Pilgrims

We went to Henri's funeral last week at Worcester Cathedral, a special place for all of us for all sorts of reasons.  It was while I was wandering around there some years ago that I came across the grave of a medieval pilgrim whose remains had been excavated a few years earlier.  His staff, boots and cockleshell hat were on display in the crypt; the shell signifying that he had walked all the way to Santiago de Compestela and perhaps even the Holy Land; an amazing journey, particularly at that time, and his skeleton bore the marks of it; deformed and twisted by arthritis and disease - he was obviously in great pain when he died.  But whom he was and how he came to be buried in such a significant place, no one knew.  And so I invented his story; a story of a battle for true faith, which I wrote up as a radio play and was directed by Peter Lesley Wild for BBC Radio 4.  The Cathedral staff and the Dean allowed me to research priceless documents and manuscripts in their amazing medieval library, and following the success of the radio play, the Dean commissioned me to write a son et lumiere production for the Cathedral, charting the history of the place from the founding to the present day, and some time later, Peter directed the stage version of The Worcester Pilgrim in the Cathedral itself with the Cathedral choir dressed as monks, singing plainchant.  Peter and his family are neighbours of Henri and her husband Erik who came along to see the play, and that's how we got to know them.   Henri's son sings in the choir now and so their family have strong links with the building too.  And so the service in that building meant something to all of us I think, and the choir added to the poignancy of the occasion, particularly when they sang Tavener's arrangement of Blake's 'Little Lamb Who Made Thee?' - it's so tender and moving, and was one of Henri's favourite pieces of music that she chose for her funeral before she passed away.  Afterwards we went to the wake, which was held at a nearby hotel on the banks of the River Severn.  Erik knew about my surgery, because I was working at his house when I was diagnosed.  I hadn't seen him since then, and so much had happened to both of us in a very short period of time, profound and serious and tragic.  I'm lucky - I'm still here and consequently the whole day for me had a strange significance; and not one for crying, I none the less found myself constantly fighting back tears, especially when Erik, recalling the past mentioned that Henri would often sing the Velvet Underground song, 'I'm sticking with you cause I'm made out of glue' to him.  Uncannily Sarah has been singing those very same words to me too for many years, and in fact sang it softly, holding my hand while I was lying in my hospital bed, veering between intense pain and blind panic.  Henri's three children are talented folk musicians and at the end of the day, together with a local band they played jigs and reels, reminding us all of how the family are united by their love of music and art.  And placed on an easel at one side of the band was a framed photograph of Henri laughing, leaning back in a deck chair with sun hat, shades and a pint of lager in her hand, just as I remembered her on the holiday we all shared that long weekend at Cropredy Festival.  Before we left, Erik told Sarah to make sure I got well and urged me to get out there and get on with the rest of my life.  I hope the rest of my life amounts to something; and it would be great if I could rustle up a few commissions and get my work out there again, and I suppose my writing has always been about searching for some kind of meaning, making sense of this crazy planet we all share, so I hope I can find some kind of truth along the way.  I guess we're all pilgrims really, bound together on a journey that will end the same for all of us, but searching for happiness, love and some kind of fulfilment along the way.  All in all a day that reminded me of the important things in my life, not so much my work, but my daughter, family and friends, and my beautiful, beautiful wife who through sickness and health is still sticking like glue.

Sad news

I've just received news that Henri, a friend of ours has passed away in St Richard's Hospice.  She was a lovely woman and will be sadly missed by all of us, particularly of course her family; made all the more poignant as she leaves behind three children who are still of school age.  The irony is that she had a similar cancer to me, but tragically it was more invasive and harder to treat.  When I was beginning to have symptoms I was doing some decorating at her house, and I told her I was having problems with getting a diagnosis as the consultant I had seen decided because I was relatively young, didn't smoke and had a pretty healthy lifestyle that I wasn't at any great risk.  It was clear that my symptoms matched those of Henri's, who was by then very ill, and she urged me to pay privately for an endoscopy; something she said she wished she had done herself.  She was really emphatic, but when I enquired as to how much it would cost, we simply didn't have the funds, so instead I rang the hospital and constantly hassled them for a cancellation; my persistence paid off, thank God, and consequently I was seen earlier than I would have been.  As soon as I had the endoscopy I was told that I had a tumour, then I had to ring again and hassle for a cancellation for a CT scan.  A couple of weeks after that I went under the knife, and thankfully my consultant (in spite of being so stubborn about seeing me) was an excellent surgeon, and the hospital care in the 'surgical high dependency ward' was very professional and compassionate.  It's so important to get an early diagnosis, and therefore it was alarming that I had to battle so hard to get one for myself.  And I guess I was spurred on by Henri, who in spite of her own struggle seemed somehow to have room in her heart to think of me too.  Just before I went into hospital I sent her some photographs of a holiday we shared when a load of us went camping at a rock festival: faces grinning at the camera - herself, her husband, her kids and the rest of us caught up in the moment, just chilling and enjoying the music, the sunshine and each other.  I hope it made her smile; we were all smiling that weekend, smiling and laughing... we are all so frail.

Looking for work

No dishwashing or building work or anything too manual for a while, which is something of a welcome break, but although Sarah has been amazing through all of my treatment, I feel somewhat guilty relying on her for everything, and money (as always) is pretty tight, so I do feel pressure to find some kind of work.  With this in mind I recently accepted an invitation to attend a seminar about domestic violence and violence to women by men.  I was asked there as a playwright to reflect on the day and perhaps sometime in the near future, write a play about the subject; an area I've already visited with some of my work.  There were some very moving testimonies from abused women who were brave enough to stand up and share their disturbing stories with everyone, and there were two speakers who really blew me away: Karyn McCluskey, the co-director of the violence reduction unit, Strathclyde police, and from the USA, Tony Porter an activist in the social justice arena.  Karyn McCluskey conducted a sort of forensic examination of a young man who had committed a random killing, taking into account his family background; even events that had taken place before his birth, including details that made it depressingly evident that sooner or later something like this was bound to happen, stressing the need for early involvement; in fact it seems clear that 0-3 years are most crucial, after this time unfortunately most of the damage has been done.  She also talked about the sexual exploitation of young girls by gangs; something I have researched myself for my play, The Girl In The Box which has just been performed by East 15 final year drama students... distressing stuff, but sadly very real for the unfortunate victims.  Tony Porter's seminar was equally inspiring, talking about 'breaking out of the man box', and boy did it hit home!  Talking directly to the men in the room, it soon became apparent that long held opinions about women are (however liberated you might think you are) ingrained, and deep-seated attitudes that seem quite acceptable are actually quite offensive and are holding women back.  I wondered later what kind of play I might write to address these particular issues, then I remembered I'd already written it - Phil&Jill&Jill&Phil, which was produced some years ago by the Belgrade Theatre in Coventry.  It was a real crowd pleaser and there was talk of it transferring to the West End, but it never happened, and a few years later it was unmercilessly plagiarised by other writers.  I made the mistake of actually challenging one writer who hadn't really tried that hard to disguise his poor effort.  Of course I can't prove it, but there does seem to be operating (within some quarters) a sort of unofficial black-list paying me back, and on more than one occasion when meeting various people in the industry, the action I took was raised.  I guess what galls me most is the fact that the play was written out of a genuine concern for the subject matter, but once someone nicks your idea you know its just a promotional vehicle for them to make money.  I actually gave up writing for quite a while after that episode, and even now it hurts.  The sad truth is that there are some unscrupulous people in this industry.  But I love writing and can't seem to stop; I'm always writing something.  At the moment I'm writing more poetry; concentrating on my blog - A History Of The World In 100 Poems.  There's no money of course, but it's just good to be creative and keep your hand in I reckon.

I'm back!

Cancer is something that happens to other people... until it happens to you.  That's why I haven't posted a blog for such a long time: I spent 11 long days and nights in hospital enduring painful major surgery and have been home slowly recovering and pondering my future.  It seems I'm extremely lucky to be alive and I feel... well I feel different, I guess; I've had a brush with death and it's changed me somehow.  All those clichés about seeing things from a new perspective, suddenly appreciating the commonplace and ordinary and realising how precious a gift life really is, all that stuff about spending time watching a sunset or lying under a tree listening to the breeze moving the leaves, all those stories from people who have survived a trauma looking at their loved ones with grateful wonder for having been there for them... all that stuff - all that stuff is true.  It's been a humbling journey and now it's time to begin again; because that's sort of what it feels like really, a kind of second shot.  I have no idea what difference it will make in the long run... maybe after a while life just becomes, I don't know normal again and routine. We'll see...