A memory is what is left when something happens, and does not completely unhappen.

Self Control, Self Denial…

These were the things which kept us together in our job, and apart in our darkest hours, but they are still the things which I admire most about you.

It is hard, was hard, in the life you and I lived, to find stability, a constant, but you were mine and still are. When chaos swirled around us, paper files spilling over desks and urgent words barked across offices, there would always be a pause – a moment – when I would look at you and everything would be calm again. Perhaps it was just a foolish heart skipping a beat, or perhaps it was the security you could bring with just one glance, one gesture or one word. You always were a voice of reason and a man whose actions showed the measure of his thought.

I have, and always had, absolute faith and conviction in your ability to have such sense and reason where it is surely hard to find and now, in these hardest times, I like to think it’s these things which are keeping me safe. I can’t deny the loneliness of writing a one sided correspondence, a letter sent out to the void, never to receive a reply, but in my moments of reflection, I cling to the hope that your silence is borne of the concern for me that I believe it is. To think anything else of your silence, I must admit, is not something I find easy, or comfortable, to do.

On Valentine's Day, I feared not the passing of the postman empty handed, or the quite, still void of cyberspace, for it was the reassurance that everything was as it needed to be. I fear only when the postman comes frightened of the news, or the horror, he might bring; I fear only for the day some mysterious message might appear to reach through the void to mine, for then I shall know it is not you reaching out to me; it is not you taking such unfathomable risks. Keep my letters in your pocket, my blog in your mind, and your replies in your heart. Some things are better left unsaid, at least until they can leave the lips and not the pen or keys.

And so, until it is safe, one day, for me to whisper these words to you in person, let me just say thank you. Thank you for keeping me safe and uncompromised; thank you for the lengths you must go to in order to protect my identity and never lead a soul to discover my whereabouts; but, mostly, thank you for being that steady rock in a stormy sea, and a constant I can depend on even now.

You always did right, took the right path, and made the right decision. Take it, make it, now, and I’ll wait as long as it takes.

"I've fallen in love many times... always with you!"

Thank you for falling in love with me…

I’ve started counting down the days. I hate myself for doing it, for filling my own heart with empty promises. But, in spite of everything, I remain an optimist. I’m a wannabe romantic. I want to believe that this time, this year, will be the one when it’s your voice on the other end of the phone, your face on the other side of the door.

It sometimes feels as though I’ve spent my whole life in love. In love with an idea, a dream, a person. Yet it was only in the ‘final years’ of my life that I felt I was loved back. A job that needed me, friends who would have died for me, a man who would have given up his whole world for me…

When I find myself bitter and full of self-pity, I remember that I was so lucky to have been loved, to have been loved by you. And in my more romantic and hopeful of moments, I cling to the possibility that you are still loving me from afar. Still loving me as much as I am you.

So when the dreaded day comes, and no cards or flowers or chocolates arrive on my doorstep, I’ll remember that I was loved once and I’ll smile.I hope you write, I hope you call, I hope you are waiting for me when I get home from work. But, mainly, I hope you’re smiling too.

"Another year over, and a new one just begun..."

Here's to 2009, and everything it brings. Raise your glass and touch your lips, and imagine it's me who's kissing you at midnight.

Last night I waved goodbye

Now it seems years

I'm back in the city, where nothing is clear

But thoughts of me holding you, bringing us near

And tell me...

When will our eyes meet

When can I touch you

When will this strong yearning end

And when will I hold you again?

Autumn

The autumn leaves are falling fast now, the sudden dip in temperature over the last few days hastening their departure from this world, and signaling the end of another long year.

I used to love this time, the colourful leaves heralding the beginning of winter, the undisguised excitement and anticipation of festivities from my friends, and the gradual emergence of pretty fairy lights in the shop windows, decorating my way home.

Can I also confess another reason for my enjoyment of the end of summer and the beginning of the colder months?

I relished the sight of those black leather gloves passing past my desk every day, sometimes a single covered finger running along the edge as their wearer hardly broke stride on his way towards his office.

Did you imagine I noticed? Hope that I did?

I miss those gloves. I miss you.

Autumn seems devoid of colour without their – your presence in my life.

Tradecraft

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I sent you my final postcard today – you’ve obviously not stumbled across this place yet, so I decided to give you a bit of a push. If it works, I suppose one day you'll be reading this, so 'hello', I'm glad you found me. If it doesn't, then who knows, it might not be the last postcard after all. I don't think I can stay out of touch, even if it is one-sided.

I didn’t think it would be so hard, sending that final postcard. It’s only a piece of paper, isn’t it? Nothing more than a rectangle of card. But they were my lifeline, something tangible which connected us. Something from my hand finding its way to yours.

I went to a small little café to write it, the sort of café I’d imagined we’d sit in if we ever did The Grand Tour. I indulged in a little people watching, as I’m often fond of doing, but a long time ago I realised that I’m not really watching, I’m searching the crowds for a glimpse of a familiar face. For you. My heart aches every time I’m fooled into thinking I have spotted you, and as my hopes are inevitably dashed I promise myself that this will be the last time I look for you, but it never is. You’re the ghost of my past that I cannot exorcise, the one ray of hope that my stubborn heart refuses to let go of.

I wonder if the postcards have meant as much to you as they have to me. I think sometimes that they have been the only thing keeping me going. I like to imagine your face as you read the few words I’ve scribbled down. In my mind you are always smiling but I often worry if sending them might cause you more heartache than happiness. Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I decided to write this instead of sending the postcards? Or maybe I’m tired of sitting in cafés and never finding you amongst the crowd?

The truth is, I don’t know. It’s very hard to be honest with yourself when you don’t know who you are anymore. Simple questions become hard to answer; am I happy? The person I am now probably is, or probably should be…but am I her, can I be happy wearing someone else’s life, and someone else’s feelings? I suppose I want answers, I always have done, only now I want answers for myself, about what I should do now, where my life is heading and if you’ll ever be in it again.

If you’re reading, Harry, let me know.

American Adventure

There was a time I dreamt of fulfilling a promise with someone I loved.

I know that would be the perfect ending to an imperfect story but, right now, it can't end because I can't see that perfect end in sight. Instead, I have decided to create my own story, and find the wonders that were spoken but never found.

I have found a gem, a city I really love, a place I wish we could have settled. If only....

"What is the opposite of two? A lonely me, a lonely you..."

The Little Things

"Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realise they were the big things..."

Sometimes, it’s the little things that remind me of London. Of home. Of you. Silly things. Things you might not expect. It really is all in the details.

Chocolates…posh ones, from a Belgian chocolate shop. That’s an easy one. I buy myself a box each birthday, and pretend they’ve appeared on my desk like other mysterious presents used to.

White bread. White bread with a generous sweep of golden butter. It makes me think of the pout on your face the first day you were presented with a wholemeal, low-fat sandwich. You’d better be keeping that up, by the way.

The colour red, in all shades. Bright, for the London buses. For phone-boxes (lack of graffiti permitting), and pillar boxes and Beefeaters. Rusty gold, for the leaves below the roof of the Grid – was it always autumn when we stood up there, or only in my memory? Deep, passionate red. The red of your office and the red in my dreams. And finally, burgundy…but most of all when it’s white.

Yesterday, it was a man calling angrily after his cat as it shot out of his front door. I imagined you taking on my mischief makers, and poor Scarlett having to share you with them, too. How are the little tinkers? Missing me?

Today, it was a bus journey. I put my hand up to the back of the seat, and let it rest there. I do that a lot. Maybe one day I’ll find you behind me again, touching your fingers to mine.

"Summer afternoon - summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language." - Henry James

[Bristol harbour. July 08]

There is nothing better than spending a lazy afternoon beside the river, soaking up the sun with a much loved book, a bench, a cup of that fancy foam Starbucks are passing off as coffee these days and a good pair of sunglasses for people watching. No matter where in the world I am, it feels like home.

“Everything passes and vanishes; everything leaves a trace…”

If you’re reading this then I guess it means someone finally got rid of the ban on Google – take it easy on them, H, you can’t expect everyone to have my research skills – and I’ve been causing a considerable stir with internet chatter. It also means that enough time has probably passed for me to be forgotten about so I can do this in relative safety.

If not, well, then I guess I’ll be seeing you as soon as the swat team pick me up!

The truth is there is only so much of the world you can see without wanting to talk to someone about it, and since the postcards have probably been screened within an inch of their lives – that is if you got to see them at all! – I’ve had to be more…creative in my approach.

And this is the result: A place, a blog, to capture some of the places I’ve been to. This way you can be there with me in spirit, if not in reality, every step of the way.