The café was rammed.
Young mothers in leggings, babies is hoodies, elderly gentleman in anoraks and me. I sat next to the log burner. The flames swirling behind the door. I sat with my back to the heat. It was comforting. Two women asked if they could share the table.
They sat opposite me.
This week I’ve been alone with my ailing body so it was good to have somebody to talk to. The pink powdery smell of Coco Chanel wafted over the table.
‘Don’t I know you’?
I haven’t been on the box for ages.
‘I know you from the telly don’t I?
I did that smile that ageing egoists do when they want to appear humble but are in fact screaming inside that they haven’t been forgotten. Apparently her son was a huge fan, so I wrote him a note on a napkin and turned back to the logs.
The smell of Coco and the burning logs required hearty food so I ordered a white bean and tomato soup and self consciously nibbled on sourdough bread.
This week has been tough.
My heart is weakening by the minute and still there’s no sign of an endoscopy or a heart procedure, so it’s on we go trying to remain positive.
The bonnie woman at the table reminded me of a life I’d had.
All those films, all those interviews, all that telly bollox. All that travelling all the unusual dancing lessons from God.
I interviewed a man, years ago, who invented smells.
We drove to his perfumery, shelves and shelves of scents.
He explained how the olfactory organ was linked to memory. So he set about creating a series of smells that would unlock ancient memories.
Wood smoke from a coal fire.
Clean washing straight off the washing line.
Christmas trees.
Five bottles in a box called ‘All our Yesterdays’.
Into care homes he went with his phials of remembrance.
People who had been locked in their silent world smiled as he wafted clean washing under their noses.
People who had not spoken freely for a long time opened up when they smelt new mown grass.
The power of smell bringing them back into the here and now.
I’m reminded of Ophelia talking about rosemary for remembering.
So I sit in the garden, under the Autumn sun, by the Rosemary bushes, and melt into my past.
Years and years of smells.
Walks in the Ashdown Forest the aroma of coconut pouring out of the yellow Gorse bushes.
The smoking carriages in the old trains.
The 6.12 to Charing Cross. Six seats, bowler hats and the occasional pipe.
Me commuting to London arriving into the smell of London. Rain on Asphalt and empty wine bottles in Soho,
Running to studios, running to hair salons. Running into a life
Now I couldn’t run even if Usain Bolt offered me a head start.
I’m breathless and unbalanced.
I’m envious of people who hike.
I’m jealous of people who walk their dogs.
I haven given up yet though.
I crawl up the stairs then sit to catch my breath. I sit in the shower and park my car as close to the cottage door as I can.
My neighbours bring me in logs and fix bits of the cottage that are falling apart.
I have many phone calls every day. I have regular conversations with my old friend in Saratoga Springs.
Pammie and I lived together in London in the early 70’s, in a big house in Queens Crescent that had an old standup telephone and blue copper saucepans.
Then she went back to up state New York and studied in ALBANY.
Over the years, and two children later she ended up in Brooklyn. I visited a lot. Now, I can’t travel so we talk regularly on Whats App.
The latest conversation was about Desert Island discs. She’s hooked.
Our last conversation was about fishing.
She had met SLIPSTREAM SOCKEYE, three young fisherwomen.
‘Like the old Japanese women who dive for oysters?
‘No.’ She said. Three young women who bought a fishing boat in New England.
Six months ago Pammie ordered black cod, halibut and sockeye salmon.
Last week Pammie, accompanied by Roy Plumly’s programme, drove an hour and a half to the waterside where the three women unloaded their catch.
Slipstream Sockeye had contacted Pammie about her fresh load..
Pammie paid the women got home to Saratoga and put the haul into the freezer.
That night they ate the salmon.
‘The best salmon I have ever eaten’ said Pammie.
I wondered what prompted three girls to get together to fish for a living. As Pammie told me their story I could smell the open water and the wind in their hair.
The old git use to say that a contented life is whatever floats your boat.
When our life diminishes you have to look for appropriate alternatives.
Last week I couldn’t have looked for anything my head was scrambled. I couldn’t write, or think. I couldn’t sleep.
This week my head has cleared a bit.
I opened up Bafta View and watched films.
TUNER a movie with 89 year old Dustin Hoffman and Leo Woodall.
Went to bed at three thoroughly satisfied.
Watched a film about Bill Evans the jazz pianist. An arty black and white homage to the brilliant Piano player.
Being a musician was my chosen career until I was in my twenties.
Music schools and scales for me until I went to drama school.
I do see life through music. It’ my saviour.
From Jaques Loussier to Ethel Ennis.
Jazz chords and mellifluous harmonies.
As the nights draw in, the fire lit the smell of burning logs and fresh coffee, there is also the smell of possibilities.
I’ve long since given up being King Canute trying to halt the waves. I’ve finally surrendered, given in to life as we know it.
Whatever happens now is better than nothing and with the right soundtrack is utterly bearable.