In my head….

I love waking up to London and the feeling that the city is fresh and new and has so much to offer. The heat hasn’t descended yet, and outside my window I can hear chattering schoolboys on their way to the school across the road, the sound of hard plastic wheels rolling across paving stones as charcoal suited men pull their document cases toward the tube, and the clip clap of high heels traversing the uneven potholed roads as prettily dressed women run to catch their bus into the city.

I lie in bed for the first few minutes, in that place somewhere between wide awake and a dreamlike state. I like to sleep with the blinds open, to let in the breeze at night. But my window faces that of a man across the street, and we have an uncannily similar living rhythm. He is usually my first thought of the day – “what gives me the better chance of avoiding him; if I get up now or in 5 minutes?” It never matters which one I choose, because invariably when I do finally rise from my bed and turn to look out the window, I’ll see the vague sleepy outline of my neighbour also beginning his morning rituals.  Sometimes I wonder if he too lies in bed thinking “I hope that girl isn’t getting out of bed at the same time as me today…” but mostly I assume he doesn’t give it a thought.

He’s a dancer. Ballroom I think. Every front window of his flat looks into the front windows of my flat, so it’s hard to avoid seeing him unless I close all the blinds. For most of the day music will drift across the street and into my bedroom – Spanish flamenco, the waltz, something faster, and I know if I look out the window he’ll be rehearsing or doing a class with some woman in front of his floor to ceiling studio-like mirror. Sometimes at night he sits in the dark in his boxer shorts playing on his computer.

Strange that I should know so much about a man I’ve never met and only recognise with two sheets of glass between us. I suspect if we passed each other on the street outside our homes, I wouldn’t recognise him. I don’t stand there watching him, and memorising his routine. But after three months of seeing him out of the corner of my eye, or catching a glimpse of him as he moves from room to room, I’ve become familiar with his presence. His companionship is welcome in its inevitability and silence.  He mirrors my movements as we prepare to greet the day…

Somewhere along the way I became an accidental vegetarian, and the morning is when I notice it most.

Because I can buy so much fruit and vege at the local farmers markets for such little money, in the beginning I was always forgetting to buy meat. Eventually I stopped even writing ‘meat’ or ‘chicken’ down on my shopping list, and now I rarely miss it, let alone think about it. The choice of beautiful fresh organic vegetables is boundless, and my evenings which were once sated with rare steak and salad, chicken casseroles and beef stir fry’s are now the domain of roasted sweet potatoes and cottage cheese, homemade tabbouleh, roasted vegetables drizzled with olive oil… I always considered vegetarian cooking as quite ‘grown up’. It never occurred to me it would be something I would enjoy, and eventually subscribe too. It’s just so much easier here – at least 50% of people I’ve met who are my age are vegetarians. Meat is expensive, it’s true – many of my friends stopped eating meat while at uni to save money, and decided to remain vegetarian even when they could afford meat. Quorn, Soya and tofu products come in so many different flavours and marinades, you don’t miss it….

So it’s surprised me recently that whenever I walk past this little Italian deli on the High st on my way to work, I am filled with an aching craving – I yearn to bite into one of the sickeningly huge bendy bacon, Jarlsburg  cheese and mayonnaise filled ciabbata’s that decorate the shop window. There’s no point succumbing – I tried that already and it made me feel sick. Instead I have to remain tempted, but abstain. The meat didn’t taste very nice, and I figured that made it pretty official – accidental vegetarian I will remain.

So now I sit on the top level of my double decker bus, having managed to pass the tempting bacon rolls, and I can give in to the most calming part of my day. Sitting in the front seat, surveying the world ahead of me. The bus rocks back and forth as it turns and winds through the back streets, almost like a cradle. Riding buses has become one of my favourite past-times. When I want to write, I can sit up there and be inspired. When I want to relax, I can close my eyes and just feel the rocking motion beneath me. It has the built in entertainment factor of people-watching and the additional thrilling moment when the bus driver takes a corner so fast you think you’ll fly out the window and be caught by the willowy branches scrapping across the glass.

 But in the mornings – that’s my favourite time on the bus. It’s usually quite empty. It’s a nice time to ring people back home and have a loud-bus-phone conversation without being embarrassed by being overheard. Or I can spread out across two seats with my newspaper. By the time I get to work I’m so relaxed it will take me an hour to get my brain back into gear. Mmmm…My favourite part of the day…

I can’t sleep.

It’s about 1.30am. I’ve been tossing and turning for a couple of hours now – I don’t know what it is that’s keeping me awake. I’m yawning, feel tired, and desperate to sleep… but the more I try not to think about it, the more it becomes the only thing I can focus on.

It’s a bad habit nowadays. It started at the beginning of the year – I was overworked and trying to juggle what with a ridiculously full social life. I’d be awake at 6.30am, and not getting to sleep till after 1am – and that was on a good day. But now everything is different – my social life is far more normal (less of the “out drinking every night with mates”, now it’s more likely to be out on the weekends, but try to be good on ’school nights’) I work reasonable hours. And yet I’m haunted by the inability to sleep.

I’v tried it all – warm milk, herbal teas to relax, a bath before bed, no caffeine after 5pm, no late night snacks, more exercise and a better diet. I’ve even given valerian a go (which apparently is the super anti-insomnia alternative drug). But inevitably 1am, 2am, 3am comes around, and I’m wandering around my house, or frustratedly tossing and turning in my bed.

I try to read, but then my brain engages and I can’t stop until I finish the book (it wasn’t a great day when I decided to reread Orlando, and ended up finally putting the book down just as my alarm to get out of bed went off – I thought only an hour had passed and suddenly the sun was rising. Boy, I was grumpy that day at work…) Movies are the same – I start watching and then I can’t bear to turn them off, and I find myself sitting in front of the TV sleeping in thirty minute bursts.

I guess for the most part I’m lucky – I can function pretty well for an insomniac. My sleep patterns vary from being able to fall asleep, but waking up after a few hours and not getting back to sleep (resulting in many early mornings at work after giving up after a couple of hours to get back asleep), to sleeping in short bursts, to just not being able to sleep in the first place. I’ve never needed more than 7 hours, and I’m an early riser by nature, no matter what time I go to bed. I don’t usually feel tired during the day – but I do seem to get a bit more edgy around 3pm if I haven’t had a good nights sleep.

But I like the night time (although I’d much prefer regular sleeping patterns). I like the way the night time feels – quieter, heavier, more mysterious.

A few weeks ago I got so bored I would go out walking at night. But I soon found that the streets didn’t feel so safe, alone at 3am. I did discover one thing though – London’s homeless problem is far more severe than I could ever have guessed, and that’s saying something.

When I first arrived in London I thought I’d never get used to the number of people begging on the streets – sitting on patched, torn and smeared blankets, holding out their worn hands, already anticipating the answer to their inevitable question to be “no”. I guess they hear that word a lot in one day. The ones that really break your heart are those that don’t even look up anymore, they are so lost in their dark world. Little torn cardboard signs propped against their knees with unsteady words barey revealing the horror of their lives.

I’ve watched Neverwhere. In fact I re-watched it just before coming to London as a joking London-orientation. I never thought I could pass a homeless person and not see them, not be struck by the sight of someone who has lost so much, not notice how desperate they are. But it’s true and it’s sad – you become far more oblivious to it. Oh – you notice most, but I think part of you stops actually seeing them for what they represent – a system that has let them down, or a family that has been lost, or an illness (mental or physical) that has been uncared for – and who they are as people. It becomes less of a horror, and more of a day-to-day experience, and the feelings and awareness is dulled.

This makes me sound like a terrible person, I know. I’m not sure if it’s normal, but it’s how I’ve experienced it.

Anyway – when I was walking the streets at night I became hyper aware of what was around me. Sounds travelling in the dark, shapes forming within the blackness. And without the distraction of day-to-day life, a picture reformed…

There are so many people in London who have no where to sleep at night. There are so many people huddling in flower beds, and in doorways, and against park railings, and on the sidewalks. And if these are the ones I can see, imagine how many there are that I can’t? It was like my early feelings when I’d just arrived in London came back to me three-fold. How could I have possibly shut this out? How did it become okay for me to normalise a situation that is so bad?

Strange how the night time – my time – can both hide and reveal these things.

I embarress myself by choice – no one forces me to write these posts or share these excrutiating moments with you….

I’ve been in meetings all day. I’ve even seen the boy I used to have a serious crush on. I’ve walked down to the local deli for my lunch, and I’ve sat amongst friends at work.

And not one single person happened to mention to me, all day, that my cardigan had popped open, and the entire world can see FAR TOO MUCH of me – including the “all my clothes are in the wash” bra.

There’s inappropriate, and then there’s “Fiona, put some god-damn clothes on – it’s midday and this is an office!”

I only found out a few minutes ago when I was trying to take photos of the (very excellent) exhibition up at our gallery. And I thought I looked so damn normal today, and instead I’m next to flashing anything that comes near me. The shame, the shame….

For the last week I’ve been increasingly computer bound. I trawl through blogs of people trapped or remaining in Lebanon.

Reading the paper every day is one thing. It’s a simple experience to open a crisp new Guardian whilst riding the 277 double decker to Islington, surrounded by pompous men in suits, giggling children in uniforms, mothers clucking over their babies and other head-in-newspaper travellers. I can be dismayed, shocked, scared and confused in turn, but eventually I will get off that bus, and I will walk to my office and I will get on with my day. I will think about the Israel and Hezbollah conflict (hmmm… ‘conflict’ – that word doesn’t seem enough, does it? But after pondering for five minutes over alternatives, it’s the only word I can settle on) but I will work without the sound of bombs, or the terror of losing a loved one, or the fear of everything I love being gone.

A few days ago the Guardian published the diary of a women in Lebanon – we are similar in age and careers… it got me thinking (as I imagine it did for most who read it) about the many people from both sides, living a horror that they have no say in, watching their family members go off to fight a war they don’t want to happen, or seeing their loved city become ruins.

I can’t make political comments… I’ve formed opinions, but I know my understanding of the conflict is coloured by the media, limited by the nature of my religious and cultural upbringing, skewed by the knowledge that there are people in my life who are truly afraid for their family and friends in Beirut, and that I have no right to try to make grandiose statements about my beliefs and opinions – which matter little. There are far better writers and bloggers than me who can comment on the politics and intrinsics of this situation.

But I can’t stop thinking of the images that are being delivered to me by the people who are seeing it happen – not the media. One womans mourning of the blue sea turning black because so many cruise ships have arrived. Another woman who is so frustrated because for the first time in her life she’d managed not to kill a plant, it had flourished under her care, but she’d come back from staying with friends to find it, along with everything else she’d owned, bombed. The plant seemed to represent so much. There is the man who managed to get his children out of Beirut and to London. Another comments that everyone is getting fat, because there’s a fear that food would run out, so bingeing is priority. There’s the woman from the Guardian story, who was worried that she might have to leave her friend, who’s recovering from cancer. The young man who says little, other than vividly descriptive and sad poems – instead his photos say more than words can. And the many tales of unmarried couples who are being forcefully seperated, to flee with their families, leaving their partners behind or to flee in different directions. There’s even someone misses the sight of crazy cab-drivers in the streets.

I’ve made a point of reading the blogs of as many different people as possible. And as is the way when you sample huge quantities of other people’s opinions, you find yourself not agreeing with a lot of it. At the end of the day, it’s the personal stories that make it harder for me to keep reading what’s on the web. But it’s those same personal stories that persuade me that I have to – because while there’s a human face on this, people will care.

I know I’m not doing the Lebanese, who are watching their city be destroyed, any justice with my words. This is surely a disjointed post that waffles irrelevantly about not giving an opinion, but how sad and ineffectual I feel. That I need to care, and not let this be just another media novelty this week, then forgotten the next, as is often the way with wars that don’t affect the Western worlds financial needs. I feel frustrated. I’m not alone. I’ve actually tried not to write about this for so long, because it seems so very naval-gazing and ‘Western Imperialist’ to write about how this affects me, when there are people who are losing everything they have, including their lives, who have no say over what’s happening to them. I guess I wish I could tell someone I’m really sorry. I guess I just want to voice something along the lines of “if there’s anything I can do to help…”

*many many apologies for reducing a matter that is seriously affecting many thousands of people, down to how it makes ME feel. Sometimes this blog thing really shoots you in the foot – it compells you to write, to share, to get confused and try to puzzle it all out in a very public way. But it makes you feel like an idiot for writing it, knowing the scorn that is surely to rain down…*

Have I told you this before?

I’m obsessed with the PostSecret website.

Sometimes, even though I know I’ve read all the current postcards (they’re changed every Sunday) and there’s no way there can be any new ones posted, I have to go back and check anyway.

I don’t know why. Voyeurism?

About a year ago I sent two postcards in. I always wondered who read them. If anyone read them at all. Apparently the man who runs the site gets hundreds of postcards on a weekly basis. Do I feel better or worse if no one read them? Is it the act of making and mailing that’s cathartic, or the idea that someone, somewhere accepts my secret and ‘keeps’ it for me.

I like to think that I keep the secrets of those whose postcards are published on the website. I may not know who they’re from, but I promise not to betray them – the funny, the amusing, the heartbreakingly sad…

Secrets can be burdens. Maybe once the secret is on a postcard and mailed, the burden is shared and easier to carry?

So, what do you do when the weather is so hot, lions are licking bloody ice cubes and the roads are melting under our feet?

I’ve spent two days trying to find the answer to my prayers. That is, how the hell do you cool down during a London heat wave?  

Firstly – yes, I know 37 degrees isn’t as hot as it gets in Perth. But trust me on this one, it’s about as uncomfortable as I’ve ever felt. This country isn’t made for hot weather – you know things are going wrong when hundreds of people (yes, hundreds – I asked a jolly old ticket inspector) are fainting on the public transport. They should change the Tube warnings from ‘Mind the Gap’ to ‘Mind your head as you faint – because chances are, you will’. 

And god bless the world for making it a bad day to start with… Why is it only on the hottest nights your sheets grow tentacles and manage to wrap themselves around your every limb binding them uncomfortably to you, resulting in a awkward wrestling match to set yourself free?  

After deciding that I couldn’t spend the entire day floating in my bathtub while the water grows more tepid around me, there was only one thing for it… Bill Viola’s new exhibition. Great works in a new gallery (which means they have air-conditioning – Hooray!) and more than a number of them go for about 50 minutes – so they can’t kick me out. Righto – I’m there! 

The work was astoundingly beautiful. A cleansing ritual, which takes more almost an hour to cycle through, is one of the most heart-stopping images I’ve ever seen. The slowness with which it all unfoldeded was so aching – it constantly felt like the images were about to change rhythm, but they never did, leaving you almost falling off the seat in anticipation.

 The cold air wrapped around me, the (typically) hard art-gallery-bench set up in front of the plasma screens as they threw out colourful beauty in every direction, the tap-tapping of shoes on the wooden floorboards. Oh, to have as much talent as that man has in his little finger… 

I think it was called Love/Death: The Tristan Project… but I’m not sure. And in a lovely twist of fate, it has a ’sequel’ show (I’m sure the artist would shoot me for using that word, but that’s how it feels) exhibiting at the same time – so over the weekend I can go and take refuge from the heat in another gallery for a few hours. 

Sadly in the middle of my meditative peace and quiet, an emergency at work meant I had to go in – and onto the dreaded tube. I have some advice folks; if you’re travelling on the tube during a heat wave, please don’t put your armpit in my face, and please don’t take your shoes off if you even vaguely suspect you might have foot odour (and for gods sake, once you’ve smelt it, don’t assume no one else can – we can smell it, we’re just too polite to say anything). Please don’t stand within millimetres of me, pushing me against the closed doors, whilst you in fact have about half metre clearance in front of you to stand. Please share water with someone who says (and this is a true story)  “I think I’m going to faint, does anyone have water?” instead of turning around and clutching your water bottle to you like it’s the last drop in existence. Please let said person be carried off the train (by nicer people than you) when she does faint, instead of standing in the way, trying to angle yourself onto the seat just vacated by her rescuer (Okay – I’m going leave that horrible man alone now – I’m sure Karma will bite him on the arse one day). 

So back in my glasshouse cage (my office faces the sun, with windows that stretch the entire wall, is the size of the shoebox, with no air conditioner. Aye Carumba). After a few hours of clothes sticking to me as I wade through programming logistics, I’m finally going home. I think “I’m smart – I’m going to take the bus this time!” Better? No, worse. The upstairs windows don’t open (maybe they’re afraid people will jump out?) and with windows surrounding you, and sun coming in from all angles, and people crushing against each other, it was a most sauna-like 45 minutes… 

Enough was enough. I got off a few stops early, figuring I would rather cope with the walk home, than the smell of sweaty people that was taking over the bus. So I walked through the park – where I had my second peaceful moment of the day. The shade of the trees, the breeze of the afternoon, it was all going to be okay.

On a side note, it always amazes me that the London urban sprawl is so ugly, the concrete prison-like estates that tower like guards over our neighbourhoods, the cement courtyards are so stifling – who could possibly have thought people could grow and flourish in such a urban-scape? But then the parks, which are beautifully designed, are like the saving grace. And in the early evening you can see picnickers, couples strolling, illicit barbecues, joggers -  it’s packed with people living life as though they weren’t trapped in a concrete jungle. 

As I walked through the park a little Pakistani boy, in loose cotton clothing so over-sized he looked like he would trip with each step, accidentally kicked the ball to me, instead of his brother. After he’d taunted me by yelling through giggles “kick the ball, missus” (‘missus’? who’s the ‘missus’? How old do I look?) I kicked the soccer ball back to him, where he and his brother almost doubled over with laughter (I didn’t think my kicking style was so bad) and he quickly returned it to me. I kicked it back, and by now he and his brother where in hysterics, falling on the ground, barely breathing. I’m not sure why – it could’ve have been the sight of a woman in office-y clothes joining their fun, or the concentration on my face when I tried to kick the ball. Funnily enough it made me feel something, but I can’t find the word for it…. Popular… Approved of… Rewarded… Something… 

Eventually after a few kicks back and forth (and a couple of nice moves on my part, I must say!) their mother came over and must have said something because they picked up the ball and waved to me and walked off with her.  

And I didn’t feel hot anymore. I felt happy and content. 

So London, show me what you’ve got! Throw me the biggest curve ball you can find. I bet you I can still find a pocket of magic in this place no mater how ugly it gets!

Okay – so this post isn’t only going to be about my blind date. I have to be honest up front, because if the emails are anything to go by, it’s the only thing y’all are interested in. The blind date thing was a bust (is anyone actually surprised?)

But the story of going to see Animal Collective is far more interesting.

I was introduced to the band via English Fiona (there are two of us – it’s kind of cute. We’re referred to by our surnames, like we’re little English schoolboys). She likes to play their albums – they’re a bit out there, a bit screamy, a bit full on. I liked it!

Then we found out they were gigging at the Astoria. Everyone bought tickets, except me – because I’m hopeless and forgetful. A few days before the gig I stumble on a competition asking “if you could be one animal what would it be?” I answered “A Platypus – ugly, intriguing, functional”. And I won tickets to go to the Animal Collective gig. Hooray!

Which is where the blind date comes in. As I said, everyone I knew who wanted to go had organised tickets. So I was set up by a mutual friend with a guy she knew who wanted to go to the gig, and she thought I might think he was cute etcetra etcetra.

On the morning of the gig, he cancels. He got back together with his ex-girlfriend the night before, and she (quite rightly) opposed him going on the blind date with me, on the grounds that it might not be the best way to begin a committed relationship together. I’m fine with this – I’m happily single, and not that keen on dating yet. Plus I could do without the complications of spending time with a guy who is obviously still carrying around ex-girlfriend/current girlfriend baggage…

But now I have a spare ticket, and another call around to my friends finds that everyone is either busy, or already has tickets. So English Fiona and I decide to try to sell the ticket at the gig. Mind you, neither has ever tried to do this before, and we’re a bit scared, but we figure it’ll all work out.

However it’s not as easy as it sounds. Ticket buyers and ticket holders all go through security first, before separating, so from outside the venue it’s hard to tell who needs to buy a ticket and who doesn’t. We’re both too worried about getting caught, and the first person we approach gives us a 5 minute lecture on the evils of ticket touting. Frankly, we suck at this! Plus we’re both such goody-two-shoes, and we kind of agree with the ranting-lady. So we give it up as a no-go and move into one of the most packed venues I’ve ever been in.

The building is old with lots of stairs and labyrinthine corridors. Peeling wallpaper, mouldy carpet, bad lighting. Perfect! It’s the size of Freo Metros, but the upstairs tiers are higher, with better views.

We move downstairs, and after listening to a very cool supporting act, the main attraction comes on stage. A cacophony of sound, screeching guitars, screaming singers, drums so intense my feet are reverberating off the ground. The music was estatic. Psychedelic. Madness. Beautiful…

There were low points – some of the screeching took on Sonic Youth-like proportions by going on and on and on and on in a highly ‘experimental’ way. But the gig was amazing. The music carried you away – even the annoying ‘clapping with and against the rhythm’ of the drugged-up 18 year olds in front of me was excusable (although the guy behind me kept bizarrely swearing in my ear “if they weren’t girls, I’d grab them so fast and tie their god-damn hands too their ears…”!!??).

The lead singer had the sort of American twang that is so drawn out, his words literally come out of his mouth, take a little stroll across the stage and then finally reach your ears. But it worked – his playing was fairly magnificent, as was the rest of the bands. The drummer was almost invisible, until suddenly in the middle of a song the most glorious, deep, smooth voice rose above all the other sound…

Climaxing with the same stomach-dropping, breath-taking noise they began with – suddenly they were gone. All that was left was half a warm Red Stripe in my hand, and the stunned faces of people standing around me – none of us quite able to move.

I finally have access to a computer and enough time to upload photos, so I’m taking a bit of a trip down memory lane…

First up – Cambridge…

A city filled with history you can touch

A river you can float down

Many winding back-alleyways to explore

The best fresh fruit

And endless entertainment

But the most surprising thing was this photo;

I didn’t know it’d been taken.

The lingering ghost of someone who visited my life for a brief moment, made me smile, took refuge in my room and sat silently with me as we read magazines.

I wish I’d known he was taking the photo – I would have like to smile for him, to show him I enjoyed his company. But I guess this photo is more true. More reflective of what we shared. A moment. A brief friendship. I got his number, but lost it on the way back to London. I was supposed to meet him and his girlfriend for coffee, but I couldn’t call to find out where. I thought it was gone… but now I’ve found this photo – maybe we’ll run into each other again?

It’s 10 o’clock at night, the sun is just setting. I’ve just come in from jogging and my t-shirt is still sticking to my back. My breathing is less ragged then it was, but still not consistent. I can hear the voices and laughter wafting from the pub across the road through my window and across the room to where I’m lying on the floor. My body is sprawled part way through a doorway – the last effort I could make after my exertion of running in the heat for thirty minutes and then puffing up four flights of stairs.

I’m not a natural runner. I’m not even a natural exerciser. I have to bribe myself to make the effort. By no means am I a lazy person, but jogging is one of the most pointless and boring things I can inflict on myself.

Why do it? Fear of the expanding waistline continuing its ever growing exploration into regions not previously ventured. The desire to not spend any more money on clothes because the ones I own don’t fit anymore. The fear that friends who will be arriving on my doorstep in a few weeks will look at me and silently think to themselves “god – that’s a lot of weight to put on in three months…” I guess all this adds up to a particularly unflattering form of vanity. I’d love to say I’m exercising for my health, but that would be a sham. And I don’t often believe people who hoist this excuse around – in the end it has to come back to wanting to look better than we do…

So I’ll sweat for a few weeks, maybe something good will come of it. And as all good intentions, like New Years Eve Resolutions, go – it will eventually evaporate. In the meantime, there’s one advantage… jogging behind cute guys who obviously have more dedication than me to staying fit and healthy is definitely assisting my stamina and attempt to keep up, even when I want to crumple to the ground…

*speaking of which, my next post – if not too embarrassing – will be about the blind date I’ve been set up on tomorrow night… God – how on earth did I get myself into that one?*

Suddenly – without realising it – I’ve not only managed to make friends but I’ve been here long enough to see one of them leave us, and to feel genuine sorrow that she’s moving away.

But we did the Farewell Party in style! It was another Friday Late at the V&A, this time celebrating the iconic Che Guevara image by Alberto Díaz Korda. There were screen printers willing to screenprint his face onto any item of clothing – even if you were still wearing it. Mohitjos at the bar, live Cuban music, the grass courtyard was packed with people enjoying the sun still drifting across the sky at 10pm.

We gossipped, we giggled, we grooved. We laughed, we confided, we pondered. We talked shop. We talked travel. We talked…

We shared some wine, and eventually a jovial security man kindly escorted out of the building, as everyone else had left ages before. Some of us took the safe route and went home…The rest of us moved to a bar, where we smiled at each other, then smiled for the camera…

Now she’s left us, and my phone doesn’t ping from the sound of text messages as much. And I don’t recieve as many emails. And I miss her smiling face and the way she would reassure me that everything would be okay. Everyone needs a person who can see the bright side of life to bring some perspective into the world. I’m sorry she had to go away.