The Edinburgh Pony.

It's around five am and David and I are listening to the back catalogue of his favourite songs from the beginning of time to the almost present day (mid 90's).

'And of course this one,' he says. 'From A Star is Born.'

'Hmmm?'

'Judy Garland.'

'Oh. Never seen it.'

There's an unwanted pregnancy of a pause.

'What the fuck are you saying to me?'

I glance up nervously.

'I – I've never seen it.'

He stares at me balefully.

'You are the shittest fag hag ever. I'm telling Christeene.'
Ah, Christeene.

I had been introduced to the way of life that is Christeene a few months previously via the gift of youtube. David and John are producing her show and David sent me a link which I clicked on as I sipped my first coffee of the day. Five minutes later I finally blinked and wondered whether I was crying tears or blood.

I won't spoil the experience for you. Look her up. I recommend 'Fix My Dick' for your first viewing experience. Better still though would be to see her live as I did some hours before the 'shittest fag hag' recriminations.

Initially she looks a little like the love child of Marilyn Manson and a crack whore but she grows on you alarmingly quickly and before long you'll see that she has a strange and compelling beauty. She is the most seductive creature. It's impossible not to fall for her. You'd have to be dead inside. A word to the wise though, do not under any circumstances accept the balloons she offers you during the show.
Let her in and she'll teach you how to release your inner pony, the courage that keeps you from safe places, the one that lives in your gut, wild and untameable.

After the show we met and were left alone for a couple of hours to chat, smoke and drink. As I stared in to her electric blue contact lenses I fell a little in love. I plan to be her life long friend irrespective of any feelings she may have on the subject. The great thing about obsession is that it focuses you.

I'm at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival for a few days, the guest of David and John, two friends and Producers who are the just about the most fun as you can have with or without lashings of vodka. And there is always vodka. They have that wonderful gift of making you feel treasured. As I type this John has emptied my ashtray and placed a bowl of cheesy biscuits within easy reach, right next to my gin.

It's lovely being a bit part player in their world of shows and drinks and anecdotes. They have five acts on in conjunction with Soho Theatre, all of which I've seen and enjoyed immensely. David tells me that some years ago they had twenty five acts on simultaneously and it was madness.
It's my first time here and I'm aware that I've been spoiled horribly and for ever more. I don't pay to see anything and I have a number of plastic passes to get in various places. There is always a drink in my hand and a cigarette at regulation height.

Every time I try to pay for something John tells me to 'Put your cash away, we might need it later.' Later has never arrived.

The first show they took me to was Fascinating Aida. I've been a fan of Dillie and Adele since I was sixteen and first saw them perform on Hysteria (A show that David produced, serendipity's a sneaky minx) They are two of the greatest comic lyricists and like all clever people they make it look effortless. Watching the trio perform together is hilarious and nostalgic. I had the pleasure of finally meeting them after the show and barged in with my camera demanding a picture before they'd barely had a sip of wine. It's what you do isn't it. Despite the self loathing.

I'd tell you about Kim Noble's show 'You're Not Alone' but I'm still a bit speechless really. There's a moment where you see some footage of his elderly father. Kim has gone to visit him in his care home and he sees his son and says; 'Kim, Kim, my blessed boy.' With everything that comes before and after it just makes you cry. There are also bits that make you want to claw your way through the wall behind you to get away.

I'm aware that I haven't a bad word to say about anyone or anything, I'd make a terrible critic, thank fuck. If you ever have the opportunity to see his show, go. Cancel all your plans and go. Once seen it can't be unseen which is both a curse and a blessing. He won an award. So did Christeene. Though hers was a brick with a plaque on it which she's rightly concerned about taking through customs; “I'm gonna give it to Soho Theatre and get them to ship that fucker to me.”

I haven't been properly sober for at least two days.
Everyone I've met is either in a show or working on a show and I have had the luxury of absolutely no responsibility. The most taxing activity has been putting the kettle on.
The days are long and fizzing with excitement. The drinks are relentless and I can't tire of it.
John tells great anecdotes and it has become second nature to roll a cigarette and share it with him because apparently he doesn't smoke anymore. I'll be passing my cigarette to thin air for days to come.
The two of them have known each other forever which is evident in their banter. We were in a taxi yesterday and in response to some quip of John's, David said:
'If I die young you'll be sorry you said that.'

John raised an eyebrow.
'David, we're too old to die young.'
They both sit there giggling for the next two minutes.
But one of the nicest things is lounging opposite David at five am as he plays me songs whilst scrolling through his endless emails, which never stop, not even at half six when I finally drag myself off to bed. John who lies down, closes his eyes and sleeps immediately, dreamlessly and for up to nine hours, staggered through last night for a piss and just rolled his eyes.
'Go to bed for fuck's sake.'
David doesn't seem to require sleep. From what I can gather he takes a restorative nap between about seven and ten before starting all over again.
He wakes me at eleven with a cup of tea and tells me to get up because 'we're going for a lovely lunch somewhere proper'. He's full of beans and I'm bouncing off the walls so it takes me a moment to realise the soundtrack to 'A Star is Born' is playing loudly and pointedly just outside my door.

As I sit on the train heading back south a montage of the last few days shimmer around my head.

Christeene talking about the secrets kids tell each other in the woods, where no grown ups are allowed to go. Kim riding in to the night on the back of a white horse, wearing a sparkling red evening gown. Dillie rolling her eyes as she explains the finer points of dogging. Adele's perfect red lipstick and warm smile. A puppet of Gabriel Byrne telling fellas that it's okay to fuck fellas. David roaring with laughter. John handing me yet another margarita as the rain thunders down. And I think of that pony in the gut, wild and untameable.

The Night Blooming Cereus

I sit and watch as she removes a pint glass from the cupboard and places it on the side. She is telling me about a mutual acquaintance that I have asked after, a woman who was a terrible snob and never had a relationship that we know of in her entire life. She walks to the freezer and removes a tray of ice which she bangs out and in to the sink.

'I think she had a boyfriend when she was fifteen or so but he turned her over for someone else and she swore off men after that.'

'How old is she now?'

'Must be in her seventies,' she says in her smooth Judi Dench timbre.

She refills the tray and puts it back in to the freezer before pulling out a bottle of ginger ale which she opens and places next to the glass now half full of ice.

'How sad,' I say.

She moves over to another cupboard and pulls out a bottle of Teachers Whiskey. I watch as she unscrews the lid, feels for the rim of the glass and proceeds to fill it to the three quarter mark. She then adds a dash of ginger. A flourish.

'What did you say?'

'I said it's sad.'

'Mmm. Can you imagine going to your grave without a single fuck? Awful,' she says and sips her drink.

And that's the best way I can think of to introduce you to my ninety seven year old grandmother.

It's odd to call her that, I've never done so really. To me she has always been 'Mutti' which is German for mummy. The reason we call her this is one of about 250 interesting stories I could tell you about Mutti. More probably.

Writing about her is like trying to count grains of sand.

She is my fathers mother and she was born in Norfolk but for the past forty years has lived in Spain in a villa that she designed. In between those two places she has lived in the Maldives, Bahamas, Mexico, America, Canada, Saudi, Madras, China....the list goes on. She is a teacher and her IQ is 183. When I was about seven she made me promise that if she ever went senile and had no idea what she was doing I would bring her back to the UK - “Because I assure you I would have to be completely insane before I'd agree to move back there” - That hasn't happened and it's quite obvious to me now that it never will. But old age is crafty and wicked in other ways. She has cataracts in her beautiful blue goat like eyes. She's had laser surgery twice in the last five years but within six months her sight went from perfect back to blurred. The doctor sighed and said; 'I'm sorry but your eyes are over ninety years old, they're just not supposed to last that long.' And so she continues to do her cryptic crosswords with a giant magnifying glass but she can no longer write me letters which is a great loss to me. For the past thirty five years I have frequently felt a skip of excitement at the sight of one of her white envelopes with the small gold sticker on the back containing her address and a little black palm tree.

And now she is going deaf. She finds it so frustrating that she often responds to something I've said with; FUCCCCKKKKKK! Say it again!

She's going for a hearing test though and we hope that maybe with hearing aids her ears will hold out a bit longer. The downside of retiring to a foreign country is that nothing is free.

Those two problems aside she is otherwise remarkably sprightly. I watch her bend over, pick up one of her dogs and throw her on the sofa.

'She has arthritis, poor thing,' she says before sitting herself cross legged on the chair next to her.

Over the years I have brought a number of friends to visit Mutti and some have returned independently referring to it as a 'pilgrimage to Mutti'. She remembers them all and recalls details about them that I have long since forgotten.

She loves being read to and when I was younger I'd often read an entire book to her over the course of a weekend. Yesterday I sat next to her on the sofa with my mac on my lap and one arm around her shoulder and screamed the first two chapters of my book in to her 'good' ear. Today I'll arm myself with a pint of water and scream the next two chapters too. Because, as she quite rightly says, we shall not be defeated. She runs her hands over my tattoos like they're brail.

I have a terrible filing system in my head where memories and events are stored. I can't remember a lot of things and I certainly couldn't give you dates or years. But I have a shockingly good memory for words and can usually recount a conversation I had years ago with great accuracy. I've inherited this from Mutti and whilst she can now only read with the aid of a magnifying glass and a blinding light she frequently quotes things to me with word perfect precision.

We were having our early evening lifter when she said;

'Do you remember this one; “I sit beside my lonely fire and pray for wisdom yet: For calmness to remember or courage to forget.”

Mutti gave me a notebook when I was four in which she had written out some quotes and poems she liked or had written. She told me she had always kept these notebooks and I should do so too. That every time I read or heard something I loved I should copy it in to the book. I have six now.

'Yes, of course I remember,' I said.

'I choose courage,' she said. 'There's no point remembering the things you can't change. Do you still keep notebooks?'

'Yes, but I've started transferring them to my skin now.'

'And why not,' she laughs.

We talk about her adventures and my hopes and hours pass.

'What's that flower out on the patio?' I ask.

'What colour is it?'

'Yellow.'

'Hibiscus,' she says. 'It's the flower of Hawaii.'

'It's beautiful.'

'Did I ever tell you about my Night Blooming Cereus?' She asks.

'No?'

'I found it whilst I was living in the Bahamas. It's a cactus flower, white, very beautiful. I'd always wanted one. I planted it in the garden. They only bloom for one night a year. When that night came around I would always have a great party, lots of people would come, the press too, and we would get drunk and watch it unfurl. It's extraordinary to watch a flower unfurl its petals, you don't normally catch them at it.'

Mutti has witnessed a revolution and watched friends killed in front of her. She has escaped an island under gun fire. She has hung on to a rope ladder underneath a helicopter as it flew her to safety. She's met the Dalai lama and knitted clothes for the children he walked to safety from Tibet. She taught Omar Sharif English. She has literally sat in the eye of a hurricane (Betsy) then watched it tear the edge of an island in to the sea. She has outlived two of her children. She has eaten goats eyes and bollocks. She survived a brain tumour and taught herself to speak again. She has spoken eleven languages fluently. She set up the first educational system in the Maldives. She has travelled over dodgy borders with her jewellery hidden in her bra. She has had thirty eight trashy romances published, each one written over a weekend when she needed a bit of cash. She saved a child's life. She was in a spitfire that crashed in to a field. She saw Judi Dench play Juliet when she was sixteen and remarked that the girl had a future. She's seen Bob Marley and Jimi Hendrix play live. She had the courage to leave her husband at the age of forty during a time when the law was against her and go on to travel every corner of the world.

Yesterday afternoon she asked me to climb a ladder and fetch a folder out of one of her cupboards. I did as asked and handed it down to her, brushing the spiders that hadn't managed to escape off the cover. She pulled out a yellowing manuscript and handed it to me.

'That's my autobiography,' she said. 'You can have it if you like.'

Flourish.

I am sat in the garden, sipping a drink, watching my seventy year old mother rip trees up by the root. There's a huge silver birch in the corner that she says is the result of a bird crapping seeds.

'A lot of the plants and flowers come because of the birds crapping seeds,' she says.

I nod and continue to do absolutely nothing whilst she wrestles with a particularly gnarly looking weed.

Anything that woman touches grows beyond all expectations. My siblings and I are a testament to that. She's only five foot. We all tower over her. It's not that she has green fingers. It's that she's a witch. I'm convinced of it.

She never learned anything about gardening and she doesn't come from a family of gardeners but I see her tear bits off plants ('They are called “cuttings” darlinkk.' She rolls her eyes.) and shove them in a pot and in the blinking of an eye there's a flourishing thing.

When she was a carer she looked after an old man who had been a well known botanist. He had spent a large portion of his life travelling the world in search of rare or undiscovered orchids. He had two in his room that he had never managed to get to bloom outside of their habitat. He gave them to mum and asked her if she'd like to have a go. She brought them home with four pages of densely written notes suggesting optimum temperatures, how to drip feed them water and where to place them. Mum shoved them in a pot, poured a cup of water over them and left them on the window sill. A few days later a white and a purple orchid stood to terrified attention under her appraising glare. Witch.

I remind her of the story and she pulls off her rubber gloves, sits down and lights a cigarette.

'His name was Wilde,' she says. 'I have a newspaper article about him somewhere under the bed.'

She thinks for a moment and I can feel myself itching to pick up a notebook and pen.

Daniel Kitson said he once watched a boy in the park running in to the sun and thought the moment so perfect and beautiful he couldn't wait to tell his audience when on stage that night. His next thought was that he was a monster. What kind of person has barely experienced a moment before filing it under anecdote? Writer's, that's who.

'He was a lovely man,' she says. 'He really, really loved his wife. She was so beautiful. She came to the home before him. She'd had a stroke. He came to visit every day. He would be there when she woke up and he wouldn't leave until she was peacefully asleep.'

She's a natural storyteller. She sets the scene and I am already picturing it, wondering how they met, how long they were together.

'She had a balcony that lead out to the communal garden. There was a little hillock outside. I found him out there one day on his hands and knees digging the whole thing up. “You'll get in trouble,” I told him. He smiled. “I pay enough.” He planted the whole thing with the most incredible flowers for her. She would sit and look at it for hours. One night I was in the kitchen and he came in, it was quite late, and he said “She's sleeping peacefully.” He sat at the table and I made him some tea and a sandwich. On my way past her room I stuck my head in to check on her. She had passed away. I went back to the kitchen to find him staring at his cup. I sat down beside him and held his hand. “She is sleeping very peacefully ins't she,” I said. He nodded, smiled. He came to live with us after that. And on the night he died his daughter came in to the kitchen and said “He's sleeping peacefully.” And I thought; Bloody hell. I told her, I said; “That's exactly what your father said when your mother died. She nodded, smiled.'

I sit in the sun thinking about Mr Wilde whilst mum disappears inside. She returns twenty minutes later with her hair on end.

'I've been to hell and back under that bed!' She says.

She's tiny and I have this image of her climbing under the bed and entering a whole other dark world, like Dante's inferno, but with a head torch on. I start giggling.

'I had things balanced on my head and I got stuck and I still didn't find the article about him. But I found this.'

She hands me a newspaper clipping. There's a photo of me on stage aged sixteen wearing a St Trinian's school girl uniform and brandishing a crutch in an amateur production of 'Daisy pulls It Off!' at The Bishopstoke Players. I read the review delighted to see that my friend, Lucy, and I stole the show as Sybil Burlington (snob and rake) and Trixie Martin (mad cap and poet of the upper fourth). Lucy played the villain of the piece, haughty and humorously dry. And I played the overly keen, bumbling and terribly posh jolly hockey sticks character. I think about how Lucy and I interact more than twenty years later and realise that when we're messing about we pretty much still play those characters. An example would be a conversation we had a few weeks ago when I was terribly hungover after a works party and had the horrors about my behaviour.

Lucy: Well how bad was it?

Me: I was very drunk. Staggering about the place. Fell asleep stood up.

Lucy: Oh darling, that's nothing. I've done worse. Without leaving the house.

Me: But -

Lucy: Have an ice lolly, you'll feel better.

Me: I dare say you're right.

I think about Lucy and how much she has made me laugh over the years. Not least because of her horrific singing voice. I swear one verse of I Could Have Danced All Night sung at volume by Lucy could drag even the most determined depressive out of a slump. 

The people I love most in my life have one thing in common; they are all singularly hilarious.

In the film As Good As It Gets, Jack Nicholson states that 'People who use metaphors should shampoo my crotch'. I know what he means but can't help myself. 

My mum plants cuttings and over the years trees grow in their place. The seeds of my friendships have done much the same. Water for one, laughter for the other. Everything good flourishes doesn't it.

Ink

Someone I love has a tattoo on his upper arm that says 'Part II'. He had it done a few years ago, I guess he must have been in his mid to late thirties at the time. He said he had it to acknowledge the end of the first part of his life and mark the beginning of the second part. I like it a lot. I particularly like it because he is sartorially pulchritudinous (yes I did just use the word pulchritudinous), prone to tweed, and singularly elegant in Grenson brogues. And I don't think most people would suspect that beneath this dapper exterior he'd be sporting ink. Which is sexy whichever way you look at it. We were at Pride a few years ago and it was raining (God's punishment), his crisp white shirt got wet and the 'Part II' became visible through his sleeve. I remember thinking he'd never looked more handsome than in that moment, when the image you choose to project and the person you are come together in an unexpected way.

We had our first tattoos together. A gift for my thirtieth birthday. He made me go first to see how much it would hurt. I told him it was fine as I clamped my teeth down on my lolly. He is over six feet tall and has the physique of a man from the 1940's. Not these spindly modern tall boys you see. He cried, I didn't. He had the word 'Love' on his lower back and I had the word 'Words'. It was the only tattoo I would ever have. He suggested it and it seemed perfect. I love words. I love writing, I love books, I love stories. And y'know, just because.

The artist said they were addictive and I would probably want another one before long. I smiled knowingly at his ignorance.

I had my second tattoo a couple of years later. An L.P. Hartley quote at the base of my neck. The words reminded me of an uncle I loved very much who had passed away unexpectedly.

It just felt so right and two tattoos is hardly anything at all. I had read somewhere that people who have a lot of tattoos don't have a very strong sense of who they are. And when I see people with chinese symbols etched alongside celtic bands and framed by flying eagles I kind of see how that could be the case. But I also think it's bullshit. I've always loved tattoos. Maybe because my dad's arms were covered in them and he stood out from the other dads outside the school gate. He looked cool leaning on the bonnet of his racing green daimler sovereign in mirrored aviators smoking a cigar. He had navy tattoos, various animals and birds in that dark green you don't much see anymore. If you scratched them you'd smell sea salt and rum.

My third tattoo was quite a long quote, part of the speech Lucifer made to the fallen angels in Milton's 'Paradise Lost'. This one on the inside of my forearm. I called the aged family retainer to see what she thought.

'Is it facing out or facing you?'

'It's facing me.'

'Wonderful. Then you are reminding yourself of its truth, not bullshitting the world with an idea of who you might be.'

'Thanks Gran.'

The artist told me I'd want one on the other forearm before long, you know, to even things up.

I rolled my eyes. Hey man, I'm not in to symmetry.

When I had my fourth tattoo I was drunk in a pub with my niece and the parlour was jussst opposite and it had been a shitty year and it seemed like a good idea at the time.

And it was a good idea. So on the inside of my right wrist it says 'This too shall pass.' Something the family retainer had said to me many times in conversation. When she first uttered those words I was about fifteen and thought it meant that all the bad times pass. As I got older I saw its levels and understood that it meant everything passes, good and bad, in a constant ebb and flow. I find it comforting. But I won't lie, it was a bit of a surprise when I woke up the next morning with a throbbing wrist wrapped in cellophane. Not least because whilst I knew I'd had something written on my wrist, I couldn't remember what it was and I knew Neil, the tattoo artist, was dyslexic.

So where are we up to? Oh yes, my fifth tattoo. I had been in Australia a few weeks and one of Kate's new songs was going round and round in my head. The lyrics were so lovely, so perfect, and they embodied everything I was feeling about this new chapter in my life. We were walking along Chapel Street in Melbourne looking for a coffee shop.

'I should really get those lyrics inked on soon,' I said.

Kate laughed and pointed to the shop we were stood outside: Chapel Street Tattoos.

Synchronicity. I walked in and the nice man said he could do it right away. Kate went oddly pale.

'You're having it done now?'

'Uhuh.'

'Where?'

'On my other forearm.'

'I feel nervous.'

'It's fine Kate.'

'Shall I go get coffee?'

'Okay.'

As soon as she left the shop the artist leant over conspiratorially;

'Is that Kate Miller Heidke?'

'Yep.'

'I thought so.'

'Uhuh.'

'She's much smaller than I thought she'd be in -'

'Could we focus on that needle mate?'

So I have the lyrics: 'A piece of morning sun, swallowed with a grin' in large letters up my right arm. It's quite curly and he did it freehand so in a certain light it looks like 'swallowed with a gun' which is a bit dark, or 'swallowed with a gnu' which is abstract at best. I love Kate and wanted to carry a little bit of her with me. But its also my version of the 'Part II' I think. Somewhere between the ages of 38 and 39 I found a well of happiness that I can draw on whenever I need it. I forget about it bit sometimes and gripe and moan but then I remember, or something I love causes me to remember and I grin. Bliss. Which incidentally is the name of the song that quote was taken from.

We're not allowed to have our tattoos on display at work. It's a 'nice' place so we take out our nose rings and wear our sleeves rolled down and buttoned up. But when it gets busy and hot and you're running around with plates, well, they get rolled up. Sometimes I see guests trying to read them surreptitiously, their heads bent at odd angles. They whisper to their companion as I'm walking away and I know for the most part they are wondering why someone so well spoken and educated would have something so common on their body. It's that kind of town. I like it when people ask outright. A very posh elderly couple did just that last week.

'I hope you don't mind dear but what does that say? It looks like...is it -

'Milton.'

'Oh my! The thing about heaven and hell?'

'Yes.'

'I love that bit! How very erudite.'

'Thank you.'

'Do you have others?'

'Yes.'

'Can I see?'

I look across to the bar to find my manager laughing and shaking his head.

My sixth tattoo is a latin quote I found in a comic. I'm having it done next week along my collarbone. It's always been about the words for me, I'm not crazy about the idea of other peoples pictures on my body.

Until I saw this tree. It's gnarly and twisted like something from the forest of a fairytale and it would look marvellous with a single lantern hanging from its branches. In black obviously. I think it would look splendid if its roots started by my hip bone and it climbed up along the side of my torso, its outer branches resting on the back of my right shoulder. If you know of a good artist do please get in touch. And don't tell my mum. She once said that she liked my tattoos but worried that each one represented an emptiness in me that I was trying to fill. I don't disagree with her (I wouldn't fucking dare) but I think a lot of what we create in art and literature and music is an attempt to fill an emptiness, or at least give  expression to something we find intangible.

Mind you, she also came out with the classic: 'What about when you're old? They'll look terrible.'

Who gives a shit? I'll be old and wrinkly. It'll give the handsome young carer something to read whilst he gives me my hourly bed bath.

I'm not turning out to be the person I thought I would be. And what on earth made me think I, or anyone for that matter, could be finite or finished or complete? As my Gran says; We're a work in progress until the very end. And I'm alright with it. I think its an awfully big adventure.

Feet

I hobble through the door at one am like Quasimodo. But instead of “The bells! The bells!” I scream; 'My feet! My feet!' My (apparently psychic) mother hands me a cup of tea and points at a basin she has filled with hot water and salt.

'Put your feet in that darlinkkk.'

'Why do people always put salt in the water?'

'Because it draws out the pain,' she says.

I like the imagery this provides and sit there sipping my tea visualising depressed people massaging salt in to their temples and their hearts. I may be over tired.

'How was it?' she asks.

'Long,' I respond whilst rolling the most delicious cigarette of the day.

Due to circumstances beyond anyones control the restaurant is over run with guests. And there are only four of us working. We agree to work through until close because it would be cruel on the remaining staff not to and waitressing is just that kind of job. You go in to it knowing three things for certain:

1. You can make ludicrously good tips.
2. It's really hard work.
3. Your feet will hurt.

Even if you have nothing else in common with your co-workers you will all huddle around outside on your cigarette break and talk about how much your feet ache and share tips on pain alleviation and good footwear. One of the kitchen staff claims to have lost a toenail after several weeks of long shifts.

Having decided to see it through to the bitter end we are filled with a sense of olympic determination. A few hours in I find one of the waiters staring at a wall and giggling.

'I feel giddy,' he says, smiling manically.

'Have you eaten?'

'Not yet. I'm not hungry. I'm powering through.'

One of the younger waitresses is in the kitchen polishing tray after tray of cutlery without blinking.

'How are you doing?' I ask looking at the mountains of yet to be polished forks.

'I – I just – I'm getting there,' she smiles bravely. Still she does not blink.

I love watching the front and back of a busy restaurant. On the floor it's all smiles and calm enquiries.

'How's your meal? Are you enjoying the lobster? Wonderful. Is there anything else I can get you? Mayonnaise? Certainly.' Glide away smiling beatifically. Enter kitchen. Skid past the apoplectic chef, dodge the frantic pastry chef, try to avoid the slip risk to the right, banging plates, heat, light, sweat.

'Where's the fucking buggery mayonnaise?? Spoon! Spooon! Give me a spooooooon!'

Pound back to the door. Chef screams 'SERVICE!' Grab the hot plates. Swear. Grab some napkins. Lift whatever you can carry. 'TABLE 25!' Skid through door laden with hot food. Glide across floor. Smile. Smile. Deliver. Smile.

'Your mussels madam, enjoy. Is there anything else I can get you? Wonderful.' Glide. 'Your mayonnaise sir. You're very welcome. Enjoy.' That table needs clearing, that one wants the bill. They would like more bread. Collect drinks. 'You ordered a bottle of the Muscadet?' Thank fuck for screw tops. 'Would you like to try the wine?'

You can always tell if a guest has worked as a waiter themselves. They stack their own plates for one. And they see you. Not just an apron and a smile. But a person.

There are lovely guests. I love the ones who have really been looking forward to a meal out. Maybe a night away from the kids, or an anniversary, or a normally out of their budget treat. You want them to have a really good time. You go out of your way. And genuinely, nothing is too much trouble. And then there are the others. The ones who look down on you, or don't acknowledge you at all. Who from the moment they arrive are looking for something to complain about. To be affronted by. To simply not enjoy. I vacillate between wanting to sit on their chests and force crustacea down their gullets whilst screaming obscenities and just pitying them. They don't appreciate, they don't take any pleasure in pleasurable things, they have no joie de vivre. And that's sad. And it says nothing about my life. And so I smile and I try to shake it off. Try.

I judge my friends by how they treat the waiting staff when we eat out. It's a very good gauge of a person. It's essentially about how you treat those with less power than you. And unless you've had truly awful service, always tip. Always tip. Always. Tip. The best tippers in the world are waiters. They know.

And so, something close to thirteen hours later I am sat with my feet in salty water talking to my mum.

'I remember that pain,' she says taking a drag on her cigarette.

'Your feet hum.'

'Oh yes. I would work a twelve hour shift at the care home and I would be walking home bouncing off the wall along Abbotts Barton. My feet. Urgh. And my ankles. So painful. And if I was too tired to soak my feet I would lie in bed in agony trying to rub them together, you know, like a massage.'

She did that job for thirty years. And her feet hurt every day. And now my feet hurt. Our feet are fucked. And for want of a better description, our feet are also considered to be quite spectacularly ugly.

'Do you remember how beautiful dad's feet were?'

'Oh my god! It was perverse for a man to have such lovely feet.'

We stare at our own mangled offerings. I love my feet. They've never said a bad word about me.

And they do their best despite having not the slightest arch whatsoever. When mum was twenty four she went in to hospital to have bunions removed from both feet. She awoke after the operation in horrifying pain with two steel rods through her big toes. She says it was the worst pain she has ever experienced. It's a much less invasive procedure now but I think i'll live with mine as long as I can.

Slowly the salt and the tea drain away the ache and we chat about guests who complain and don't enjoy. And mum tells me about residents who were like that.

'They would arrive and move in to their room and I would go and introduce myself and tell them I was there for them if they needed anything at all. And they would look at me sideways, not even in the face. Their heads turned up slightly. You know? Nose in the air. I was beneath them. And so I would think 'Ah ok, one of those' and I would leave them to settle. Then the bell would ring. I go back to the room. 'How can I help?' She needs to use the commode and she requires assistance to get there. So I hold on to her and help her along and all the time she is shoving her elbow back in to my chest again and again. And so I stop and I look at her. Properly look at her, in the face and I say 'Are you ok?' And she sneers 'Yes! Why wouldn't I be?' 'Well why are you pushing me away?' 'Well you don't need to be so close.' Ah I think. So I help her to the commode and when she is comfortable I say 'When you are ready ring the bell and one of the other girls will come to assist you back, because I don't wish to.' The look on her face. So shocked. I smile politely and leave. The bell goes and I tell one of the girls to go and help her. I can hear her saying 'Where is the other one?' 'I'm afraid she's busy at the moment.' I stick my head around the door 'I'm not busy, I don't wish to help you. I told you that.' And then a little while later, the bell again. 'Where is that girl that was helping me before? I would like to speak to her.' And so I go back to the room. 'Yes?' A pause. And then very stiffly. 'I didn't mean to speak to you like that.' 'Okay, so why did you speak to me like that?' And then she trembles. 'Well I never wanted to come here....' And she cries. And I think, aaahhh. Fuck. 'Okay,' I say. And I sit by her and put my arm around her shoulder. 'I know you don't want me too near but do you want a cuddle?' 'Yes!' She laughs. 'Yes, I want a cuddle.' Then I stay with her, with them, so many like that. And I tell them; This is your home, and don't let anyone tell you differently. If you want a cup of tea you ring the bell and you tell us and we make you tea. Any time. And this is your private room. People must knock before entering. Be at home here. You have paid a lot of money and this is your right.' And they feel a little better then, they appreciate it, you know? They come feeling that the world sees them as an old burden waiting to die. They don't want to be there. No one does. Oh the loneliness.'

I talk of my almost thirteen hour shift as though it were anything at all. Nineteen years ago, mum, through circumstances out of anyones control, worked for thirty six hours straight. Thirty six hours. Can you even begin to imagine the madness? She did a night shift at the home from 8pm until 8am but in the morning the Sister in charge was frantic. Everyone had called in sick with a bug. You have to stay at home if you are ill and work with the elderly. Showing up for work sick transforms you in to the angel of death, you've no idea how many you might inadvertently cull.  Mum said she'd stick it out until two pm when the next rotation started. At two pm, no one showed up. Mum worked until 8pm and then hobbled home on her little feet quite delirious. No sooner had she walked through the door the phone rang. It was work. One of the residents was dying and had requested mum be her 'special.' A special is the person you want to be with you as you die.

'Of course I had to go, I wouldn't let her die alone.'

I remember mum telling me when I was little that it wasn't sad when somebody very old died because they had had a long life and were so tired. The only tragedy would be if they were alone. We are greeted when we arrive, and there should be someone there to see us off when it's time to leave again.

And so she turned around and hobbled back to work.

'But the lady wasn't peaceful. She was uncomfortable and she kept wanting me to sit her up higher. Fretful. I had to help her be comfortable you know. Soothe. After a very long night she was finally peaceful and she passed away. By this time I couldn't speak properly. I sounded drunk. I went to the desk and talked such nonsense one of the other carers put me in her car and brought me home. And I crawled in to bed and I thought I don't know if I'll wake up tomorrow, I don't care. And then the phone went again. Your sister had gone in to labour with Oliver. Colin came to get me straight away and I went to Maria's house to be with her and to look after the other little ones. They didn't know I hadn't slept and I didn't tell them. It took me a while to recover from that week.'

It's past two am by the time we stop reminiscing and my feet stop humming. We make more tea and head off to our respective rooms. She reads. I write. We both smoke. We both have ugly feet. I am very blessed and very grateful.

The Inconvenience.

Mum and I are sat in the pastel coloured waiting room of the local hospital. There's a woman sat opposite us with a catheter in a Tesco's carrier bag. The tube has both urine and blood in it.

'That painting doesn't look anything like Venice,' Mum points out. 'Not a gondola in sight.'

We are waiting for mum to be fitted with a prosthetic to even up the breast-less left side.

'They asked me if I wanted to have a reconstruction. They take muscle from your back. I said “What the bloody hell for?” And the nurse, she said, “Well some women -” “No, no” I said. “I'm not bothered.”

When mum came up here for her mastectomy she marched straight in to surgery. None of that wheeling in nonsense for her. My niece, Harri, almost walked in with her until a nurse pointed out that this was in fact the operating theatre. Quick hug, kiss on the cheek. 'Go home darlinnnk, I call you after.'

My mother is small and Maltese and fierce.

'I came round to the sound of people shouting at me. Wake up Rhoda! Wake up! Rhoda!' She pops a mint in her mouth. 'First thing I told them, I said, “Get my mobile, call Harriett, tell her I'm fine.”'

She had to stay in overnight which she hated.

'There was an 82 year old woman in the next bed holding a cushion to where her breast used to be and looking all tragic. I said to her; “What are you doing that for? It's all stitched up, nothing is going to fall out.” She whimpers at me. I was reading my book with that little light thing Sean got me. It was about this tribe. To join the tribe you had to remove a part of your body. A finger, an ear, a leg. Even the children. And the tribe is known as The Maimed Men. They are warriors. So I turn to the 82 year old and say “We're maimed!” Like, you know, we are warriors. She looks all skittish and says; “Oh don't say that!” She has become a challenge for me you know? Her drama. I keep throwing comments her way and she says; “You're very cheerful” but in a resentful way, you know? She is going to have the reconstructive surgery! Eighty Two! Why?'

'I guess she feels incomplete without her breast?' I hazard.

'But she's old, like me. A breast made out of back muscle with a fake nipple sewn on. It's bloody ridiculous on an octogenarian.'

We've been waiting an hour and mum is getting bored and mischievous. She kicks me when I'm not looking. Throws polo mints at me and punches me in the leg.

'Stop it or you're going to bed early without supper,' I say attempting to finish my crossword.

An elderly couple join us and mum stage whispers; 'That's her! That's the eighty two year old!'

'Quiet voice mum,' I mutter.

The woman with the catheter stares at us for a while and then tells mum that she had a double mastectomy four days ago and there are complications. Mum chats to her for a while and then whispers to me; 'Blood in the bag, must be her liver. Poor thing.' Mum was a Carer for fifty years and I'm pretty sure if left to it she could competently run a hospital single handedly.

Mum keeps poking me so I put aside my crossword.

'I saw this website,' I tell her. 'Where young women who have had mastectomy's get tattooed.'

'What?' Mum asks.

'Instead of reconstruction they have flowers and butterflies inked across their chests. It looks pretty.'

Mum laughs. 'I'd have two smiley faces.'

We have been waiting for ages and I start rolling a fag on the premise that it might have the same effect as when you're waiting for a bus. Mum rolls her eyes.

'What?' I say. 'I'm not going to smoke it in here am I.'

'No darlinnk, by all means roll a cigarette on a cancer ward, really sends out a message.'

We start giggling.

'Was there anyone else on your ward that night?' I ask.

'Yes, people were coming and going like a cattle market. There were two eighteen year old girls looking so upset. I said to them “Come on, its not so bad.” I told them I would probably end up walking around in town and my fake boob would fall out and being embarrassed I would just kick it to one side and keep walking. They were laughing at me by the end. They said “You're funny.” I said to them “Nothing is the end of the world.” Another woman came in at 11pm. Very late I thought. She was sat looking very...she was very fretful you know? I said to her to come sit on my bed. I said:

'What's the matter?'

'I have to have a scan.'

'So late at night?'

'I came this afternoon but they took too long and I had to pick the kids up from school. They told me to come back tonight.'

'So why are you so jittery?'

'I had to leave the kids with my husband and he's not very good with kids.'

Mum pauses in the story. 'He kept bloody texting her saying he doesn't know what to do! Stupid man, making her worry more. Useless.'

'What happened?'

'Well I told her to tell the nurse she had to go home and she'd come back the next day when the kids were at school. She was too nervous you know? In the end I rang the bell and told the nurse and she arranged for her to come back. See, for me, that would be the hardest thing. If I had got the cancer when you were all little. When I was still young. I would have been so worried about you all. What if I died and other people had to look after you and they don't know your ways. That would have been terrible. I felt sorry for her you know, and with her stupid husband.'

The morning after the operation mum was up, showered, dressed and in full makeup by 7am. She walked to reception.

'I'm off now, bye.'

'Whoa! Wait! What?' The nurse ran after her. 'You can't go yet! You have to wait for the doctor to come and see you.'

'Bloody hell.' Mum traipsed back to the ward and paced for an hour.

'You know there are people in there that don't want to go home. I asked the nurse why and she said maybe there's no one to go home to. Or maybe they want a break from it all.'

Mum throws another mint at me.

'A nurse came with this little white silk bag with a red ribbon around it. It has a temporary cotton padding for the boob area in it. I say “Ok thanks, can I go now?” She looks with exasperation at me. “No Rhoda! Let's go to the bathroom and fit it for you.” I snatch it off her and shove it in. “There!” I say. She laughs at me. “No, look, it's too big.” I pull it out rip some cotton off and shove it back in. “Is that comfortable?” she asks. “Yes, can I go now?”'

In the afternoon she sat at home having a little M&S picnic my sister had brought over. Her grandchildren are there too. The two grandsons are teenagers and don't know what to say. Mum pulls out the cotton padding and throws it at them. They scream “Nannnnn nooooooooo!”

'It's better,' she says. 'They should understand what it is. Not wonder.'

I remember that day. I was in Australia, I couldn't be further away but I was in good company with a big drink in my hand when I finally got to speak to her on Skype.

'Are you alright?' I asked.

'Yes darlinnnk, fine. Harri and I are having fish and chips tonight.'

When mum went back for a checkup the following week her stitches had healed entirely.

Why is there no pain at all?' Mum asked the doctor. She hadn't taken so much as a paracetamol after the op.

'You're lucky,' he told her.

The nurse asked her if she'd looked at the scar.

'Of course I have,' she replied. 'How else could I wash?'

'And how did that make you feel?'

'I don't care,' mum answered.

'Can you look at it in the mirror for me now? So I can see that you're ok?'

Mum hates this sort of thing.

'Oh fine!' She has a look. 'See, fine. One boob. No boob. Ta-Da!'

'Did I tell you they offered me volunteer work?'

'No?' I say. 'How come?'

'Because by the time the doctor got round to see me I had stripped and made up four of the beds on the ward.'

'For christ's sake mum.'

'Well, they were busy and the sheets were there and I know how to do a hospital tuck.'

We have been sat for an hour and a half now and even by british standards its getting ridiculous. But even if we'd sat there for a week you still wouldn't hear me say a word against the NHS.

I wander over to reception.

'My mum is threatening to go home. Will it be long?'

There's been a mistake with waiting room allocations, apologies are made and mum is whisked off.

I head outside and stand under a sign that says 'This is an entirely no smoking environment.' I observe the hundred or so cigarette butts on the grass in front of me and light up thinking about who those cigarette butts belong to. Not the staff, they hide up the road around the corner. All those little butts with their own individual brands and stories. This one, bad news. This one, awaiting results. This one, relieved. This one, inconsolable.

Within twenty minutes we are in town, sat outside Monde eating eggs and drinking coffee under a canopy whilst rain thunders down all around us.

'Do you remember when I was little and you used to tell me that we were witches?' I ask mum.

'Yes darlink, of course.'

'You said it was because -'

'Because we both like ribbons and candles and can never bring ourselves to throw them away,' she smiles.

'Yes, that's right. I still feel that way about ribbons and candles.'

'Me too.'

'Mum, what would you call this story if I were to write it?'

'The Inconvenience.' She laughs.

'That's a good title. Why?'

'Because when they told me I had cancer again they said “How do you feel?” And I said, “Inconvenienced”.'

Toodle Pip.

The halcyon dream that was Broome already feels like a lifetime ago. Before I went to Australia I had been terrified of flying for twenty years. Once I knew I was definitely going over there I couldn't indulge that fear anymore. Not only did I have to deal with the twenty plus hours getting there but once I arrived I'd be on a number of internal flights for both the tour and the holiday I'd be having with Keir and Kate at the end. And what would be the point of being afraid? It would just mar an otherwise wonderful time. In my first Australia Blog I mentioned that I had chosen not to be afraid anymore. Its often the things you perceive as being huge and insurmountable that are resolved by a simple shift in perspective. It seems perverse that I can remember so many flights that were endured with sweaty palmed terror and a blanket placed firmly over my head. But that doesn't mean they didn't serve a purpose. Eckhart Tolle said that: “Suffering is necessary until you realise it is unnecessary.”

What I'm getting to is that had I not overcome my fear of crashing planes I would not have found myself climbing aboard a helicopter, heart in throat, in the safe knowledge that if I backed out now I would never forgive myself. I'd rather the fucker went down with me in it than go up without me.

The pilot, Wayne, introduced himself:

'So anyone here going in a helicopter for the first time?'

We all nod.

'Cool, me too,' he grins.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

'Seriously though, you couldn't be safer -'

Of course I could be safer you wanker.

'Most helicopter crashes happen to private owners, not professional pilots. They give us a bad name.'

I cannot believe he's talking about crashes before we've left the ground.

'So, shall we take the doors off?'

WHAT THE FUCK!?

'Yes!' Kate exclaims. 'Can you do the zero gravity thing too?'

Our father, who art in heave-

'Sadly not, there's too many of you, the weight would be too much.'

We watch as he and the boys remove the doors. It looks like a remote controlled toy. Wayne takes our weights and does some maths before one by one strapping us in to our seats. I'm in the centre with Dave and Adrian on either side of me. Dave and I are not small which means that by the time he's strapped Adrian in the poor sod is sat right on the edge with one arse cheek hanging out of the helicopter. He goes a bit quiet. Kate is strapped in the front and looks delighted by the whole thing already. We're given headphones and mouthpieces and Wayne checks we can all hear each other.

'Please don't scream,' he says.

'Do people scream a lot?' Kate asks.

'Yeah,' he sighs. 'Its really annoying. A squeal is okay though.'

I place my hand firmly over the mouthpiece despite the fact that out of all of us its Dave who's given to squealing.

The blades start rotating and we sit for a while waiting for it to 'warm up.'

And then we rise. Straight up and quite slowly. Hovering about five feet above the ground. The old familiar terror rises up in me and is brutally cut short by my brain saying 'What's the point? This is happening. Either enjoy it or shut the fuck up.' I think of Bill Hick's philosophy on life: It's just a ride. It's just a ride. The fear is replaced by a wave of pleasure. Look at me! Look at me! I'm in the sky going higher and higher and there's no doors! Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Don't get me wrong. I'm no adrenalin junkie. Clearly. But I am learning, at close to 40, that life is infinitely better when you do things that frighten you a bit. I wish I'd learned that years ago.

We glided along looking at the incredible coastline beneath us. Kate saw a mantaray in the ocean and as we flew over Gantheaume Point Wayne showed us the area where you can see 130 million year old Dinosaur foot prints in the rock. He glances back at me to check I'm okay and I hear him through my headphones saying:

'There's a lovely smile. You feeling better now?'

I nod happily and pat his shoulder.

In the afternoon I play with Adrian in the pool at the hotel. He has his goggles and its my lot in life to throw trinkets in the water for him to dive and retrieve.

'Are you sure you want to go to the adult pool?' I ask.

'Its heaps fun but!' he grins. 'Like being a pirate diving for treasure.'

I throw a ring in the water and whilst he's under a woman on a nearby lounger looks at me quizzically.

'He's not my boyfriend,' I state.

A man on the other side of me starts giggling and I stop short from also asserting that I'm not his carer.

I read my book and toss things in to the water which Adrian fetches like a happy golden retriever. After a while he paddles to the side.

'Its your turn now.'

'Oh no. No really, I'm fine.'

'Its fun,' he says.

'Nevertheless.'

'You have to have a go,' he insists.

I know from cruel experience that once Adrian gets something in to his head he won't let it go until I capitulate. I put the goggles on, sigh, and climb in to the pool.

Its disturbing how quickly our roles reversed. Suddenly its me waving my hand in the air screaming 'I got it! I got it!' I love that about Adrian. He still plays. He enjoys things like a kid and he reminds you over and over again how much fun can be had if you just stop pretending to be an adult all the time. Once we tire of the diving game he shows me how to empty my lungs of air and sink to the bottom of the pool.

'Lie on your back on the bottom and look up!'

'Okay!'

After that we took turns timing how long we could stay under water for and Adrian whiled away the last part of the afternoon diving off the side just by the sign that says 'No diving.'

Nobody but Dave is looking forward to the wet t-shirt competition. Adrian is insisting we attend because A. Its a local institution and B. The promoter of the gig Kate and Keir will be performing the following evening has asked us to go.

'People keep saying its a local institution,' Keir says. 'By that definition you can make anything acceptable. Hey, come to the lynching! Its a local institution.'

'He organised a helicopter ride for us,' Adrian says. 'We have to go. It'll be fun.'

Kate wants to rest her voice before the gig and is the only one of us with a viable excuse. Dave is delighted by the prospect. I am resigned and Keir is off his face on a cocktail of wine and anti histamine by the time we set off.

I head straight to the bar and start ordering myself beers and tequila chasers.

'What are you doing?' Adrian who hardly drinks is looking on in horror.

'She is getting methodically drunk,' Keir explains.

By the time the 'show' starts I am eight tequilas down. Young girls line up on stage and writhe around to music whilst knuckle dragging men pour jugs of cold water over them.

Five minutes in Adrian turns to me, all colour drained from his face.

'This isn't right. We should go.'

The audience clapo-meter starts and a few men boo some of the girls who have slightly smaller breasts than the others. One by one they are picked off until only the most porn-like remain. The most popular girl, who must really need either the 500 dollars or a psychiatrist removes her tee and bra. She's disqualified for removing her top but not until she's been allowed to continue subjugating herself for a further ten minutes.

Keir looks as depressed by the whole thing as me.

'Can we go now please?' Adrian asks.

We leave and everyone is quiet in the car except Dave who says:

'Well what I've learned from this evening is not to go to a wet t-shirt competition with you lot you fucking kill joys! What did you expect?'

He's right really. What did we expect?

The next day is our last day and none of us are happy about it. Before the gig the promoter Peter takes us out for a lovely dinner and before long its time for Kate and Keir to perform.

Its wonderful having one more opportunity to watch them sing the songs I have come to know so well over the last three months. The gig is brilliant, even though an alarm goes off over the road and takes fifteen minutes to silence. They soldier on with good humour and the audience screams for more when it ends. I spot several grey nomads in the audience that we met on our drive and when Kate comes out to sign they come over and buy cd's and chat.

We fly back to Brisbane and spend the following day doing nothing much at all except napping and eating. And then its somehow my last day. Kate and Keir take me out for lunch and grocery shopping. I spend the afternoon drinking wine and cooking a feast for them and a couple of friends I've made whilst there. We eat and drink and listen to music and talk about our adventures. Afterwards we head downstairs to John and Sallie's flat and drink more and laugh. John plays the piano and Keir and Sallie sing Aerosmith's What It Takes drunkenly and with gusto about eight times. Doesn't matter how proficient or talented a musician you are, drunken singalongs are the same the world over. I'm so happy sitting there watching them wail and laugh and I can't believe I'm heading for the airport in six hours.

We stagger upstairs at around three and get a couple of hours sleep. Keir is driving me to the airport but Kate also drags herself heroically out of bed and comes along in PJ's and sunglasses.

'Darling you don't have to come,' I say.

'Of course I'm fucking coming,' she smiles.

I'll see them again in the winter over here which takes the sting out of the goodbyes. There's still a sting though. I'm going to miss living with them, listening to music, eating great food, laughing and talking about books and films and songs and and and.

A mere thirty hours and several near disasters later I am back in the UK.

I've seen and learned so much in the last three months and it was all golden. I wouldn't change a moment.

Thank you so much to Madame M, Christian, Sandy, Randall, Dave, Sallie, John, Benedict, Tai, Hannah, Junior, Tim, Adrian, Madelaine, Mikki and all the others that made me feel so welcome and spent so much time keeping me entertained and feeding me and showing me new things. And thank you to those of you that have been following this blog and leaving comments, it has been much appreciated.

And thank you Kate and Keir for too many wonderful things, I love you both very much.

I'm not going to be writing any more blogs now. This was really more to keep a diary of the holiday and a sort of round robin letter to my family and friends. I'm going to spend some time writing a book instead. I don't know if I'll finish it but by starting it I'm at least giving myself a chance at making the life I want to lead. And its good to do things that frighten you a bit. So long, farewell and thanks for all the Barramundi. It's been a piece of morning sun, swallowed with a grin. Bliss.