were the words that she said,
As she walked out of my life, but not out of my head.
And gone were the days where I heard her voice;
Gone were those days, but not out of choice.
I still think of her now, with her hair white as snow,
Still think of her now, and I want her to know:
That I never forgot, and I’ll never let go.
For Rebecca Davies, because she asked
He couldn’t quite fathom it… just couldn’t put his finger on it. He couldn’t really say for sure why, but he’d never forgotten her, and he’d never let go.
Of course on paper what they had was nothing. If he was honest with himself, it most likely only meant something to him. Not to her, that was for sure. They met through a friend a few years ago, her a couple years younger than him. He couldn’t really remember much about if they talked because they didn’t see each other except when walking home from school. They never went out, they weren’t ever really proper friends, but they fancied each other. He couldn’t really remember anything from their past, really, except the kiss.
That kiss.
How could he forget?
They were at a friend’s house one day after school, alone in the front room. The memory wasn’t so much hazy as nearly transparent, but he could picture what she was wearing: a strappy top and a short skirt, one or both of which was yellow. She came towards him, and he put his hands on her waist, pulling her close to him. Although she had to stand on tiptoes to, she put her hands on his shoulders, tipped her head back, and their lips met. It was slow, and gentle, and not particularly perfect due to how they were both relatively young and inexperienced, but it still felt amazing and to this day he can still remember just how right it felt.
But now, a few years down the line, he couldn’t shake it. They’d become friends, but how could he ever say to her how he felt? Theirs had been a strained relationship – she’d been friendly enough to him when it was just them talking, but hadn’t been that nice to him behind her back. He guessed her friends just didn’t like him, so she pretended not to either so as not to save face. Because of that, they’d had little or no contact with each other for a couple of years, until recently.
Recently they’d started talking again. Nothing much really, just texting or on the internet. He’d wanted to see her, make it a proper friendship, but there was always some excuse. Maybe she knew how he felt. Of course she didn’t have to return those feelings, but the least she could do was trust him not to do anything. Confusion reigned in his head when he thought about this, because on the odd occasion they ran into each other she seemed really happy to see him. This made a nice change, because these days she seemed so unhappy, with herself or her life. And he knew, for sure, he could make her happy. But what should he do? He had little option, he’d done everything he could but she’d thwarted him at every turn of the way. I guess he just had to bite the bullet and give up.
To be continued…
Guys I promise this is going somewhere, I’m just struggling right now. Maybe I’ll have another go tonight.
Some memories are meant to be kept.
Some people you shouldn’t forget.
When you’re apart don’t feel upset;
don’t cry, don’t mourn, never be upset.
Love is a connection; a bond, a bridge;
If you can’t let go after so much time…
Maybe there’s a reason
If I should stay,
I would only be in your way.
So I’ll go, but I know
I’ll think of you every step of the way.
I hope life treats you kind
And I hope you have all you’ve dreamed of.
And I wish to you, joy and happiness.
But above all this, I wish you love.
And I will always love you.
So I had a 2 and a half hour Dance Band rehearsal this evening, and was pretty thirsty. So I go and get myself a pint glass of water. Then another. Then another. Eventually, I’ve downed 5 pints of water without really thinking about it. Something’s nagging at the back of my mind to a briefly browse the internet and look up “water intoxication”. Shit. Wikipedia informs me that a healthy limit would be one litre an hour. That’s 1.75 pints. So I’ve drunk nearly three times as much water as I should have done… I guess if I die overnight, or fall into a coma due to too high levels of water in my brain, at least anyone reading this will have an explanation. I think what’s more worrying is that, having read that I’ve most likely drunk myself to a watery grave, I don’t really care.
Thought for the day – Some things shouldn’t ever be forgotten, shouldn’t ever be let go of. I think that wisdom of choice is the ability to know when to let g of something and when to hold on. Sometimes what you’re holding onto might not feel like much, but in the future could mean everything to you.
Day Two (cont.)
So this continues day two; Monday. This evening we eat in the oldest restaurant in the world. Yes, you heard me right. The oldest restaurant, in the world. There’s even a Guiness Book of World Records certificate to prove it. The garlic soup was grim but I’m sure this is down to my taste (or distinct lack thereof) as opposed to their cooking. The steak, however, was nice. Tender and rare. However, their vegetables were unimaginatively thrown together. I think that the selling point of the restaurant was the age and their suckling pig rather than any other of their food. It was suckling pig that Dad had, and sucking pig that I dissected when he’d finished, identifying the hyline cartilage of the hip join, much to Sue’s disgust. Another noteworthy point was that I ordered cider, and got a champage bottle full of champagne perry. Essentially a sweet bubbly cider, it was delicious. And expensive. But delicious, I repeat!
Arriving back late from the restaurant, I write some postcards. I want to post them, I really do, but Spain’s postal service is so poor that literally if I post them now, they wont arrive until late next week, if then. I finish Ben Elton’s Stark, snuggle up under three blankets against the cold Madrid night, and fall quickly and deeply asleep.
As I sit here and write, it’s early evening of day three. I want to write about today, I really do, but with this keyboard and slow internet, I really, really cannot bring myself to put pen to paper. Or, indeed, fingers to keyboard. I going to go out into the market again to search for a present for Sam’s birthday. I’ll see you all soon.
Joel
First Im going to apologise in advance, because not only is this keyboard Spanish and thus apparently incapable of apostrophes and other things; not just because the letters are in all the wrong places (including letters that don even exist in the lives of most English people: ñ (enyay) for example) and so I risk mispelling without notice; but also because I’m (oh my lord I just found the apostrophe button) on timed internet, so I’m rushing. So, so far:
Day One
Having woken up at 4:30am English time to catch an 8:30am flight, we arrived in Spain at approimxately 12:30 local time. We got to our hotel (Hotel Plaza Mayor) to drop off our bags. I have a single room to myself, en suite with a small balcony window overlooking a market square about three floors up. The first vaguely touristy thing we did was walk to the Plaza Mayor, and I was really stunned. The weather was sunny but brisk, and the square was a large open paved area. Only photos can describe it, but the atmosphere was so relaxed, with young adults sitting around on the floor eating McDonalds while my stomach could only grumble with jealous desire. We set off in search of food when suddenly right by my right shoulder, Sue spins round.
“F*ck” she says, slipping her backpack off her shoulder. I notice that i’s open “that woman was trying to rob me”. Sure enough, about 2 metres away stands a rather rough looking woman, blatantly trying to look like she was doing something completely unrelated to us. We stand for a few seconds and look at her while she innocently looks everywhere but at us, rambling to herself. Sue has a brainwave and takes out her camera to snap a picture of the woman. As soon as the theif realises what’s happening, she turns and walkes quickly away, easily losing herself in the crowd.
We wander around, arguing about where to eat. Eventually we safely make it to a suitable tapas bar, which resembles closely a pub. Just with food everywhere. Fairly intimidated, we sit at a table, wondering how to get fed. Madridiños seem to be just walking up the the bar, picking up plates of food and sitting down to eat it without even asking any staff, but none of us are brave enough to try this. Eventually a knight in shining armour spots us cowering, starving, at our table, and comes over. Seemingly quite amused, he gladly informs us that there IS a menu, which we promptly order from. I order something which the waiter assures me I will love, and he’s right! In front of me is placed a steaming plate of food – 2 fried eggs, 2 pork fillets, 2 chorizo sausages and a pile of ‘patatas fritas’, or french fries to you and me. I want to write more about it but I aware that this is going to turn into a very long post.
After lunch we take a brief excursion to the Palace Real. Itś beautiful, and I have plenty of photos to prove it! Walking back to the hotel, I comment that the Spanish like their bridges. There are plenty of them, and all are really quite striking.
Walking back to the hotel, we are approached by a small chubby Spaniard. He asks me where we are from, but we blank him and walk away, certain he was casing us up for a mugging. I beging to walk around with my wallet and phone in my pockets, firmly gripped by wary fingers. We get back to the hotel at around 17,10h local time and have a welcome siesta – having been awake for about 12 hours already. I wake up at 19,30h and we make our way to the Ćorral de la Moreria’ – the worldś leading Tablano Flamenco. Food is extortinoately priced but tasty, and we gladly sit and eat from 8-10pm. At 10pm on come the Flamenco dancers, accompanied by three guitarists and three husky singers. I have photos and a video, but what I hoped would be a half hour show turned into an hour and a half show. It was exciting, but I was abolutely knackered. Full of acorn-fed ham, veal sirloin steak, foie gras and honey icecream with honey, real “hot” chocolate sauce and “crystallised” (barbecued-style) banana, I was redy to put my head down and kip. However, we didn arrive back at the hotel until past midnight. In no time I was in dreamland in a comfortable single bed, the first time I’ve slept in one since the summer.
Day Two
*yawn* still sleepy as I wake up at 8:30, read til 9 and shower until 9:30. Breakfast is a buffet, so I indulge my stomach with cocaopops and sugarpuffs, creme caramel, scrambled aggs and bacon, toast and strawberry jam, and a mini pain au chocolat. The weather has definitely taken a turn for the colder, so I traipse my fat behind upstairs (actually, there’s an elevator) to put on my coat. We leave the hotel, eventually, at 10:30.
First stop of the day is the Royal Palace again, except this time we get to go in. I can think of any other word to describe it better than ‘stunning’. No photos were allowed inside, but I have postcards in the hope that I can transfer to you how truly amazing it was. Room after room of opulence greeted my eyes, drapes and dark colour creating an arua not only claustraphobic but of great style. I can’t explain it at all, I really can’t. The fact that we went from room to room gave the impression that the palace was nearly infinite in size. Inside each room was decorated in a different style, whereas outside the architecture was Baroque, very similar indeed to Buckingham palace. One thing that struck me, actually, was the sheer amount of clocks. Around 20 of the buggers, sometimes 2 or 3 per room – intricate, complicated and ornate timepieces that all symbolised or reresented something, normally in ancient mythology.
The Royal Armoury is impressive too, with royal suits of armour. The most important thing I took from there is that you don’t have to be tall to be a Spanish King! I dwarfed every single one.
Lunch was at a dedicated vegetarian restaurant. That’s right – no meat whatsoever. I have onion soup to start, and a soy mince spaghetti bolognese. It’s not bad, and somehow I find myself agreeing to another meal there tomorrow evening.
After lunch, we take a taxi to the Natural History Museum. On arrival, we find that dad’s directed the taxi driver to the anthropological museum instead, and it’s closed. The Royal Botanical Gardens are nearby, but also closed (the Spanish tourist industry seem’s to emulate Garfield in that it dislikes Mondays). We find ourselves walking through a large park, similar to Hyde park. He we see our first spanish ‘gatos’ (cats) as we wind our way through the bare trees to a small lake. The park itself used to be solely for the use of the Spanish royal family. I can picture it myself – so much of the atmosphere comes from the tourists and locals that amble along the wide paths. Their chatter brings life to the surroundings. A girl juggles whilst another plays with two poi, and behind us a man on a squeeze box plays a repertoire of Frank Sinatra hits.
We hire a boat, and I row us around. It’s a lot easier than I expected, and the exercise is refreshing. Around us boyfriends recline luxuriously as girlfriends row them around to show off their competance. Police ‘caballeros’ ride past on beautiful white horses, which prance as they trot along, very ceremonial.
Our time on the boat runs out and I row us back. After disembarking rather gracelessly onto the pontoon, we leave the park and walk the hundred or so metres to a gate. The gate to the city of Madrid. Easily 30-40 metres high and maybe 60 across, it’s as good as gates ago, except for one fundamental problem. Itś in the middle of a roundabout. No traffic passes ‘neath its mighty columns. Nonetheless, it is still impressively majestic.
We take a taxi to the hotel, arriving back at about 7. I shop around on my own, buying Charlotte and Mills a little present each, keeping my eye out in vain for something suitable for Sam’s birthday. Eventually I give up, walking back to the hotel. Dumping the presents up in my room, I return to the lobby, sitting at the computer. And that, reader, is where you find me now. Its 8pm now and around dinner time, so I off. Until the next time, hasta la proxima
I guess it’s time that something meaningful somehow found its way from my jumbled-up mind to this blog. Inspiration struck like a well-aimed rubber band as I lay in my bed this morning. I had Ben Folds on shuffle on my phone, just enjoying some stuff I haven’t listened to for a while, having been unfaithful to him with Alphabeat, The Academy Is…, Late of the Pier and other truly gut-wrenchingly cheesy ‘choons’. So there I was regressing back to my childhood when a song of his which I hadn’t really paid much attention to before came on – ‘Time’. The first couple of verses really got me thinking; here they are:
Think of me
Anyway you want
I can be
The problem if that’s easier
In your head
Move the pieces around
Things I’ve said
Turn the memory upside downAnd it makes it better I know
But sometimes it’s hard to swallowIn time I will fade away
In time I won’t hear what you’re saying
In time, but time takes time you know
It made me realise that sometimes when you fall out with someone, mainly at the end of a relationship, it’s difficult to look back on the good things and build on that. In fact, normally without fail, most people will make the failure of a relationship easier to deal with by demonising their ex in their mind. Clearly it’s easier to get over someone if you can convince yourself that, looking back, they actually were really horrible to you all the time; they never listened to you, never talked to you enough, never made the effort with you, and plenty of other disgraceful things. As Ben is saying in these lyrics – If it makes it easier for you to cope, then you can make me the problem; you can change your memories to fit this wrong idea you have of me and you can, to the best of your ability, move those jigsaw pieces around in your head and try and make them fit. But I think, dear reader, that you’ll will realise with me here that, even if you can make those pieces fit in the wrong order… the picture will never be right; the result never as satisfactory.
Time heals everything, so they say, but the problem with time is that it takes time. For me, the healing process is never sped up by convincing myself that my other half was a nasty person – it puts a whole negative spin on the whole relationship and for me, at least, that ruins it and makes the whole thing harder to deal with.
So I must implore you that, should you ever find yourself in this distressing situation, you should not manipulate your memories to cause you to hate someone you once loved. It’s lying to yourself on the worst level and, clearly, incredibly unfair not only to yourself but to the person you are trying to convince yourself wasn’t right for you. Focus on what was good, build on that and either you can move on more easily, or maybe save the relationship.
If you wanna write a letter, write a letter
If you’d rather make a phone call, pick up the phone up…
and call me
But if you had to say it all with a pop song,
couldn’t you at least have written me a good one?
Some things in life are difficult to let go of, and some things are near impossible. They prey on your mind from dawn until dusk, preventing sleep and invading your thoughts like a vengeful army. But what if, instead of shutting this out, we should embrace it? Something, somewhere deep inside, your subconscious mind isn’t happy with the situation. So do this –
You can now ask the pendulum any Yes or No question
This works because the pendulum is swung by tiny subconscious movements in your finger muscles, so small that you cannot see them, and so deep down in your subconscious that you cannot control them. Because of this, it is your subconscious mind that is answering the questions – the answers come from deep down inside you, so deep that even if you do not realise it, the answer is what you truly, deeply feel.
First I loved your eyes,
A clearer blue than the summer skies,
Showing you with no disguise,
A lonely lovelorn girl.
For a boy had broke your heart,
And were your life a play,
Then I only played an extra’s part,
Saving my love for another day.
Could you ever know,
What you mean to me,
How much I loved you then, but now
You don’t need me, and I don’t know how,
To cope.
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