Time Takes a Cigarette....

It's an odd thing about writing - if I write this in the mornings or afternoons it tends towards memories of things past but if, as now, I write at night there is a stillness within me that lends itself to thought and introspection.

Finding my dearest Gail again opened old hurts that I thought had long since scabbed over. She called me her darling little Joanna and I wept for the joy the words gave me and the pain that it been so long since anyone had said them. Don't despair and click off thinking oh god not another one of those  - it isn't. It is about how casually we use our words - I love everyone to the point that love becomes a commonplace word. I call everyone darling, love, sweetie or sweetheart indiscriminately. I remember an inspection of a drama lesson once where the 'nice' lady inspector turned to me and said, "You really must watch your tendency to sarcasm - these are sensitive children you know." My flabber was well and truly ghasted by that comment. It appeared she thought my endearments were of the Patsy and Edina school.
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My friend Peter phoned yesterday and said, " Darling has your sister read the blogs?" I assured him she hadn't as indeed none of my family have, apart from my dear Uncle Terry and my lovely little Welsh cousin. "Thank God," he said, " You might want to make some alterations before she sees them." Do I though? They represent my truth - maybe not hers - and they reflect my life as it is - if that causes discomfort then so be it.  Which means I will probably spend tomorrow editing madly.

She was so glamorous, my sister. She looked like Julie Christie and had a flock of boyfriends. When we went to Bhutan the first time she stayed on and had to be rescued and smuggled out in the ensuing coup by the King against Lenny Dorje. My mother remembered her standing at by the plane at Dum Dum looking fantastic and saying, "Oh Mum, what an adventure." The hill people loved her - she could play card like a demon, drink most of them under the table and dance through  the night.

She married a Scotsman who worked for American Express, had two daughters and lived in Egypt, Switzerland and Kuwait where Mike died just after his 42nd birthday. She brought up the girls beautifully, got herself a part time job and has done much that I admire. And I do love her - of course I do - but she can hurt me like almost no one else can. She called the love my mother and I gave a "careless generosity". And I am sure she too misses that feeling of being someone's darling.

You know sometimes love is hard - to find and to keep. And we all need it, need to be somebody's darling little best beloved.