Friday, February 15, 2008

Chasing Rainbows


This time last week, spring was in the air. The rain stopped, the sun came out, and the local greengrocer was practically begging me to take a sudden abundance of sprouting broccoli, forced rhubarb, the first of the season’s broad beans and the last of the marrow-sized courgettes off his hands. The scouse branch of the family were due to arrive in a week’s time, I had tickets for the National Theatre production of ‘Uncle Vanya’ at the Theatre Royal, work was flowing in at the perfect rate … and then the phone call came: according to the doctors on his case, someone I’ve been close too since the correct positioning of a fake beauty spot was of more importance than where my next meal was coming from wasn’t going to be around for much longer.

My first reaction was total shock. Then, outrage: “ask those doctors to give you next week’s winning lottery lineup seeing as they seem to know so much about what’s going to happen!”. Then panic (“what about meeeeeee?”), the urge to vomit, a craving for a glass of wine (or six) … and the next day, welcome to the void (you know: the blank space of sadness and confusion into which we all have to leap at times like this before eventually emerging with some sort of game plan). Not that I’ve got a ‘game plan’, exactly; I don’t know what to do, how to help (either those directly involved or myself) or what the next couple of years will bring. But then again, we never do know all those things, do we? All we can do is deal with what’s going on as best as we can. As the person at the center of this whole, horrible drama said to me last night (I’m going to call him Bill for now), “I can’t do much about the outcome, but I can choose how to manage the experience while it’s all going on”. And somehow, I guess I can, too. Typically, though, Bill is the one who’s going to lead the way.

After that news, I suppose the week that’s just passed would have felt like it was spiraling down a bit anyway; I just didn’t feel like doing anything much at all, and even the domestic menus turned into a hotchpotch of forgotten-about freezer items and ready meals that tasted like the damp cardboard box they come in.

On Tuesday, I went to the theatre with my dad, only to find our seats were literally as far back as you could possibly be from the stage (the gallery benches – a version of hell up in what theatre buffs refer to as ‘the Gods’). We left before the performance began, and went and got tipsy in GP instead.

I spent Wednesday putting together menu plans and shopping for the forthcoming family trip: salmon fishcakes accompanied by courgettes roasted with rosemary and feta for Friday, Thai fish curry for Saturday, loads and loads of excess goodies – including homemade foccacia and a coffee and walnut cake – in between. Over £100 for ingredients-only? In the light of Bill’s news, who cares? Then on Thursday, another bloody phone call came: my mum had twisted her knee really badly, and there was no way she could make the trip in the car, let alone manage the stairs to my garret.

Now it’s Friday, and drizzle is piddling from the dark grey skies. I should be rushing around making beds now (and vacuuming under them, for once!) in readiness for my guests … but there aren’t any on their way.

But onwards and upwards, yes? As a result of Bill’s news, I’ve chatted on the phone this past week to fabulous people I haven’t spoken to for ages but really should talk to all the time. As a result of mum’s knee, I’ve got a kitchen full of recipes-in-progress and an impromptu dinner party with lovely friends planned for tomorrow (Mike’s delighted because I’m going to turn the pain au chocolat intended for part of the weekend’s breakfast treats into a rather posh bread and butter pudding). I’m going to meet my dad in town this afternoon and give him some ‘quality time’ (I hate that term, but sometimes it just fits) rather than clock-watching as he waffles on - fingers crossed, we’ll end up going for a curry. In other words, life is going on – and that’s exactly what I want Bill to believe, too.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Anything. Seriously, anything - you know I'll do it.

Great writing; sorry to hear your news.