Day 857

Day 857 was, to be frank, a catastrophe of unexpected, unintended, ill-timed and poorly performed remembrance.

BTW, I have to confess that, as an almost complete innumerate, I had to look up the days/date thing to work out the number of days since February 26 2016. (Where’d we be without Goggle, eh? – other search engines are available).

Today, Monday 2 July, was no different a Monday to any particular Monday. After all,  like most people, I’d have preferred not to have to end a weekend and restart a week. Doubly considering that the 2018 summer heat wave would probably mean well over 100% of the UK population, statistically speaking, would be thinking the same thing as me.

I’d slept pretty well. Nothing unusual.  The familiar 3am probing of the mind, as unforgiving wakefulness trod over drifting dreams of long distance, slowed down reunions. But, after a routine round of mobile sudoku, amid the early calls of our feathered friends outside, I fell back to sleep, perchance to dream.

In the actual morning, the summer light, long since opening and warming, I lay in bed, put my glasses on and read a chapter of a new novel. Perhaps I was avoiding my attempts at daily 15 minute morning yoga, but it was nice none the less – to be back to reading fiction after a fair few months off.

A chapter in, I nudged the bookmark in and pulled my tee-shirt on to go downstairs to make the coffee. I  checked the weather conditions from the back yard, wary of any spurious App predicts. It felt and smelt like another hot day ahead.

Coffee in hand, I sat and opened up my daily bread of mobile-friendly social media. Flicking upwards, there came the familiar blue bar of a Facebook ‘reminder’. This time, it warned me, it was from 3 years ago. For a moment, I had to think, innumerate or in denial of passing time, was this Before or After? I pushed my thumb up to today’s reminder.

Screenshot 2018-07-02 23.27.00.png

Izzy was there, staring at me, at the camera, at the phone, my phone, that she’d taken, logged herself in, and held in her hands to take this selfie, in July 2015. She looked beautiful – but I’m her adoring father, so she always looked beautiful (except when she pulled ‘that’ face). It was the eve of her sixth form prom.

In retrospective, the strangest thing was that, for a handful of seconds, I sat there, coffee in one hand, phone in the other, thinking, convincing myself, in a series of staccato false realities ‘I’ve seen this picture before.’ – ‘I’ve seen these eyes looking at me before.’ – ‘I’m coping with this.’- ‘This is actually OK.’.

Then seconds on, it came, as if Day 857 was Day 1.  The permanence. The forever-ness. That that digital playful, lovely look would never again be matched by a real, living breathing, alive look.

And today was supposed to be a Monday of intended reclaimed happiness. Of a considered purchase, a real Fender Jazz Bass, not just a copy, part ex’ed and bought, ahead of  a series of back to back meetings and conference calls.

I cried driving to the music shop. I cried driving to work, my new bass, boxed up, sat beside me in the passenger seat. I performed at work and in meetings and conference calls. Then I cried in the car home, and rang to cancel seeing a friend. I went home, and I cried. And we cried, and we watched the football.

Here endeth Day 857.



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