Salt & Vinegar, Please

Fish and chips by the sea; a taste unmatched and unparalleled by any other.

Even if you’re not a seafood fan, anyone would be hard pushed to deny that this is most certainly one of the UK’s greatest cultural contributions.

And a distinctly delectable one at that.

On a par is the frosty feeling of ice cream on your tongue; best enjoyed whilst massaging sand between your toes.

The British beach experience is iconic and I never tire of seeing these seaside scenes.

I’m particularly fond of out-of-season trips to the coast, which I feel possess an eccentric charm lacking in their scorching summer counterparts.

Watching bunches of bundled up people valiantly braving the seashore come rain or shine is a testament to our desire to determinedly stride into the face of nature and have a jolly time no matter how damp the shingle.

Whilst it might play havoc with your hair, nothing makes you feel more like you’ve had a grand day out than a notorious sea breeze. Returning home and feeling the sting of the lingering wind on your face is a rousing reminder that there’s a wide and wonderful world out there.

It’s a feeling I frequently return to when I’m doubting whether it’s worth wandering into the elements.

It spurs you on, if only on the promise that once you’re back in the warm, you’re bound to sleep serenely after sundown.

One woman’s simple pleasure may be another woman’s elementary nightmare, but for me it doesn’t get better than being among those of us defying the whimsy of the British weather.

There’s something deliciously frustrating about misjudging your layers. Of inevitably being too hot or too cold.

It’s absurd to imagine a scamper to the shore not featuring a meticulous exploration of the temperature, humidity, wind direction, chance of precipitation and whether or not you need to bring a towel.

And then there’s pondering that eternal question; is it too cool for flip flops?

Being part of the ritual, this right of passage into our island life, is unglamorous, unsound and unapologetic.

Yet we do it anyway. Happily and with absolute abandon.

Those three words are perhaps all we need to understand the quintessentially quirky allure of the littoral.

They’re the closest I’ve come to pinpointing our mutual madness for outings overlooking the ocean; a madness I wouldn’t trade for all the money in the world.

Bingo

Grief may well be the most uncommon of commonest feelings.

It’s not a feeling I was familiar with prior to the past few weeks, but with the passing of our beloved family dog, Bingo, it’s one I’ve sadly become acquainted with.

For just over 10 years, we’ve woken to see his bright brown eyes staring expectantly up at us.

For just over 10 years, this little bundle of fluff brought us immeasurable joy (and the occasional nightmare)!

As a Jack Russell X Terrier, we were told he might go on to be in his twenties.

It turned out that 14 years was enough, with age simply and suddenly getting the better of parts of him.

Like anyone in the throes of remembrance, we found ourselves reminiscing about his many quirks, which were likely the result of his tumultuous early years; years that we know very little about as we rehomed him when he was just three.

His funny, sad, sweet, strange and often utterly inexplicable ways earned him the reputation of being a ‘character’.

And that he was.

My sisters and I have been immensely fortunate to have never really lost anything or anyone before, so it’s only now that we’re coming to understand grief’s true nature.

Together, we all realised that we will inevitably experience ‘greater’ losses in future and that woefully plenty of people carry these with them already.

Nevertheless, those who have suffered the loss of a pet will realise the heartbreak we feel is as significant as that felt upon the passing of a person.

Bingo was a presence who studied, learned and unconditionally loved our family every day for over a decade.

Now that presence is gone.

And it’s impossible for that not to leave a hole.

I kept saying to my Mum, “I thought I’d be better at this.”

By ‘this’ I meant grief and she soon reassured me that mourning isn’t something to be mastered.

No matter how much you think you know about anguish, or indeed yourself, it seems you can’t predict or even necessarily control how you’re going to be.

I only needed to look at the five of us to see five individuals handling our shared sorrow in entirely unique ways.

It appears then that there are just two keys, one being support, the other being to allow both yourself and others to move through the motions unaccompanied by expectation or judgement.

Having given grief considerable thought, it is one of life’s great, universal mysteries.

But there are two things, two little ideas passed on, that have offered me a sliver of solace.

You don’t get over grief. You grow around it.

The only real healer is time.

None of this means you’ll forget.

It simply allows you and every effervescent memory to keep on living.

To Ponder

There’s a real art to asking good questions.

Some successfully hone their art professionally, learning how to elicit a revealing response and prompt intelligent conversation with practice.

To me, this is impressive in and of itself.

However, my intrigue is truly sparked by those for whom questions come naturally.

These curious Georges probably wouldn’t consider themselves especially adroit.

But as with many things, genius is more readily spotted by onlookers and outsiders.

The questions I like are thoughtful ones; the kind that really convey genuine interest, which is perhaps the key to ingenious inquisition.

Whilst they may not be revelatory, I’ve particularly enjoyed pondering the following two of late:

What age do you feel?

What would you have done if you didn’t have the job you currently have and studied what you did at uni?

Posing the first to everyone, rather than just those we consider elderly, is inspired.

The second may be more predictable, but it never fails to ignite a conversation and one which invites an appreciation of people as multifaceted, undefined by any one attribute or title.

I’ve always regarded myself as someone who lacks creative flair when it comes to enquiring.

It’s not because I’m not interested, but because I’m overly fearful of appearing as though I’m prying.

That’s why the people who probe the world with sensitivity stir such admiration in me.

My sister has always had a knack for it.

I remember watching the news when we were tweenagers and she would always conduct an incisive, considered investigation in an effort to make sense of the footage flashing before her.

She was the definition of an inquisitive child.

My other sister is spectacularly observant.

I remember her noticing aspects of the world when we were infants that had passed the rest of my family by, her careful gaze taking in the lives of our fellow human beings, only to recount and question the day’s scenes with us at home later that night.

She too was the definition of an inquisitive child.

Although I shared, and indeed share, their honest curiosity for endless elements of life, I feel I’m more likely to be found quietly answering my queries by reading or researching.

I hope my propensity for voicing questions and ensuring they are as smart as those of the people I hold in high esteem improves in time.

Because questions are all about inviting new perspectives.

They are a way to show willing; a willingness to learn from another’s lived experience, something which has always been worthwhile, but now is even more possible, purposeful and important.

Curiosity didn’t kill the cat.

On the contrary, curiosity keeps your eyes open.