barcelona choosing delicious treats by pointing at whatever took our fancy on the bar top and counting cocktail sticks to total up la quenta. Making me, despite the large scale consumption of the accompanying Rioja, a very cheap date! 

 Me and him 30 years on...

My very cute bridesmaid thirty years ago - Camilla! 

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sISWPzEqHLQ