MY SQUISHY

I haven't blogged here for a while. I have, quite clearly, failed at what I've set out to do. I don't know why I've managed to so spectacularly fail to achieve the goal I set out for myself, which was to write one of these a day for a 100 days finishing...a while ago now! I think maybe the issue was setting myself up to write something interesting, important and relevant every day was a little too ambitious back then.

Anyway, I'm back here now because someone is indeed in need of a letter. And it's my squishy...you can call her what you want. If you know who she is of course. Which you might. Or don't. Who knows.

Her Grandfather died this weekend and, the fact that it wasn't really unexpected and the fact that he has lived a long, interesting and happy life, doesn't really make a difference to how sad she feels right now. Many of my friends have lost family members recently and every time it happens I feel a combination of sadness, fear and relief. And then, though I'm glad I'm human enough to feel empathy, I feel guilty for each of these feelings, knowing that this isn't about me or my thoughts on life and mortality in any way.

But it's strange how each of us respond to news of death in different ways. Some of us become cloyingly sympathetic, appearing to stroke, hug, kiss, feed and comfort the bereaved in a variety of ways. Others of us run a mile- wanting to get far enough away to be able to deny the basic, terrifying truths of life and mortality. And there are so many -an alien race to me- who can bravely face death straight on. Who can accept and discuss and rationalise, and who can understand that life and death are part and parcel of our everyday adventures. I'm not one of those people. My sister calls me a dreamer, a fantasist...she derides my attempts to look further than the everyday- whether that be in romance, religion or career plans- and I think this translates to my response to death. I push it anyway, I refuse to believe and, luckily perhaps for my business, I make jokes.

But, Squishy, maybe that's not the worst response after all. I can't physically be with you now anyway and I doubt I could cook anything that would entice you greatly. Lots of the people you love are there doing these things now, and no doubt you're doing them in return for your family who are just as sad as you. And you're facing life and death head on right now, I can't see the appeal of me being there just to affirm that's what you're doing and what's happening. So I'll do what I'm best at. I'll write you blogs, I'll send you jokes or funny YouTube links, I'll distract you with stories of my latest mess ups or woes of a broken heart and you can forget your problems for a minute and play Mama Squishy. I'll tell you funny stories from work and we can laugh or bitch over our contemporaries' behaviours, successes or misfortunes. Because I've realised that who I am is much of what you are too. You might have a proper job and a real life boyfriend. You might talk about marriage and cook proper meals and pass your driving test and go on hen nights, but really you're a silly, funny, fantasist too. So how about this. You can call me, you can cry. I will respond. But in a couple of weeks I'm gonna rock up on your doorstep with a CRATE (read bottle) of something pink and sparkling, some slag mags and news from Londinium. You can fill me in on the past few weeks. We'll talk about some serious stuff, we'll cast our eyes to the heavens and be thankful for all the good things we have and have yet to come and then we'll descend rapidly into two giggling, joking, slightly crass (at times), ridiculous beings and have a lovely time, thankful that no one else gets to see us at what might be our best or our worst. We won't know and we won't care. Until then hold tight, do some crying, do some smiling, look after your Grandma and remember that it'll get better.