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A Modernish Welcome

So, this is it.

The moment where I have to make some sort of impression to encourage you to read beyond the first line has finally arrived. It feels ever so slightly like a first date, only without my habitual glass of Pinot Noir.

Maybe that would have been a good place to start.

Most people would probably say that a little Dutch courage is no bad thing when tapping out your innermost thoughts. I’ve met many a woman who swears by a glass o’ rouge before tackling their annual Christmas card list. This feels only marginally less momentous.

For those of you who have meandered already to the ‘About Me’ section, you’ll know that Modernish is the product of various people suggesting that if I’m ever going to fulfil my ambition to write, then I should begin with a blog.

I’m not entirely sure exactly what was stopping me, but I certainly had reservations. I think tangled up in a ball of ‘what ifs’ the largest knot that needed to be unravelled was ‘why should anybody listen to me?’ Next to it was an equally large twist of ‘what have I got to say that’s worthy of someone else’s time?’

Needless to say, I haven’t been able to answer either, which is perhaps why I’ve waited until now to take the plunge. Better late than never.

Many months ago, I started reading all sorts of articles attempting to give amateurs like me an insight into what makes a good blog. Almost unanimously, they said it was important to find your niche.

Characteristically, to the frustration of almost every teacher I’ve ever known, I may have ever so slightly disregarded this advice and have gone for something that is both broad and nebulous in equal measure.

Put simply, ‘modernish life’.

The ‘ish’ element has its merits though, I think. People have often described me as mature for my age, something that at 13 years of age made me feel like an accomplished 18 years of age. At 18 years of age it made me feel like a capable twenty-something.

Now, as an only a moderately capable twenty-something, I realise what people were actually saying was that I seem to have a tendency to observe the world in a way that is perhaps beyond my years. That, or they were politely telling me that I was incredibly boring.

I don’t mistake this supposed maturity for wisdom. I have an enormous amount to learn and I’m the first to admit that ultimately I don’t really know anything about anything.

But I don’t think that not knowing should stop us from being curious, or documenting what we are learning, no matter how bijou or grandiose these lessons may be.

Are you still with me?

You’d be forgiven if not.

The musing nature of Modernish means I’m embracing going off on tangents. I think that’s essentially all that this blog will be. Some may well end up being tangents that have something worthwhile to say. Others, perhaps a little less so.

I know that I won’t have considered everything I write about from every possible perspective and for that, I am profoundly sorry. But I will certainly try to be thoughtful, so that we can enjoy taking a romp through modernish life together.

Whatever that means.

Perspective

I wasn’t sure whether to write this for a while.

But it’s something that has meandered my mind over the course of quite a few weeks and when that happens, I eventually feel compelled to put something down on figurative paper.

The story begins back in January.

In lieu of taking you down a particularly personal path, put simply, I popped out for a routine medical check and didn’t think much more of it.

Before we go any further, I hasten to add that I’m not ill. I’m perfectly fine. Perhaps a little more wary, but perfectly fine.

Like most people, I waited the usual two-to-four weeks for the results to arrive.

Like most people, I barely gave five seconds notice to the post in those first two weeks.

By the latter two weeks, I was routinely deflated when my name failed to appear amongst the pile of envelopes.

Until it did.

In a nutshell, they needed to do some follow-up tests. All the information was there, everything explained in intricate, helpful, not entirely reassuring, detail.

So off I went again.

And so I waited again.

As odd as it sounds, a little part of me knew this next letter wouldn’t spell the end. For whatever reason, I had an inkling that if they were looking for abnormal cells, they were going to find them in me.

I think that’s why it didn’t upset me. I wasn’t really worried. I just kept it to myself for a bit.

The thing to mention here, as everything else I read emphatically states, is that abnormal cells do not mean cancer.

Their presence just means there is an increased likelihood of them becoming cancer.

Mine were of a ‘moderate’ abnormality, so in the grand scheme, in theory, this is certainly not so bad. Plenty of people are dealing with far worse, not only in this particular realm, but in countless others.

Nevertheless, it did get me thinking.

It got me thinking about everyone bearing their burden, be it cancer or something else.

It got me thinking about the ways of the world and why these things happen.

It got me thinking about whether finding abnormal cells in this location meant that there was something wrong somewhere else.

It got me thinking about all the things I haven’t done yet.

I suppose there comes a point in everyone’s life when they’re suddenly shocked by their own mortality.

I’ve been lucky to go so long without being confronted by mine.

Now, I imagine, it will never go away.

I can only liken it to the embarrassment you still feel when some hideous memory rudely intrudes its way into your day.

My medical abnormalities have been removed.

The thought of them remains.

Now, every day, I anticipate the arrival of the post. More tests mean more waiting, although I know there’s still some time to go until my address will be printed to fit a little plastic window.

My sixth sense isn’t helping this time.

Each passing day is home to a different premonition.

But every one is also home to a lot of good and a lot of hope.

And ultimately, I realise now, that’s all any of us will ever have.

Energy

If you happen to have been in the south of England over the course of the past week, you may well have noticed that spring has most definitely sprung.

For the past seven days, we’ve enjoyed nothing but blissful blue skies, a world once again alive in something far greater than technicolour.

It’s the kind of vibrant that drives artistic genius; the kind that many would concede to capture.

There’s simplicity to it in the purest sense; a simplicity that somehow does everyone a favour as we shed our winter layers, take once again to wandering outdoors and for the braver beings among us, don our summer shorts.

If I’m honest, I’m not sure the warmth quite warrants the latter yet.

I’d imagine by 4pm a fair few of us have regretted leaving that jumper at home after hopping off to an impromptu beer garden gathering.

But I’m fond of the optimism.

It’s like an ode to now; a collective, unconscious embrace of living for the moment.

We each do it in our own way, but for me, part of it is watching plants do the same.

Seeing the magnolia blossoming, the blossom blooming and the blooms burgeoning is a joy. Even my houseplants are uplifted, thirsty just as we are with the promise of lighter, longer days.

Only yesterday my Mum and I pondered how people can go a lifetime without noticing each season’s ever-changing life signs.

Then again, just a few moments earlier, I’d unwittingly admitted that until recently, I can’t say I’d truly paid them proper attention either.

I suppose it’s all a matter of perspective.

And there’s something about a week as beautiful as this that makes me think of all those who haven’t been here to see it.

Two beings in particular come to mind; one who touched my life for ten years, the other for little more than ten days.

Logically, I know they will have had no bearing on the weather.

But I like to think that at least a morsel of the world’s newfound energy emanates from them.

I’m not sure how, but I do know why.

An Encounter

“Buy one!”

Turning, it took us a second to find the unfamiliar voice.

“Go on, it’s a lovely area.”

Exchanging a little knowing look, my boyfriend and I laughed as we replied, “We wish! Maybe, perhaps one day.”

The elderly lady looked eagerly up at us, the three of us standing together admiring the estate agent’s window.

She wasn’t to know that curiosity had merely gotten the better of us.

Nor was she to know that we’d be lucky to afford a new car between us, let alone a four-bed detached home in the serene Shaftesbury countryside.

And yet, her encouragement was welcome. It dented our cynicism. At the very least, it made me believe ever so slightly in our wistful “one day”.

Much more importantly, it was the start of a conversation I hope to always remember and one I wish could continue.

“I was born here you see. I lived with my parents here, then I went off to school here. I was a boarder and I absolutely loved it. We used to have such fun.”

“Do you live here?”

Replying, Chris told her about how he came to live in London, whilst I explained that I was the local one living in Salisbury.

We continued to talk about the minutiae of life: how sad it was that the high street no longer resembled the one she knew with its family-run businesses; how busy London is, which prompted questions regarding why Chris wanted to live there; how, if you knew where to look, there were still a few places you could get a good lunch for a decent price.

“Anyway, what do you both do then?”

After successfully decoding our classically nebulous job titles, she began to tell us more about her intriguing life.

“I wanted to leave home after school to become a nurse, but mother said ‘no’. And in those days you did what mother said!”

We chuckled, asking what she ended up doing instead.

“I got a job just down the road there with the local radio. It wasn’t radio as you probably know it now, but it was fun and I got promoted and so on.”

Just as we thought her tale was coming to a cosy close, perhaps as she’d once feared, she embraced the unexpected.

“Well, eventually I rebelled and went off to live in Oxford.”

We didn’t get to hear any more.

She began to move off up the street, but not before she’d told us that having never visited Oxford, we should most definitely take a trip to her beloved city.

“Yeah, we should definitely do that.”

“Not too far from London.”

“Not too far from London,” we echoed purposefully.

We think she might have gone on to become a nurse, just as she’d wanted to all those years ago.

When she’d told us about her daughter, she’d said that she was a nurse ‘too’.

With kindness, care and the ability to ask thoughtful questions seemingly a family trait, her daughter had initially wondered about her Mum’s return to Shaftesbury.

“Why are you moving all the way out there Mum?” the elderly lady told us she’d asked.

“I want to go home,” was all she’d replied.

Nothing more was said on the matter.

I can’t help but feel grateful for the fact that no one stopped her from once again becoming ensconced in Shaftesbury and the fond memories the town held for her.

If they had, we might never have encountered her.

And whilst we didn’t get as far as exchanging names, I hope she somehow knows that she touched our lives in a small, significant way on that freezing January day.