Voice your feelings

When I was on the radio I didn’t know how I felt until I heard my voice.
Any opening salvo required me to listen to myself.
I often surprised myself. Even if I felt sludgy my voice revealed something different.
There was a lightness of touch.
I would breathe.
There was some humour
I breathed again.
I haven’t done radio for a bit.
Do I miss it?
Yes and no. I miss the fun but I don’t miss the stress.

I’ve been up since early morning.
I awoke at 6.15.
I got up and came downstairs.
I cleared my drawer which was chockablock with letters from the hospital.
Appointments for my eyes.
Appointments for my heart.
The Fracture clinic and letters from the Department of Work & Pensions telling me my husband had died and we owe them money

As the sun came up I slowly sifted through photographs, passports – no longer necessary for the old git – spare reading glasses, a blood pressure machine and an old Elastoplast tin filled with hair grips.
I once did a voice over for Elastoplast. We spent an hour working out the pronunciation. Should it be Elastoplarst or Elastoplasst.
First world problems.
I once did a voice over for the Spice Girls. 52 takes. In the end the producer, irritated and snippy announced my voice was too old for the young pop group.
I walked out of the studio.
You learn to take all that rubbish on the chin, or in my case chins.

Now I don’t know what I’m feeling as I live mostly in silence.
I hadn’t realised the importance of conversation.
Towards the end of the old gits life he stopped talking.
You could push him for an opinion on a prepared dinner and he would say it was fine. Otherwise he would say ‘I don’t know’ to everything. It drove me nuts.
Would I still have him here?
Well to be really honest the last version of him was frustrating and cruel. I had difficulty in looking at my bonnie boy as he turned into skin and bone. He would look at me sideways and I imagined his criticism. I think I may have got it wrong.
I didn’t know this replacement man. I’m told it’s normal with ailing patients and their loved ones.
But we had had a noisy relationship.
There was always music. television, radio then more music. There were arguments over why Stewart Lee was the best comic, there were political discussions over dinner
Communication worked through frustrations.

Now I talk to the dawter, but it ain’t the same.
What the ‘oosbind provided was a sounding board and a stack of wisdom.
Not that my dawter isn’t wise but she’s not an old man from Leeds who seemingly knew everything.

Sitting in the garden I let the tears flow onto the brown, dry earth.
It’s good. Heals the past and enables the present to exist.
I talk to young folk who have overtaken me in wisdom.
The Bonnie girl, who is now in Edinburgh giving of her one woman show, is a case in point.
I’ve know her since she was tiny. I am twenty odd years older than her. That child is now a mother of two and a woman of substance.
She has overtaken me in wisdom and philosophy. Its wonderful. Her older sister has emerged as a rather spectacular shoulder to lean on.
I have 62 year olds, who were once the younguns, calling me and cradling me back to a semblance of balance.
So I do have people I can raise my voice to.
Everyday I talk to my old friend in Chatham.
We talk bollox.
What we did, what we’ll be doing. How to get out of the heat how to remember who we are.
I have regular conversations with another chum I’ve known for over 60 years.
We affirm each others existence.
But it’s not the same as pillow talk.
Or breakfast talk.
Or dinner talk.
Or bedtime chat.
It’s not the same, although my friends are comforting, it’s just not the same.
Given that I was a commitment phobe it still amazes me that I spent over half my life with one other human being.
Life at the moment is so painful. I would wish this pain on Trump. I would wish the agony of loss on the orange cockwobble. It’s good to have a conduit for my anger and grief. Its good to know that I can spill my shit on a fat fuck and know that most people would agree with me.

I haven’t spoken yet so I dont know what I’m feeling.
The baby room is covered in photographs ready for the memorial.
The little room is full of dairies and old hats. Some of the dawters baby clothes. Boxes of memories, Books of sticky photographs. Me on stage when I was 15. My mother kept a scrap book. The newspaper is faded and peeling.
I use to talk to her everyday.
Conversations get smaller now. I’m less willing to chat. I need peace and more quiet.
But I still want the Northern twang in my ears.
I have got a little film of him with us singing a song we wrote for a friends retirement.
He was wearing an obligatory hat. He had a fat belly, he’s chirpy and playing the bones. He is so funny I can’t control my laughter or my piano playing. he’s standing by me, all comical and alive.
Thats what he did. He stood behind me and held me up.
I wish this grief on the President of the Free World, only as a `narcissist he probably wouldn’t feel it.
I’m about to talk to the dawter then I’ll know how I’m doing.
My nephew has just called from Portugal. Perfect timing.
My voice is in tact. Although tt appears I am a bit feeble today.
So I’ll watch the European games on the telly. All those fit, young athletes are surprisingly uplifting, especially those comely competitors in their likkle shorts.
Shame on me……