The funny thing about a nickname or a term of endearment is that no one usually has any recollection of the origin. I had a particular teacher at school whose nickname was ‘jock’. This particular moniker must have been assigned when the building was commissioned as no one had any idea of the meaning or of the origin of it. My mother was a bit like this in her naming of certain things. One example being when she named the local bar called the Front Page, she preferred to refer to it as Page three. “Are you going to Page Three tonight son?”. I most certainly am not. The Sun and the Daily Sport never really appealed to me for some reason.

My mother had an affectionate name for my school friends. She referred to them as ‘The Ladies’. In the years that followed us leaving our school lives behind (some of the best days in my rather humble opinion), she always talked so fondly of  the bond we all shared:

“Isn’t it lovely that you and the ladies still keep in contact”.

It is lovely.

Todays story is an origin story. Unlike the recent explosion of comic book movies we shall not hear of teenage girls falling into radioactive waste and discovering emerging superpowers for the first time, although I would definitely read that! This is a story of discovering a friendship for the first time.

Ok so the story begins back in my fourth year at secondary school. I attended an All Boys Grammar school in my hometown of Ballymena. It was a rather unusual All Boys school as its next door neighbour was the All Girls school. Separated by one corridor, a corridor that came to be a social amalgamation of the two sexes much to the chagrin of both faculties. Although my expertise on heterosexual conception is probably not what It should be I’m pretty sure no one was impregnated in that corridor, maybe someone will correct me if I’m wrong.

My best friend at school was ‘Billy’. Myself and Billy shared many classes and shared interests (later it turns our we both shared the same taste in potential partners but more on that and him later).

I was always an overt character though I think my early years in the All boys school had sort of dulled my senses a little. In a school predominantly known for its rugby and laddish behaviour I was a little out of my depth.

That’s not true. I was massively out of my depth.

I needed a creative outlet to explore who I was and also to express emotions without fear of reprisal. After all everyone knows emotions are for fags.

I was walking out of 3rd period and there it was. A black poster in front of the English department with bold writing that read, “SCHOOL PRODUCTION AUDTIONS”. The adrenaline reading that poster gushed into excitement for me. I was definitely pursuing this. The year before I had seen the school production of a musical called ‘Bats’. It had music, dancing, acting, all things a butch rugby playing lad like myself would be into. I remember watching all the people on stage and felt so envious of what they were doing. This year I would not be left out! My moment in the spotlight was coming!

We all gathered in the assembly hall for auditions. Read a line from the play? No. Practice a dance? No. We all sat in this room and pretty much were observed on how we interacted. Almost like a social experiment before big brother became a thing. The drama teacher Mrs Lumpy gazed across the hall in her thrift store pashmina and black beret sizing up the ‘talent’. We were excused from the hall has Mrs Lumpy had made her decisions. She knew talent when she seen it. After all she herself was a….. DRAMA TEACHER.

A week went by and the anticipation was too much. Everyday I would check the English department notice board. Everyday I got more and more disappointed not seeing anything. How long did Mrs Lumpy need? It was a school production not a Hollywood blockbuster. The following Monday the poster went up. The masses scrambled to see whether they would be Bette Davis, Ingrid Bergman, or …. chorus! Probably the most insulting word in amateur theatre. In school productions chorus is the death sentence that you have no talent and the PTA have declared everyone who auditions must receive some role.

Thankfully I was not chorus. 9 names down the list it read:

” Mad Inventor: Michael McCarney”.

Ok so it wasn’t a named part however I did have a good chunk of lines, and a nice little soliloquy. The production was called ‘Rats’. It was a modern interpretation on the classic Pied Pieper of Hamlin. A rather dark story about a man drowning a load of children. This had Mrs Lumpy all over it. She was extrovert and dark. No Oliver Twist for this lady. Tomorrow the Sun would most certainly not be coming out, Annie you will have to sell your cheap Broadway antics some place else.

Rehearsals began.

I met three of the young girls who would go onto become, the ‘ladies’. The first was ‘Ringer’. She was a stunning girl with blond hair, beautiful smile and such a quiet confidence that would be rarely seen in a 14 year old girl. Ringer had the amazing ability to walk into a room and command it instantly. She was popular because she had the social skills far beyond her years, and it showed with the amount of young gentleman trying to get her attention.

The next was ‘Lady Jayne’. Lady Jayne was another blond (peroxide was all the rage in the 90’s), tiny waist and olive brown skin. If mean girls had of been a thing back then she would of reminded people of an amalgamation between Gretchen Weiners and Regina George. She was loud, funny and had the most unique American Twang to her accent. Every sentence ended with an inflection. This trend would seem to be a consistent one in my life as I have two other comrades who I met at a later date who would Graduate from the American Television Dialect Finishing School.

The third young girl was ‘Big Girl’. She was a little red haired girl with the biggest smile I have ever seen. The reason for calling her Big Girl would not come into play until injecting a bit more  hormones into her young adolescent body and the discovery of halter neck tops and a push up bra. Big girl awed me in the ease in which she navigated the social spectrum of the room. She was at ease and very comfortable which made me like her even more.

At the time I thought to myself I really want to be their friend. The were pretty, popular and looked like they were enjoying every minute of their lives. I wanted my social upward mobility to be with them. I was still a little caterpillar and they had recently ripped open their chrysalis and showing off their new wings. I loved their wings.

One practice we were rehearsing in our own clothes. I had never really paid much attention to what clothes I was wearing. If they fit it was fine with me. I walked in with some blue jeans and trainers. My jeans were probably the old school levi and the bright blue denim. Everyone rehearsal had ripped jeans around their knees. Why wasn’t I this aware? The first thing I did after rehearsal when I got home was get a pair of scissors and rip some fresh holes in my jeans. My mother looked at me in horror and said, “Son what on earth are you doing?? They cost money!!!”.

Of course she was right but she couldn’t possibly understand the complexities of teenage fashion. After all she was never a teenager!

The night of the school production was here at last. Their was excitement in the air and a little bit of apprehension from Mrs Lumpy. Would these teenage dilatants to her masterpiece any justice? Would she be disgraced and shunned in the high end drama world?

I had stolen a few moments talking to the ladies. Not many but the odd forced joke and awkward compliment thrown in here and there. I had arrived a little early to the production as I didn’t want to be late. Then I seen someone else there, it was Big Girl. She smiled at me and I to her. We chatted back and forth walking to the assembly hall. Year later myself and Big girl talked about this moment and she said she though I was really funny that night. I just remember feeling nervous as I really wanted this person to like me.

The production ended we all said our goodbyes and that was the end of our school mandated friendships. It would be two years later I would properly speak to Big Girl, Lady Jayne, and Ringer. Mummy always said the best things in life are always worth waiting for. As usual the wisdom of her years prevailed. The ladies would go on to shape me during my formative years and continue to do so in my adult life. All this because I was the mad inventor. The mad inventor that made my mummy smile with such pride from the audience. She was always my biggest fan.

And I hers.

Chronology in this blog will definitely be a nightmare for some people. I will probably jump forwards backwards and in-between several times. I like to tell stories as they are relevant to each day. I also find a mixed up narrative quite exciting as you never know where each day will take us. My plan was to address the conclusion of ‘the girl’ story at a later point.

I may have created a new classic villain archetype as many of you have expressed you want to find out the conclusion to that particular chapter of my life. I concede to the masses and without further ado I present to you the conclusion of that tale….

Confrontation is a funny thing. Many people struggle with it, many thrive on it. I myself don’t particularly enjoy it, however I can go toe to toe with Mike Tyson if so required. I think it was probably more shocking to my mummy that I had reverted from type to as I previously stated a shell of my former self. That is the thing about systematic bullying. It has a deep impact. I had no physical wounds. None whatsoever. Inside I was haemorrhaging.

Anyone who knew my mummy would know that she was a women who hated any form of conflict. As you read through the months you will picture her fully just as I do. She was very kind, very generous and liked the quiet life. She didn’t like to complain in restaurants. She would never send food back. She avoided conflict completely. The thing about nature though is even the most meek and mild lioness will defend her cubs to the death when needed. My mummy was like that.

Myself and ‘the girl’ had been living in my new apartment for a couple of months at this stage. The relationship had completely broke down. Their were moments where I got sparks of hope and thought… she is coming around. This one particular weekend she seemed in great spirits. We chatted a bit more than was custom at the time, we even laughed a little. Our normal routine up to this point had been living almost separate lives. We worked together but did not speak. Made separate meals. She watched television in her room as soon as her meal was finished. It was like living in a house where the couple has separated but cannot afford to physically separate.

So the weekend in question all hope came rushing back. I thought to myself “I bet we get back on track now, this is it after a bad patch”. I remember asking her what she had planned this weekend as she spent most of her weekends now at her boyfriends while I sat alone in the house, no friends to speak of, just me.

“nothing really, anyway I’m just nipping out see you later”.

So I was sitting that evening and browsing through Facebook as you do as I had nothing better to do and then I seen where she had went.

Alton Towers.

It was her, ‘Cathy’ and the third girl who I used to live with. Having a great time. It broke my heart in two.

I got straight onto Mummy to tell her what hat happened. I cannot recall the exact words of wisdom she had to impart as I was likely a mess of hysterical crying and anger. I do know she questioned why I still let this person take advantage of me. I didn’t know why, well I did. Without her I would have no one.

The next part of our tale involves a character, an old friend who we shall call Lady Constance. Lady Constance and myself were friends back in Ireland. He (yes he) was a very vivacious and bold personality who could overshadow Lenny Henry. Lady Constance was the type of friend who you would have to prewarn other people about. We all know those friends. We love them but they also get a “so before you meet them, you should know….”. We all have a lady Constance lurking in our lives.

Myself, Lady Constance and Dazzles (more on him soon) were all friends from in Ireland. Three Gay men growing up In Northern Ireland we had previously came on trips to Manchester and specifically the shiny haven that is Canal Street. Manchester was our Oasis in the harsh world and I was the first one to take the plunge. Lady Constance was next. She had decided to move over after meeting a young man at a conference in London who happened to be from Manchester. It sounds crazy now but at the time it seemed perfectly normal, particularly for a young homosexual man.

SO the dates were set lady Constance was arriving in what one would assume was a Pink Pony Parade of Sparkling Glitter. I think the ash could woke up for one day and sprayed rainbow glitter everywhere for his arrival. I was ecstatic!!!

I had a friend coming.

I told ‘the girl’ the exciting news that Lady Constance was moving her estate to England to resume her peer privileges across the pond. Her response was encouraging as she looked out from under that dark, long fringe with her bulbus eyes:

“ok.”

Me and Lady Constance were on the wireless everyday planning everything from his transfer to work to his potential living arrangements. Everything was set, he had planned to move over with his cousin. The only problem. He could not get an apartment for 2 weeks. “not a problem”, I said. “I have a blow up mattress you and you cousin can stay with me until then”. I cant recall the exact reaction from ‘the girl’ however I’m sure that dark long fringe twitched to the point of almost showing emotion.

The timing probably could not have been worse as it was the exact same two weeks my mother was coming to stay. I rang her and explained the situation. To say she was less than thrilled would be a understatement. I explained that she would stay in my room and id sleep on the sofa while Constance and cousin would sleep on the blow up mattress. It would be grand. I was determined to make it work as I was craving human contact like those poor starving people from the movie ‘Alive’ were craving food.

So they all arrived safe and sound . Sure it was cosy but we made it work. Mummy did her usual and prepared a feast for the first night everyone was there. ‘The girl’ arrived home from work and was greeted warmly by mummy (through gritted teeth I would imagine however she always carried herself with dignity). She asked ‘the girl’ to pull up a plate and have some dinner with us.

“No I’ve got some food in the fridge”

Mummy’s response was that of a scorned women, “FINE.”

later she would comment about how she felt really insulted by that action as it was as she called it “a wee girl willing to cut her nose of to spite her face!”.

That evening we laughed and giggled at the most random stories. I was verging on hyperactive as I was feeding off the company and friendly atmosphere I had craved for months. I felt like a heroine addict getting his first fix in days…. it was great!

That evening I looked at my Facebook to see the status of ‘the girl’, not words, just one emoji of a teary face…. Ill leave that there to digest as I still fail to fathom that reaction to the most hospitable women I’ve even known. Obviously this was unusual in her world.

SO we all settled into our new routine. Mummy was shopping up a storm while the rest of us went to work everyday. Mummy was going to get me a clothes dryer (maiden if you prefer) from somewhere one day as she had repeatedly commented I did not have one. I have no idea how I was drying my clothes unless some form of ancient drying witchcraft? She repeatedly asked the pair of us, ‘the girl’ and I, why we hadn’t bought one. I probably was too busy walking about sullen and moody to care to be honest. So mummy was proud as punch when I walked in to my brand new ‘maiden’. Look Michael you are a civilised human being now! No radiator drying for any son of mine!

The next day I was in work having a cigarette on my break, filthy habit I know however I was eating them at this point. I had a missed call from my mother. Strange? She knew I was in work so what was wrong? A sense of dread filled over me. I rang her back with no pause.

“Michael I have had a blazing row with ‘the girl’ I have stormed out of the apartment and told her she needs to move out!”

huh?

‘The girl’ was day off. Mummy started to explain through agitation and anger that she had opened her bedroom door to ask her a question. She looked in and what she saw caused her blood to boil.

A Maiden…. in her room.

Mummy called her into the living room straight away and the conversation and confrontation had became a thing of legend between us. She told ‘the girl’ that she was the most disrespectful women she had ever had the displeasure of meeting. How she was treating her son was disgusting and she had an ugly heart. Furthermore that she wasn’t even contributing any rent towards an apartment she was a guest in was appalling.

“my son is too kind to ask for rent, guess what, I’m not! you will pay back every penny you owe then madam you will get your nasty face out of this building for good!”.

As mummy was recalling the events that took place my stomach was churning. All I could think of was what would the repercussion be in work. I would get the retaliation ten fold. Then I started to think… what could be worse than what they are doing right now?

3 days came and went and DING DONG the witch was GONE!

Yes the next few months in work were uncomfortable but as I said no more than they had been. My mother gave me my dignity and freedom back. For the first time in my life since I moved to Manchester I was relieved. I was almost happy. Then I picked up the phone and rang Dazzles;

“When can you get here?”

Today has had me thinking a lot about strength and what that word means.

The oxford definition of the word is; “the quality of being brave and determined in a difficult situation”.

All together a rather reasonable and sensible definition.

When someone commends you with the strength you are showing I always reflect and think “Do I have a choice?”. When we demonstrate bravery we are rarely put into situations that are comfortable to deal with or that we even have a choice of the matter. I guess it stems from our ancestral instincts of flight or fight. In prehistoric times It was eat or be eaten. So have those qualities stayed intrinsically in our very DNA, or are they learned? Ok so this examination of strength is not going to turn into a doctoral thesis on behavioural psychology. I will leave that to someone far more educated and qualified than myself.

I believe we find strength from the support of the people around us. Our parents, our friends, siblings, work colleagues. Everyday we rely on other people as we cannot navigate this vast blue globe all on our own. Apologies in advance if you are a flat earth believer. You are wrong. Simple.

Mummy was a great source of strength in some very challenging times in my life. None more so than my very first year living in the wonderful City I am proud to call my home.

8 years ago I decided to pack up my little life in Ballymena and head off to the great beacon that was the metropolis of Manchester. Looking back it was a whirlwind experience. 30 days after I made the decision I was on a boat heading across the Irish Sea. The reason for the most uncivilised form of transport was due to an Icelandic ash cloud that had landed all flights, nature can be so inconsiderate.

I had arranged to stay in a flat share with 8 other people. Nowhere else would let me rent a room without first seeing it, and more likely me (which as a future landlord I can tell you is a very wise decision). This one place had agreed to take me on no questions asked, no visit required just a deposit. I was relieved and a little nervous. I had reached the apartment block around 8/9 in the evening. Exhausted from the long boat /train/bus journeys I wanted to get myself settled and into bed. I unpacked all my belongings into this rather spacious bedroom. I unpacked a blanket and a pillow lay on my bed. I then cried myself to sleep. Had I made a huge mistake?

The next morning I woke up feeling refreshed and a lot more positive. I knew I had taken a risk but I was going to see this through. I promptly got myself looking respectable and headed to the local Morrisons for essentials like duvets, pillow cases and of course a bottle of Pinto Grigio. All the elements a survivalist would tell you that would see you through a doomsday scenario.

After a short few days of setting up base camp I was starting my first shift in the Trafford Centre. To those who have never experienced the place, I would describe it like Caesars Palace in Vegas, On Steroids! Everywhere their are fountains, Columns, statues of Greek Gods. All  white and gold. The boy from Ballymena had never seen anything like it in his life, the fairhill shopping centre was looking pale in comparison.

I settled in really quickly. I met my new manager who I shared a lot in common with, met the team of lovely people, quickly got up to speed with my new routine. It must have been a novelty to have two Irish people starting with them. Yes two. Did  I forget to mention I moved over with a girl I knew from home? I wasn’t on my own, I had a familiar ally that in tough times we would support each other.

Or so I thought.

The first 3 months went by in a blur, nothing remarkable must of occurred as I really do not recall them. Me and ‘the girl’ had moved out of the dingy flat share into a house down the road with a lovely girl we both worked with. We had a lovely routine the three of us from going to work together to socialising on the weekends. Sure I got a little homesick from time to time but that was to be expected. Apart from my university life I had never lived away from home so this was a big step.

We also had another friend from work, lets call her Cathy. Myself, ‘the girl’ and Cathy were inseparable for the first 6 months. We worked together, socialised together. We were almost in a symbiotic relationship it felt. I would love to end the story here and say that we are all the best of friends 8 years later and it changed my life. The friendship did change my life but in the most unexpected way.

It starts with the little things. I have always prided myself in my ability to read people. I feel my empathic abilities are on point. 10’s across the board. I notice the little things. different glances, unusual body language. Sharp pointed deliveries. This started to take place more and more. The paranoia then kicks in and you start to question all of your own behaviours. I would ask my dear close personal friend ‘the girl’ had I done something to upset either her or Cathy. Always the same answer delivered in a very blunt fashion

“No”.

I started to become more and more isolated. The funny witty character was replaced with this sullen, moody figure I failed to recognise. Things started to look up though as I was about to buy my first apartment. I had been looking for about 3 months and was finally excited to find this beautiful two bedroom apartment in the wonderful village of Monton. These were exciting times, what isn’t exciting about buying your very first home? Contracts were exchanged and our lease was up. As it was a two bedroom I of course asked ‘the girl’ to come live with me, we had started this adventure together and even though something was amiss I still felt a common bond with her. I made the decision that all she would have to pay for was half the bills, no rent. Looking back I think I was trying to bribe a better friendship. Readers this never works. If someone is your friend, they are your friend. No amount of shiny things will ever change that.

The day finally came and I received the keys, I was beyond elated! ‘The girl’ was working late so she arrived into the new apartment at about 8. I was excited running around opening cupboards, exploring every nook and cranny, generally buzzing around with excitement. She walked in, looked at my coat hanger smile and said:

“I’m going to bed”

I sat on my unfurnished apartment, on the floor, looked around and felt a little sad. Why wasn’t she excited?

As the oxford dictionary stated about strength being the quality of bravery, this was exactly the front I was putting on to my Mummy. She was oblivious to any of this. I never wanted her to worry about her youngest child. I wanted her to be proud and feel I succeeded. The problem with false bravery is it is like a mask. Eventually the mask will fade. It did.

I walked out of work one summer afternoon, lifted my phone as I did every night. Me and Mummy would chat about the most random of things. It was the summer so I’m sure she was filling me in on her favourite passion, Big Brother. My mother was a closet voyeur, she absolutely loved watching people go about… doing nothing. Our cycle of big brother conversations however took a break this day. I lifted the phone, she answered, my lip trembled, my eyes filled up. I had the biggest cry I probably have ever had in my entire life. It felt like a balloon was filling up and up, then it burst.

We talked for hours that night. She told me that the best thing to do was cut those people from my life.

I did.

I found the strength that day through her. She gave me more strength than I ever felt I had. It was not the easiest months that followed but I am thankful to say she got me through them. I am now surrounded by some of the most amazing friends I have ever had in my life. They care, they love. They inspire me.

After a few wines me and my mother would often reminisce about ‘the girl’ and generally have a really good bitch. She always said to me that the strength I showed was meant to be, that my life turned out so much better because of it.

My life turned out so much better because of the strength you gave me. That is the true meaning of strength.

I will always think of you when I need to be Brave.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Like the great literary giant that is Charles Dickens this tale (or blog to use modern venacular) will enivitably be a tale of two cities. Some stories of great joy. Some of great sorrow. As a friend of mine once said “life is a buffett, lets dig in!”. To ease everyone in, I will start with a tale of great joy.

As I alluded to in my previous blog, I was alway someone who liked to live beyond my means. I like to lead a beverly hills lifestyle on a downtown budget (if the copious American refrences are too much, this blog probably is too, I grew up watching far too much ABC!).

Where did it all begin, and how does this relate do the muse of this blog… my mother….

The Muses were the inspitational Greek Goddesses who apparently inspired all sorts of things; poetry, language and maybe according to some… the whole versace line back when we were all obsesed with black and gold!

My muse was an altogether less grandiose figure, however no less influential.

I need to take you back to the summer of 2003…… Picure that summer… Sheryl Crow was topping the charts, Von Dutch was an actual thing and Ra Ra skirts had swepped the nation once more, plucked from fashion obscurity. I was a young lad about to embark on his university adventure. Always a mummys boy about to taste his first taste of independence. That summer felt exciting, nervewracking (spell check) and also a little emotional. After all the small town boy was about to become a big university boy! (big fish small pond thing)

Being my mothers youngest baby boy I knew this was going to be a hard time for her , as she always seen me as the “baby”. I would be wrong to say I never took advantage of what this accolade entitled me to, who wouldnt? I always got my own way, I always got the best toys, I mean wouldnt you? Sure the drawbacks were the questions of my masculinity (also more of that later), however lets be honest… that was always going to be a given!

So the big day came, she dropped me off at the “halls” which looked like something Michael Myers would take one look at and probably turn around screaming! I could sense the nervous energy in the car… I could see the tears as she welled up kissing me goodbye, trying not to pass remark as she inhaled the marijuana stenched “halls”. It was a brief goodbye, It was poignant, but brief… then she was gone…. I was free….I could do anything I wanted, well so I thought!

Fastforward 3 months….. (dont worry we will return to this back  later)

I discovered my first taste of fashion…. well …. at the time I thought it was fashion. Isn’t it funny how everyone back then believed that all that was important was who everyone was wearing (unless you were beyond your years and far more cool than me, I applaud you). Now we are more worried about how good our instagram food photos look… by the way my sepia toned casseroles are to die for! okay… back to the story.

Being a newly discovered adult… I had metamorphised out of my cocoon from this little gay boy from Ballymena to a fully realised Diva overnight… and I loved it!!! With the help from a Pink Trilby hat and a bottle of fake tan… I knew then and there…. I had made it! I remember walking into a store and seeing my first designer pair of jeans…. sure £150.00 seemed a lot of money….. but I knew…. I needed them. No thats inccorrect

THEY NEEDED ME!

The jeans soon turned into a tshirt that I  just had to have… on a weekly basis… that then turned into the ugly Von Dutch hat at £60.00 that I only wore once… It all became the essential things I needed to exist… to feel validated. To continue feeling like the diva I thought I was and who I thought I needed to be.  Then those simple words echoed in my ear.

“Now Michael you need to set yourself a Budget…. Plan your finances every week, set a budget”

back then I had more money than sense, I had no debt yet I seemed to have unlimited disposable income. Realistically the return on the investment on a university course book was never going to compete with a brand new pair of Diesel jeans. My future was obviously less important than the fix I received from handing over cash (we were so basic back then) to the vendor in exchange for 10 minutes of joy.

“Now Michael you need to set yourself a Budget…. Plan your finances every week, set a budget”

Those words were repeated over the years and they turned into a running joke between us two…. “stop nagging”, to which she would always reply “if i wasnt here to nag, you would miss it!”

She was right

I guess I should probably start at the beginning. Most narratives tend to follow this very basic structure. I myself am quite fond of starting at the end and looking back. It must have been watching Columbo as a child and thinking… how did it all start? Their is something rather intriguing about knowing the ending of a story and seeing how it all started. I was definitely one of those kids who skipped to the end of a book and read the last page (as if it made any sense without the context of the story).  Alas I neither have the foresight or the luxury to start at the end. So to quote Julie Andrews; “Lets Start at the very beginning, a very good place to start”

This blog is a personal journey into 365 days following the death of a loved one. Specifically my Mother. The specifics can be saved for a later date and potentially during a wine filled evening of cathartic writing.  That will be fun wont it?

I am already 34 days into the process. I have cried, laughed… drank…. basically been a proper pain to everyone around me. Those looks of ‘are you going to combust’?, “how are you feeling”,  still haven’t subsided. Everyone is trying to say the right thing, being generally kind…. resenting them for it sometimes as it seems like the perfectly rational thing to do at the time.

So why the blog? Do I want to publish my amazing manifesto on grief and make millions on a worldwide book tour telling people how to grieve? The cheque would be amazing as I’ve always had expensive tastes, well beyond my budget but more on that later. The truth is I wanted an outlet to talk about my feelings without burdening everyone around me. I want to feel my voice is heard, and generally I want to express every tear, laugh and moan and so the reason for the blog. I also hope to enjoy the experience and find not necessarily a finite resolution to my feelings, but a way of possessing them.

If you are reading this thinking ‘does he believe he has the monopoly on grief?’, I am very self aware that I do not. I am not commenting on death and loss in general, I’m only talking about my own personal experience. However if you do wish to read my personal biography titled ‘I am an authority on grief’ it is now available on Amazon, Price: £0.05… bargain!

So what can you  expect from this blog?

• ‘Funny’ stories (hopefully)
• wine
• probably more wine
• reflection
• real experiences
• wine
• hopefully an entertaining read

 

ok so the last one is probably for my own narcissism but I’m sure deep down every Kansas City girl who grew up in a one horse town dreams to be validated through something… mine potentially my literary prowess (or lack thereof), we shall see.

So get strapped in, pull up a chair and lets see how the next 365 days go.