Inter-sessional

With the Powells gone, and before the next tranche of family were due to arrive,  there was a definite sense of waiting and pausing for thought. In the midst of washing the bed clothes and making up beds I suddenly remembered the way that Cherry used to laugh at me for the way I used to struggle to get the pillows into the pillow cases, which usually ended with me furiously punching them into battered submission. It set me in mind of a letter about sharing beds that I'd earlier seen in the Guardian, which I had thought spot on.

          This what it said:  'The answer to 'How to share a bed and be happy' is to listen carefully to your partner. having been widowed for six years, I still only use the third of our king-sized bed that my wife allocated to me; perhaps I will dare to move over towards the middle in time.'

          It's exactly the same for me. But I do things as I was taught not out of fear, but, probably like him,  out of fond remembrance.  It's a kind of permanent celebration, that helps protect against the sudden challenges that pop up - such as my American accountant unexpectedly telling me her name was 'Cherie' - not the same, but nearly. Or two colleagues (one Belgian, one American) at a China conference here in Newport asking me, literally, 'Where's your lovely wife ?'  and being horrified and embarrassed when told.  The same spirit I think marks the decision that Philippa and I  have made about getting up a list of all the churches that we have lit candles in, for Cherry. I'm pretty sure she's beating me, her last triumph being to do so in St Patrick's Cathedral, New York in the last days of their American trip.

          Doing this kind of thing provides something of a shield against the regular but unexpected ambushes. There were quite a few of these on my recent visit to Singapore, a place redolent with shared memories. I was bemoaning the fact that I had forgotten to pack any socks when a conference friend said I should have got my wife to do it. 'If only...., ' I thought. In 'our' university apartment, Cherry's Prosecco glass, the red doubled handled saucepan she bought, the wheelie supermarket trolley she refused to use for fear of being thought an old lady, her hand-held vacuum cleaner, and more besides, have all survived the depredations of countless other tenants and impoverished cleaning ladies. The map book I used to navigate my way around the city was full of stickers in her handwriting of the addresses of her friends and places she'd visited. But I don't mind any of this; its all evidence of a continuing presence, of a sort - and I realise how lucky I am when compared to the countless unfortunates one reads about in places like Afghanistan and Syria who have no such consoling links with a lost one.

 

          Singapore was again very successful. A conference much of which I chaired (including one excessively high-profile one with the US Navy's top admiral giving his last foreign speech), an opportunity to renew acquaintance with a lot of very nice people. I did a spot of fun teaching as well and found time to have a long (hot) walk around the City's famous Botanic Gardens. This really is an extraordinary place with its 'cannonball trees,'  tributes to the over-dressed Brits who established it back in the 19th Century and exotic flowers and birdlife. I chanced across a jungle fowl clucking across a track.

We used to see these emerging from the woodland above from the kitchen window of our Singapore flat. They sound just like chickens, maybe long ago originating them? I also went back to the Asian Civilisations Museum and patronised the mock-Tudor 'Tavern' and swimming pool of the Tanglin Club all of which we  very much liked in our time there. In the Tavern, complete with horse brasses and cartoons of 19th Century British politicians I enjoyed delicacies typical of Singapore such as Cottage pie and Bread-and-Butter pudding. I find I'm getting more used to dining in public on my own, which is probably just as well.

          I achieved a major breakthrough on the return flight to the UK - namely to sleep for perhaps four of the thirteen  hours it took. Back home I was therefore better able fully to enjoy the company of Philippa who had come down to check that I was still OK. We had a nice day at Avebury, looking round the touchy-feely Manor house where I was able to show her the limitations of my talent in playing snooker. One of the distinctive things about this place is that despite its being a National Trust property, one is encouraged to touch everything. It was all slightly unnerving. I also heard about the continuing saga of their own house improvement  from Tony and Maya who, driven out of their home by the builders, are kindly currently looking after mine - and Minnie the cat who still, unbelievably, seems to be going strong, if more than a little weird, at 20 plus.

          And so back across the Atlantic to await the next tranche of family visitors. Getting some supplies in just before they arrived, I saw this truck issuing from a narrow lane near the 'Stop-and-Shop.'

Quintessentially American, with its snub nose, aluminium décor, flashing lights and reverberating horn. It's surely what a lorry should sound and look like. A clear sign that I was back in the USA, and that the next arrivals were shortly due.