REFLECTIONS ON THE LAST WEEK OF MY FIFTIES

Mozart’s Requiem and the Adagio of the clarinet concerto

The majesty of Klimt’s dancers and the delicacy of his field of poppies

Toulouse-Lautrec’s dancers, now in the partying shadows of Paris’s Musée d’Orsay, for fear of daylight tainting their delicate ribbons

The genius of Rilke and the comfort he gives on every page of Letters to a Young Poet

Brahms’s violin concerto

The sculptures of Isaac Cordal in urban environments, speaking to the destruction of the world

The sonnets of Shakespeare

John Keats’s uplifting, heartrending letters to Fanny Brawne

The amphitheatre of Rome

The Eiffel Tower

Huddling over a hot mulled wine at the foot of the Champs- Élysées Paris Christmas market

Eurostar, effortlessly making it through 17 miles under water, linking England to Paris

The smell of the Nutella crêpe stall as you emerge from Paris’s St Germain des Prés Metro into the chill of Boulevard St Germain

Dusk falling on the mountains of southern Spain on the road from Marbella airport to the coast

Seeing a real Picasso for the first time, breath shooting of your chest with the punch of something “other” – and you really don’t know what

Rodin’s The Kiss in Paris’s Musée Rodin, the figures emerging from their marble, as if for the first time, out of duty for every tourist, then sinking back into rest, sure of their eternal togetherness

Oysters and champagne at Bofinger at the Bastille on a Sunday morning after a stroll through Paris’s 4th Arrondissement

Sailing around the Mediterranean, salt, wine and laughter editing the shoreline out of sight

Lighting a candle on the Island of the Dead in Venice, even though you don’t believe, but want to pay tribute to the children’s section of these souls forever young

Sharing a bottle of Greek brandy with a stranger in Crete, high on a visit to this country’s exquisite islands

The French Impressionists

Warsaw’s silent celebratory streets after Solidarnosc in 1983

Beethoven’s Fifth

Mahler’s Fifth

Mahler’s First, Second, Third, Fourth . . .

Mahler

Mahler’s gravestone in the Grinzing Cemetery in Vienna – ‘He who seeks me, knows who I was. The others do not have to know.’

I know who I am and am so proud to have seen, heard, witnessed and know about all of these things. I am a proud European who, every day of my life, celebrates everything to which Europe has exposed and given me, and I will defend it to my dying breath.

HOW TO BE . . . A MINORITY IN AMERICA

Let me say at the outset that I have the utmost respect for the LGBTQ community.

I have seen too many lives destroyed by issues surrounding sexuality, gender and identity not to have the utmost sympathy for those who struggle and face prejudice and hatred every day of their lives.

The lack of empathy with those who are different from the norm is truly terrifying, particularly in government. How can anyone profess to being Christian when they ignore the basic tenet of that religion? It’s simple: “Be kind to one another, tender-hearted, forgiving of one another” (Ephesians 4:32). Irrespective of whether you believe in God, how hard can that be?

  

But the LGBTQ’s growing inclusiveness is rather hijacking the alphabet; and so, before the movement takes up any more letters than the near quarter they have already monopolized, I want to draw attention to a hitherto little discussed group to which I belong: SOFMI. Straight Old Female Minuscule Immigrant.

I feel a march and a placard coming on – albeit currently a march and a placard with a supporter of one.

But give me time. Who knows, I might even take more letters as the popularity of my movement grows. Perhaps, A (I am very Ambitious – not something people particularly warm to in women); P (people like Poor even less); S (Sexy – okay, I’m lying a bit now, but you have to grab these letters while they’re available and before the LGBTQ alphabet-jumpers steal any more).

  

I find myself in a minority in just about every area of my life these days. News headlines are dominated by those whose voices have previously been denied – and that’s how it should be; life is hard enough negotiating buying a pint of milk (try standing in line in Trader Joe's on Friday nights), without having to argue the case for simply being who you want to be.

  

However, that doesn’t prevent my feeling constantly out of the loop, in no small part due to living in a country that is more foreign to me than France (where I lived for seven years). Britain and the USA: "two nations separated by a common language"– attributed to Oscar Wilde, George Bernard Shaw, sometimes both. So, let’s go through my minority status letter by letter.

1.     S. I am straight. Nearly everyone I know is gay. I’ve lived in Soho in London, Hell's Kitchen in Midtown Manhattan, and now reside in West Hollywood. If you’re not familiar with these areas, just think Liza Minnelli meets Liberace meets Sarah Paulson/Ellen De Generes (fill in the gaps with any living lesbian for these two). I love my gay (mostly male) friends, but gosh, they like their drama. I try to subtly suggest that maybe they’d be happier if they didn’t end every night stressed/crying/hitting each other, went home and just watched Netflix with a pizza.

2.     O. Old. It seems I am officially old now. Days away from my 60^th birthday, my phone does not stop ringing with people trying to ease my journey to the grave. “My name is Carol and you are on a recorded line. We notice you are of an age when you will need hearing aids and we . . . ” “PARDON?” Yep, just for the hell of it. Stair lift sales people have also started bombarding me. “My name is Jim and you are on a recorded line. We notice you are of an age when you will be having a lot of falls . . . ” You bet. Because I keep going to the bar to get over the stress of your harassment.

3.     F. Female. Yes, I am. I was born with female genitals, to which I have become particularly attached over the years. Apart from a brief time in my childhood when I identified with an imaginary character called André (my own invention – he was rather terrific, actually), I am and have always identified as a girl/woman. I know, I know, it’s weird, but there it is. I don’t want to be referred to as “them” because there is only one of me; in fact, I’d prefer “it,” which at least is grammatically accurate.

4.     M. Minuscule. Yes, I am a small person. I am only five feet tall and, on most days, weigh between 112 and 117 lbs. You have no idea how that isolates me from the rest of American society. I don’t hold coffee cups on the street; I don’t share my lunch on corners with rodents and large birds. Call me old-fashioned, but I have things called plates, knives and forks in my apartment. And, heaven forbid, a dining table to put them on. Did you know, by the way that Americans eat 20% of their meals in cars? I don’t even have a car, so I’m going to add C for Carless to my list (watch out, LGBTQ, I’m coming for your letters!).

5.     I. Immigrant. Yes, I am. I came to the USA through official channels, qualifying as an Alien of Exceptional Ability. That’s a minority, too, by the way (*smug expression*), as is Alien of Exceptional Ability with a National Interest Waiver (*smug broadens*). The former explains itself, although my Master’s Degree was a huge plus (actors, incidentally, are Aliens of Extraordinary Ability – okay, it’s a rung down - just sayin’). The latter meant that I could be here without a job, so long as I could prove myself to be of some benefit (it can be economic, cultural, social etc., but the goalposts are constantly changing).

6.     Carless. I just added that. Ha! That’s another letter you can’t kidnap, LGBTQ!

The truth is, though, I’m okay with it: minority or majority status. I’m grateful to be alive; let’s be honest, so many aren’t. Everyone I know is dead. 

People say, with ageing, that they wish they’d known ‘then’ what they know ‘now.’

I’m the opposite. I am so glad that I lived (and still live) the fun and the laughter; that I endured heartbreak and job loss; enjoyed heady years with no commitment to property; that I smiled, cried and came through it all to be living in the USA, which I regard as the greatest country in the world.

I’m just human, but I was always on my way to you, America.

In the lyrics of Cody Johnson:

All the boats I’ve missed
All the hell I’ve caused
All the lips I’ve kissed
All the love I’ve lost
I thank God for that
I guess he always knew
I was on my way to you

And to quote that other great lyricist, Bernie Taupin: I’m still standing.

Stair lift sales people, take note.

TEARS FOR TIERS

The race is on. 

Amazon Alexa has just informed me that there are 83 days to December 31^st. I have 720 Tier Points on Virgin Atlantic; I need 1,000 if I am to maintain my Gold status and keep the benefits of no change fees, extra Air Miles, and numerous other benefits I will never need, much less use.

   

I’m stressed. Last year, I went to Boston on Delta Airlines for dinner to garner the extra 80 points I needed. Delta is now a partner of Virgin, so it pays to travel internally to clock up the points (internal travel in the US is relatively cheap) and then use them on a transcontinental flight.

   

Feel free to stop reading now. Air Miles are my obsession and, specifically on Virgin Atlantic, Tier Points.

   

So, I’ve been to Vancouver (160 Tier Points) and Toronto (140 Tier Points) recently, just to boost my chances of staying Gold (and I really hate Canada – that’ll give you an indication of my desperation). Now, let me explain the discrepancy: I know you’re all on the edge of your seats about this.

   

There are different categories on Delta. Class ‘A’ gets me 20 points, class ‘P’ gets me 40. But is it worth paying the extra for ‘P’?

   

I also break my journey because that then classes as two flights. So, for example, breaking my journey to and from Vancouver was 40 x 4, whereas one of my Toronto journeys (also with a break) was an ‘A’ (keep up, people!) and three ‘P’.

If you book early enough, you can get 160 Tier Points for under $1000, whereas trying to clock them up on Virgin Atlantic will cost you over £3k to get 200.

   

Yes, those calculations are based on First/Upper – not because I can afford it but because I am very savvy with collecting Air Miles (I also need to have a bed on a long flight because of my ongoing rib and back problems, by the way). I have friends who travel in Economy who pay more than I do. I buy miles in the sale, and, until MBNA scrapped the Virgin Miles programme, I put everything on my credit card. Alas, that scheme has ended and I am now almost destitute of miles. 

I know. Third World problems, right?

   

I’m heading back to the UK for my 60^th birthday celebrations, but Christmas will have to be in the US. Virgin’s stupid new scheme re-sets my Tier points to zero on December 31^st, and the Heathrow taxes (irrespective of what class you fly) are ludicrously expensive compared to internal airports).

   

Now my dilemma is how I get up to 1,000 Tier Points in 83 days. I have two flights booked to and from LA (out of New York) that will take me to 880 (‘P’ category, breaking journey at Minneapolis on the way out and Atlanta on the way back – still with me?); but I’m still left with a shortfall. Boston is by far the cheapest and closest, but even in ‘P’, that will get me only 80 as there are no breaks on the short flight.

   

This is now occupying my every waking hour. Las Vegas is always a good option because, out of LA, it’s cheap as chips on Delta, and only a 45 minute flight; in fact, I could do it three times in one day and still be home for dinner.

   

The Christmas sale of Air Miles will soon be upon us and I will hungrily purchase everything I can in order to fly to and from the UK relatively cheaply. But it’s these damn Tier Points that keep proving the problem. What I really need is Lifetime Gold Membership, but I need to fly another 823,199 miles to get that, or to have another seven years as a Gold Card member. 

Gosh, my life is complicated.

   

The fabulous team in Swansea who chat to me nearly every day of life are like my closest friends; in fact, I speak to them more often than I do members of my own family. I’m thinking of inviting them all to New York for Christmas dinner.

   

Yesterday, I got Rob, who remembered having spoken to me before. He told me that when I come through on another line, he tells them that I’m lovely. I am. I specially like chatting to them after midnight Eastern Time, when they have more time to listen to me pontificate on my latest scheme for banking miles.

   

I also have to say that the Virgin Atlantic crews are the best of any airline I have ever flown with. They really cannot do enough for you, and if the plane went down, I’d be dying very happy (nevertheless, praying it doesn’t).

   

It’s only the website and Customer Service that let Virgin down and, since they installed their new system nearly two years ago, I’ve seriously considered switching to another airline/rewards programme.

   

But I’m hooked now. Tier Points are my drug of choice, and I would have to spend at least three months in Air Miles Rehab to wean me off the scheme. My only hope is that Sir Richard Branson might read this and, for the sake of my health, give me a Lifetime Gold Membership as a result of the acres of free publicity I continue to give him and his airline.

   

What a lovely 60^th birthday present that would be for me, Sir.

  

FRENCH KISSES

Writing about flying this week got me thinking about the happy years I spent in Paris, a city for which I feel a greater affinity than any other in the world. It’s my soul mate, and every time I return feels like the first time.

   

As I said in the last blog, I went there following 9/11 when, thinking about what my one regret would be, had I been on one of those doomed planes, it was that I had never lived in Paris. A week later, I was on the rue des St Pères in my apartment.

   

I had been in the UK putting together a TV show for the new television channel UK Food. It was very simple: celebrities would be invited to my apartment and cook for me. I would sit on a stool, drinking wine and interviewing them (I wonder who could have come up with that format, eh?). 

The channel was launching in Paris in the same week as I found an apartment and, when the producer came to see it, I said: “Let’s do the show right here.” Literally. And we did: 15 programmes in 21 days. Celebrities flew in, we shopped for the meal, had drinks or lunch in a hostelry, then returned to the apartment for drinks and a meal.

   

It was hilarious. Sue Johnston’s wig kept falling off as we argued over how much chilli to put in the pasta sauce. Julie Peasgood had a complete giggling fit when I was under-impressed with her dessert. Basically, she melted some butter in a pan, threw in some bananas and marmalade, and . . . er, that’s it. “What does it taste like?” she asked. I said: “It tastes like you’ve thrown some butter, bananas and marmalade into a pan.”

   

Sam Giles (currently Emmerdale) was the funniest. She’d been a last minute replacement for Sue Johnston, who had (Take One) arrived at the airport to discover her passport was out of date. Guests were required to explain the significance of their dish, so we had to hastily throw a story together for Sam, who had to cook a seafood risotto (all TV is fake, people). “Just say you had an Italian boyfriend who made it for you,” I said, time being of the essence.

   

“Okay, but whatever you do, don’t ask me what his name was.”

   Red. Rag. Bull.

   Champagne cork popped. “Welcome to Paris, Sam” (handing her a glass). “What are you going to be cooking for me today?”

   “Seafood risotto.”

   “And why is that?”

   “I once had an Italian boyfriend who cooked it for me, so it’s a very special dish.”

   “WHAT. WAS. HIS. NAME?”

   “Errrrr . . . J . . . R . . . A.”

   

Then, we were in complete meltdown. The more the director told us to get it together, the less we were able to perform. Sam’s story expanded with every take. Now, Roberto (as he was now called) had a grandmother who had come to his house one Christmas and . . . ” On and on. My back was to the camera and with every new detail, my eyebrows reacted with wonder at Sam’s extraordinary narrative.

   

We decided that maybe it was the word seafood that was setting us off. Or maybe risotto. Whatever, we just couldn’t do it. Three bottles of champagne and 17 takes later, we had it in the bag.

   

“Hello, Sam. Welcome to Paris. What are you cooking for me today?”

   “A rice dish.”

   

You had to be there, really.

   

It was one of the best jobs I’ve ever had in a city that never loses its magic for me. 

The warmth and smell from the Nutella crepe stand as I ascend the steps from St Germain des Prés metro, where the posters are nearly always advertising another performance of Mozart’s Requiem; the Hausmann influence of Boulevard St Germain, where the buildings never cease to awaken a sense of history, their gentle curves smiling like friends who are always glad to see you; the scent of rain and the flash of a red umbrella that turns the city into a work of art; the cliché of traditional waiters at Les Deux Magots – no place in the world, for me, awakens the senses like Paris.

   

I always felt I belonged there. As a child, my imaginary friend was called Andre – actually, not so imaginary; I WAS Andre. Despite never having been abroad or had any experience of France, even from reading books, it was my world. When I first landed there, many years before 9/11, I wept uncontrollably, as if my spirit was crying in relief that I had come home.

   

Even today, and loving my life in the USA, I feel as if I am merely on leave of absence from Paris. A bit like Gertrude Stein: “America is my country and Paris is my hometown.”

   

As the anniversary of 9/11 approaches, I remember those who lost their lives on that truly terrible day in world history; but I also give thanks for the gift of Paris it inspired in me. 

No regrets. 

To leave one’s life saying Non, je ne regrette rien is what I hope for. 

It’s a cliché, but La vie est courte. 

You see? Even Life is short sounds better in French.

  

FLYING AT THE EDGE

For 11 years, only chloroform would have got me onto a plane. I’d never been that big a fan of flying sheets of metal anyway, but something in me snapped and I decided I would never get on one again.

   

The irony is that 9/11 changed everything. I wondered what, if I’d been on one of those doomed planes, would have been my one regret in life. It was that I’d never lived in Paris. Within the week, I was on the Eurostar and renting an apartment in the city I would come to know as home for the next six years.

   

It was also around that time that I went on my first cruise, writing about it for a travel piece. There, I met Lisa, an amazing woman who has remained a great friend, and she gave me this piece of advice: “Travel while you’ve got your health.”

   

Since that day, you cannot keep me out of the skies. I’ve been to so many places, met some incredible people and now live in New York, from where I travel regularly to LA on the opposite coast, catching planes in the same way I do buses. If it all ended today, I’ve had a better life than most people in the world.

   

My impending 60^th birthday has set me thinking about everything I’ve done but also everything I still want to do. I’d love to see India, Australia, China, Japan (I’m still planning to go to the Rugby World Cup there). I want to see the Northern Lights, Lake Como, the fireworks in Sydney Harbour on New Year’s Eve. I want to live and breathe so many riches before time runs out: to travel, physically, mentally and spiritually - while I have my health.

   

Since selling my house in Wales and apartment in Spain, people keep asking me whether I would be wise to invest in another property. With deep frowns, they question whether my renting is “dead money”. I tell them that the years of being tied to interest-only mortgages was dead money, too, and that my advice to any young person today would be, don’t do it.

   

I’ve invested in living. That’s probably the single most important thing I’ve learned in my six decades on the planet. I haven’t been irresponsible. My dad told me to take out personal pensions because I was self-employed, and the fact that I did (three, to be precise) is the main reason I am able to enjoy travelling as much as I do now. 

Having spent years with banks on my back and sleepless nights worrying about mortgages, I’m enjoying freedom. I genuinely don’t feel any different being in a rented place from how I did in any that I owned (well, the bank owned, really). Heck, I’m writing this from my apartment in mid-town Manhattan and looking out over the Hudson.

   

I’ve been writing a book about money and our relationship to it (to be honest, I need the money!). I’ve written about the tough times I’ve endured and no one really knows just how bad things got. Within the past three years, there were two occasions when I was, literally, crying because I had no food and I was really, really hungry. With absolutely no money and an empty fridge, I also resorted to taking toilet rolls from the rest room in my building (not to eat them, but you don’t need to know the gory details why I needed them).

   

Now, don’t get me wrong: I know I brought this on myself. I could have stayed in my gorgeous house in Cardiff and Spanish penthouse and carried on until the end of my days. Nobody made me take an apartment in the most expensive area of New York City; nobody made me jump ship to a whole new life before I’d wrapped up the old one.

   

But I have carried with me a piece of blue paper that goes with me everywhere. I was in my twenties, in London, on the dole, stealing chicken drumsticks from buffets at events I gate-crashed (some habits die hard) because I couldn’t afford to eat. 

I lived like that in London for over four years and it was tough. I met a guy called Nathaniel (I’ve tried to track him down and, alas have not been able to) who, in an instant changed my life. I’d been bemoaning my fate, my foolishness in moving to London without a job, and he took my notebook and wrote this poem by Christopher Logue, often wrongly attributed to Guillaime Apollinaire:-

   

   “Come to the edge," he said.
   "We can't, we're afraid!" they responded.
   "Come to the edge," he said.
   "We can't, We will fall!" they responded.
   "Come to the edge," he said.
   And so they came.
   And he pushed them.
   And they flew.”

I'm not saying I'm soaring as well as I might, but I found my wings.

And some of them give me Air Miles, too.

What more could I want?

A SAD ANNIVERSARY

The 21 minute train journey from Cardiff Central to Bridgend on 7^th September is a slow ache: the remembrance of decades past, as I travel to the funeral of my oldest friend of 45 years, Shelley Thomas. 

The taxi takes me past Hope Baptist Church, where we acted in plays, went to the youth club, attended After Church Fellowship, and where we were both baptised as adults by the Reverend Euros Miles. 

The place where I first heard her sing and where we bonded over our dislike of a bullying fellow soprano; where she was married to the man who, after 21 years, would unexpectedly walk out one day and stun her heart; where we laughed, cried and shared gossip over the scandals that took place between those hallowed walls.  

   

Then there is Nolton Street, but the shop where we bought Strongbow cider and Breaker lager to drink behind Brynteg School bike sheds before discos is no longer there – the school where, in commemoration of Remembrance Day, we broke into convulsive laughter when the names of the dead were read out as we waited for “Harold Hare”. 

   

Neither is the Welcome to Town, where we had our first legal drinks – and, at a couple of months short of our 18^th birthdays, the first illegal ones (three halves of Kronenberg: we thought we were the Devil’s work).

   

I remember the Three Horseshoes, which is still there: our regular Friday night haunt and where Shelley met Des and I met Adrian from Cefn Cribwr Rugby Club; the Embassy Cinema, where we had our first jobs long gone now, as is Drones Night Club, where we waited outside for our dads to pick us up at 11.30pm. The rugby club is still at the Brewery Field, our main focus of social activity and where we sat one freezing January afternoon holding our ears, having decided to get them pierced on a whim.

   

I arrive at Coychurch Crematorium still in a state of disbelief, sobbing that on 31^st August my friend passed peacefully away following a battle with cancer. The queue to get in is huge, and standing out are the jackets of Cowbridge Male Voice Choir, for which she was Musical Director for 32 years. There are ex-pupils from Brynteg and we try to forget why we are there by reminiscing about the old days. When we finally make it through the doors, the sound of the choir surges and I can’t control my sobbing. It’s a recording with music chosen by Shelley and she hadn’t wanted her “boys” to sing in person, as she knew they would fall apart. Many of them do, wiping their eyes and putting their arms around each other. There is standing room only. 

   

The Reverend Euros Miles is doing the service, and it is comforting. On the way out, I pass the covered coffin and say goodbye. It is one of the worst moments of my life. 

   

I first met Shelley in 1969 when we were both 10 years old. My family had just moved to Bridgend and, as it had been in Newport, where we had lived for seven years, the church became the focal point of considerable family activity. At 13, we joined the After Church Fellowship, largely to gain greater access to said boys. One night, we both struck lucky and “snogged” our respective loves. Shelley had better luck than I did, as the mother of my chosen delight went hysterical; not only did he have glandular fever, she had been “saving” him for the organist’s daughter. That turned out well. She landed the married minister. Karma, eh?

   

Shelley and I were both pupils at Bridgend Girls’ Grammar in 1970 – the last year before schools turned comprehensive. She was a better all-rounder than I was and, at Brynteg Comprehensive, got put into the ‘B’ stream; I was in ‘C’, which meant I didn’t get to do Latin (which I really wanted to do – yes, really) and was mixed in with the secondary modern set who, resentful that having been top dogs under the old system, were suddenly relegated to ‘D’. It was a miserable time, but when we started our ‘O’ Level courses in 1975, Shelley and I shared several classes – most notably, Music and Welsh. She played the cello; I played the clarinet. We travelled to Swansea to see Andre Previn conduct and met him afterwards; we saw David Essex in concert in Cardiff’s Capitol Theatre.

   

We liked Welsh, but didn’t love it. One of the few times I was told off during my whole school career was sitting next to Shelley and trying to pass sweets under the desk. Mr James, the teacher, and mid-way through regaling yet another Welsh tale, was furious with us and looked as if he would burst a blood vessel. “Right! That’s the last time I tell you any tales about the Mabinogion!” Mission accomplished, thought Shelley and I, secretly holding up our thumbs in delight.

   

By today’s standards, we were veritable angels, but back then we considered ourselves quite naughty. We knew that some of our teachers played badminton on Tuesday nights and drove to the school when they were playing. Armed with ready threaded needles and cotton, we snuck into the changing room and sewed up the sleeves and trouser legs of their clothes. We were so easily entertained. One Valentine’s Day, we made a recording – a mix of narrative and music clips – saying what we thought of all the teachers (all very favourable – we weren’t that daft).

   

We were both made librarians and, to this day, ex-pupils remember our authoritarian regime. I in particular loved shouting “Please keep the noise down in the library!” and, during break and lunchtime, we would share the office with the 6^th Form boys who were allowed free use of it.

   

We weren’t the kinds of girls who cheated at anything, but stressed at our mock ‘A’ Levels coming up, we saw one morning the Head of History taking our exam papers to the library. At lunchtime, we went to collect the keys to open up as usual and made a note of which years’ past papers our class would be taking. Then we looked them up and prepared in advance. Shelley did worse than she had when she revised; I fainted on the morning of the exam and had to sit for it at a different time, dreading that I would be given a different paper. I wasn’t. But the stress of cheating just wasn’t worth it.

   

Shelley had much better luck with boys than I did. She was very attractive and had a stunning figure. She was wearing substantially filled bras while I still looked as if I was carrying around contact lenses. I was crazy about a boy called Jeff in the Sixth Form. One weekend, Shelley came to stay at my parents’ house and, on the Monday morning in school, said: ‘Jac, I’ve got something to tell you and I’m dreading it’s going to spoil our friendship. I’m going out with Jeff.’ I felt sick but just said ‘Okay’. At that point we passed Jeff and Shelley gave him the thumbs-up sign. I didn’t feel angry, just defeated, as I did with the opposite sex throughout my entire young life.

   

All the boys really did love Shelley. I was small, a bit spotty, and carried myself with the lack of confidence I undoubtedly had, physically. Shelley did gymnastics, rode horses, and was taller than me by four inches. Several boys asked her to the Sixth Form dance (I was told by the organiser that even if I got a ticket, I wouldn’t be allowed in because I looked too young) and she was probably the most popular girl in the school. When she sang I Don’t Know How to Love Him at the annual concert, the Sixth Form boys whooped with joy when she got to ‘I’ve had so many men before.’ When I became involved with a predatory teacher, Shelley was my confidante, and many secrets of that time have gone with her.

   

It’s in that I feel an emotional limb has been cut off. I visited her in hospital two weeks before she died and, as we had often done, we talked a great deal about our later teenage years. I told her I had been looking through my old diaries when I moved house and she told me she had burned all hers. Her secrets are not mine to tell, but when you have shared events and emotions with someone during your most formative years and then they are gone, it’s as if there is an afterlife of secrets: a sort of third person in the relationship that will forever remain untouchable.

   

We learned about sex. It mystified us. Coming from our strong church backgrounds, neither of us had any grounding in such matters. The school didn’t help. They one day sat us down in the hall and showed us the movie Don’t Look Now that featured steamy sex scenes between Donald Sutherland and Julie Christie. We came away with nothing other than a feeling that Venice might be a nice place to visit.

   

Shelley went to Aberystwyth University and read Music; I went to Cardiff to read English. We stayed in touch throughout and, after doing a post-graduate teaching course, we began our careers at the same time: Shelley in Maesteg Comprehensive, me in Wantage. I gave up teaching after two years, returned to university in Lancaster to do a Master’s and then moved to London. Shelley stayed in Maesteg until she retired two years ago.

   

We always stayed in touch and she supported me throughout my seemingly bizarre decisions to live in many different places. We met up from time to time and the advent of Facebook made it easier to stay in touch. When we spoke on the phone, the years always rolled away: we had a language embedded in our history that needed no translator.

   

Shelley found teaching increasingly stressful and when her husband walked out, she endured many more years of stress such as a divorce invariably brings. She was completely blindsided by the break-up and, in hospital, she said that she felt that the stress of that and teaching had contributed to her cancer.

   

When we both hit 50, I encouraged her to change direction. I had just decided to move to Los Angeles, but she said she had decided to ‘sit it out until I’m 60.’ I queried why she would want to endure another 10 years of unhappiness, but she was adamant that she wanted to wait for her full pension and then enjoy retirement. 

   

She held out until she was 56 and then decided to forego the full pension. Within a short time of leaving the job she had been in for 34 years, two years ago she was diagnosed with bowel cancer. Soon, it went to her liver and, when I last saw her she said it had reached her lungs. No chemo was touching any of it. The only time she mentioned death was when she spoke of worry for her mother ‘if anything happens to me.’ Three years previous, Shelley’s younger sister had died, and her father was also unwell and on the same ward. 

   

Shelley’s friend of 38 years, Hilary – her “bestie” – is, of course, devastated. I did not have Shelley as much in adult life, and I am glad she had the closeness of someone with whom she enjoyed many happy times as, indeed, she did with the choir, whom she adored as much as they did her. Despite the passing years and our changed lives, I always called her my best friend, and to the computer security question ‘What is the name of your best friend?’ I have always written “Shelley”. 

   

She bore her illness with the same fortitude and resilience as she did everything. Despite being a conductor, she was a very private person and, unless pushed, would not outwardly want to delve too deeply. ‘Ah, well, there we are then,’ she would say, when I went into major self-analysis mode. But she did think deeply and she was always intuitive, understanding and sympathetic to me. I hope I was to her, too. 

   

When I saw her in the hospital, we shed many tears at the start of two hours. At the end, I could see she was both tired and starting to get emotional. I hugged her and decided not to turn around one last time as I left. 

   

Despite the shock and sadness, I am blessed in having had a best friend who knew me better than anyone and whose love will never die. 

Forty-five years is a long time in friendship, but already this feels like an eternity in grief.

   

Goodbye, my friend.