Hello Anger, what kept you?

Denial? Tick

Bargaining? Tick

Depression? Tick

Anger? Hello Anger are you there?

Ah, hello Anger, what kept you, we were beginning to wonder if you would be joining us.

Plenty more plates in the cupboard, shame about the food though, looked nice.

No major damage, wall tiles seem ok and the cooker is fairly robust.

Doesn’t casserole go a long way.

Not how I really wanted to spend an hour this evening. I had other plans.

So a glass of milk, amitriptyline and an early night it is.

Feeling drained and very lonely.

Acceptance? You must be joking. Now leave me alone before another plate gets it.





The Meal

Last year we sowed the seeds, we planted out the seedlings, we watched them grow, we harvested the crop.
We cooked the produce, we laughed, we danced, we ate the meal, we enjoyed the meal, we froze what we didn’t eat.
This year we sowed the seeds, we planted out the seedlings. We watched them grow, I harvested the crop.
I defrosted the meal, I stood silently, I ate the meal alone, I seasoned the meal with tears.


A town of many memories.
A place forever associated with Sally, she brought me here two months after we met. I had been before but had no strong memories.
That all changed with Sally. From the first visit we loved being here together. Us and the dogs.
We would arrive early Friday, unload and unpack. Walk the dogs. Lunch at the Duke of York, couple of pints and home for a ‘nap’.
Another dog walk later in the day, pot of tea for two and a change of clothes. Cocktails for two at the Moon and Sixpence, fish and chips from Magpies. Eaten out, under the bandstand if the weather was good.
A romantic stroll down the pier, hand in hand, kisses and laughter, always laughter with Sally.
Hugs and more kisses at the end of the pier, stare out at the sea, ponder our luck at meeting. Home, nightcap and a warm bed.
A similar picture on Saturday, but with a meal at Green’s.
Table for two. Looking into each other’s eyes, mouthing the words I love you, enjoying the excellent food. Chatting about the meal, our life, our love for each other and making plans for the future.
Laughter as we walked home via the pier. Laughter, a constant in our lives. An evening of pure enjoyment, of the food and each other.
Home and the warm embrace of the one you adore sending you to sleep, happy and content with your lot in life.
Slow Sunday morning, pack and head home.
Relaxed, refreshed, recharged, loved up and content.
Whitby was ours, life was very good.
Passed tense.
An empty, silent house.
No Duke of York. It’s full of happy couples, I walk in and walk straight back out again.
No pot of tea. Tea bag in a mug will do.
No Moon and Sixpence, no Magpies fish and chips.
No nap, well not that kind of nap. A doze in the armchair now.
No Green’s. Table for one? Sorry Rob, another time maybe.
No pier walk. No warm embrace. No laughter.
I am here to see if I can be here.
I can. But why?
“Make new memories”
Tricky. How do you make new ones when the old ones are so dominant?
How can you make a new walk down the old path?
Make a new path? Yes! Avoid the old paths, simple.
The new path takes me round the housing estate, up to the industrial estate and along the busy main road.
Whitby suddenly lost it’s charm.
I will be back; we have ashes to scatter. But not to stay. Not yet, not for a while at least.
No reason.
No attraction.
No Sally.


Another Saturday night in a quiet house. Another silent kitchen.

No Craig Charles, he will have to do without me. No bopping or beer.

Global knives stand like silent sentinels in their block.

No slicing, dicing or chopping. Pans remain empty, no cooking here.

The kitchen, once the hub of the house, now a cul-de-sac.

Time heals, yes, I know, I have been healed before. This time it is very personal, very.

My days are daze. My hours are no longer ours. My weeks are weak.

Confused dogs.

I miss the hand to hold. The smile will always be there, in the pictures, in my eye. But the hand to hold has gone. The hugs, the cuddles, gone too.

I miss. We miss. You miss. They miss.