True Stories: Redemption

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Christmas_lights_in_Sloane_Square.jpg

Ordinary life. Walking along the King’s Road, a diversion into Lush for a sweet silly present, sitting on the Circle Line, thinking I remember this, I remember this from another time. A guilty, but not really, text, “On my way”. African time, I learned later.

Re-calling that other time as I wait at the junction at Sloane Square, a winter evening, city lights, traffic arguing right of way. The early eighties: no central heating, no shower. Fortunately, an automatic washing machine. A black and white tv, mobile, tune in with a dial. It never broke, never died, abandoned for colour later.

Rushing up the stairs at Embankment. I’m late, I’m late. Up Villiers Street and in the side entrance of Charing Cross, sneaking through the back way, roaming the station, scanning. Out through the front, there, right ahead, from the back but unmistakeable? Yes! Big instant smiles. Faces light up. A dazzle of energy, fireflies hovering. We’ve found each other.

Tea at the cafe at St Martins-in-the-Fields. It’s quiet. The feisty pensioners with sharp elbows are elsewhere today. I’m thirsty. I fill my cup continuously, tea, milk, stir. Serious faces, we compose ourselves for the business of getting to know each other. He remembers every word, I remember nothing.

We move. Out across the river. A mild evening, windless. We’re holding hands. I smile.

The South Bank. Den of scoundrels, thieves, lawlessness. We decide to walk. It’s beautiful. Almost to the Millenium Bridge, but not quite, the chill gets the better of us. We walk slowly. I sit every so far, gazing at the river.

Coming back, we have mulled wine in the Festival Hall. We find a quiet place. An elderly black woman directs us to the toilets. "I’m a regular here," she sits in her fur hat, "you’ve missed the performance," consulting her gig guide, "there’s nothing now until Wednesday. I’m a regular here." Later, when we leave, we wave good-bye.

Ordinary life.

From Monday 30 December 2013.
I wrote this when I was living in Beaufort Street in Chelsea, between the King's Road and the Thames. I loved roaming around London. I'd had a difficult couple of years, having lost a partner to a stroke after nearly ten months in hospital. This was the beginning of moving on. London is perfect for that. Read more #truestories at @slobberchops.

Image: Christmas Lights in Sloane Square By Wolfiewolf, CC BY 2.0



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(Edited)

I think I got a bit of tears while reading it. I so could imagine the memories, the flowing of life, the single moment like a drop of water amidst the rain...
Sometimes I hate that my English is not good enough to explain my feelings, that the for me foreign language swallows my attempts of an appropriate comment/answer.
Nevertheless, I am so sorry to read of your loss and simultaneously I am happy that you have such intense memories of love <3

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Thank you. I am sometimes still gripped by loss, this one and others, but you learn to grow so that living the loss becomes part of who you are, rather than an outside force. You learn how to look after yourself and make a space for it so you are comfortable and can grow towards and into other things.

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"African time"


Beautiful writing. It's even better when one knows all those spots.

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