Filed under: Age, America, Attitude & Aptitude, Cats, China, Death, England, Family, Hong Kong, Jill, LaLaLand, London, Love, Otis, Rosie, Shanghai, Singapore
I want to apologise to someone.
Her name is Denise and I worked with her for a few months back in 1996.
While I don’t remember much about her, I do remember this …
1. She was a freelance media strategist.
2. She was a wonderful human.
3. She had amazing ginger hair.
4. She loved her cat.
The reason I want to apologise is that one day, we heard she wasn’t coming into work for the week because her cat had passed away. And frankly, I was a prick. Not because I said anything to her or about her – but because I distinctly remember thinking her reaction was a bit extreme.
A week off?
For a cat!
But of course it wasn’t just ‘a cat’ and it wasn’t just ‘a pet’. It was family.
I know some people may think calling a pet, ‘family’ is a silly statement to make … but unless your pet is a ‘working animal’, I can only imagine the reason you think that way is because of how you treat it, rather than how it treats you.
Because pets love you.
And they want you to love them.
Sure, they show it in a myriad of ways, but to them – you’re most definitely family.
Even those independent, demanding, constantly judging beasts-on-four-legs known as cats.
They may make you work hard for affection.
They may turn their back the moment they get what they want.
But they love you … almost as much as you will likely love them.
So why do I want to apologise 28 years later to a person I have no knowledge of where they’re at and who I only knew fleetingly?
Well, even though the moment I had that thought I was angry at myself for how fucked-up selfish I’d been letting that thought enter my head even for a second, I want to apologise because it breaks my heart to say I now have first-hand experience how losing your precious pet feels because earlier today, we had to say goodbye to our wonderful, cranky, seven-country-living, Singaporean street cat: Rosie.
We’re all devastated.
Totally adrift in grief.
And even though we know she had an amazing 17 years of pampered, spoilt, and deeply-loved-and-cared-for life – which is much, much longer than the average tenure of a street cat [which is 2 years] – it still doesn’t feel long enough.
No where close.
While she’d had a kidney problem for a long time – as well as some arthritis in her back – it was being managed by a special diet and us putting little steps around the house so she could climb on whatever she wanted. But that aside, she was generally in good health. In fact it wasn’t that long ago the vets were surprised how old she was as she seemed so much younger in her spirit and overall well-being. And over these 17 years, there had only ever been one occasion where she had become properly ill so she was a strong little thing.
But then one day recently – about a month ago – things changed dramatically and suddenly.
Loss of appetite. Her meow sounded like she was smoking 70 cigarettes a day and she was restless. The vet had given her an injection to relieve the arthritis pain and some meds to help with her kidneys and it worked for a few days but – even though her spirit, meow, calmness and complaining returned with gusto – her loss of appetite kicked in again.
We took her back to the vet and her blood test showed a huge decline in her kidneys function – far more in a month than we’d seen in almost a decade – so we took her to the cat hospital for a few days to see if more intense treatment could help.
It was very sad in our house because while we hoped for the best, we feared for the worst.
For me, it all felt a bit like the last days of my Dad. I described it at the time of someone walking around their big, old house and closing all the windows, turning off the lights, closing the doors. One by one. Bit by bit. Getting ready to depart for the last time.
And that’s what it felt Rosie was doing.
Still loving – in her own, unique way – but spending more time in her own world.
Ironically, in the days leading up to her going into the hospital, she was more loving than maybe she’d ever before. Wanting us to wrap our arm around her while she slept next to us in bed rather than adopt her normal practice of balancing precariously on our hip. Like she was trying to say goodbye. A final loving cuddle. I even thought that at the time but I tried to put that idea out of my mind, not wanting to contemplate it or consider it in case I tempted fate. But the reality is, I knew things had changed and nothing reaffirmed that more than when we went to see her in the hospital and it was obvious the treatment wasn’t working.
She was happy we were there.
She came out for a cuddle and a brush.
But she was not great. Not just because of the sedatives, but because she was not well.
And maybe, that was the first time, we accepted we had to make a decision.
A decision no one wants to make.
A decision where you actively have to fight your instinct to be selfish and keep them around.
But while she was not in pain, her lack of eating – and the increasing effects of her kidney disease – meant she was getting very thin and her quality of life was starting to be impacted and that was the very last thing we would ever want for her. Would ever do to her. So after a call from the hospital, we brought her home today, Monday 12th, … spoiling her with love, kisses, brushes and walking her all around the house, including the deck outside, where she loved to be for hours, in the sun, in nature, watching the birds fly by … before gently letting her go this afternoon, at 2:15pm, surrounded by us by her side.
And we’re inconsolable …
For her loss and the feeling of confusion and pain we felt making this decision.
Knowing it was the right thing for her, but hating it at the same time … all while trying to fight off the feelings of guilt that we knew when her last day would be, before her.
And even though it honestly feels like she knew it was time and wanted it to be, it still feels so wrong and hurts so deeply … to the point I feel sick thinking about it, physically sick. That’s how much our wonderful little Rosie meant to all of us.
I mean Otis had had her in his life, his whole life.
Even my Mum had met Rosie, that’s how long she’d been part of our family unit.
Hell, anyone who has read this blog at anytime over the past 17 years, would know her as she made her first appearance within days of her coming into our lives.
And yet for someone so small, it’s amazing how much she filled our house.
Her presence. Her sounds. The little signs she left to make sure we knew this was ‘her house’.
Without her, it all feels quieter, emptier, less welcoming now.
Every corner reminds us of her. Every little place and piece.
Of all the places she lived – and there were a lot, from being a street cat in Singapore to HK, China, America and the UK – she loved this place most.
She loved the peace, the nature, the hiding places and the opportunity to run out the front door when we would come in and then annoyingly sit under my car until finally being tempted out with Friskies.
In fact, to remember her we’re going to make a decal of her, as mocked up above, that we’ll place on the window at the side of our front door. The place where she would come sit, meow and greet us whenever she heard our cars come down the drive. And we’ll also scatter some of her ashes in the trees she loved to look at from the deck at our house as well as get another tattoo in her honour to go with the one I’ve got of her nose and whiskers from years ago.
If you think this is all a bit over-the-top, I don’t care … because I cannot put into words how much I loved that cat.
I cannot tell you how grateful I am to Jill for finding her and bringing her into our life.
And while she was my first proper pet, she was more than that to me.
She was a member of my family.
Crazy I know, but she was.
Hell, I even turned down a job – ironically at Colenso – because of her. Well, partly because of her, because the New Zealand authorities wouldn’t let people based in China bring their pets to the country. Fortunately, having moved from China to the US and the UK, it was all good.
In many ways, I don’t want to end this post because then it means it’s final. Official. The end. And while I know her memory will stay with me/us forever, the reality is our wonderful Rosie has gone. Which is why I end the last post for this week with this …
Rosie. I love you.
You made an old man very happy – even when you made me bloody annoyed.
Like the time you broke my brand new X-Box. Or destroyed that expensive lamp.
But you always did it with style.
Just like the way you would find new places to hide.
Giving me a heart attack thinking you’d got out and run away.
Like when you made Jill climb up onto the roof of a block of flats in London … only for you to be found an hour later sleeping in our wardrobe, having purposefully stayed quiet while watching us run frantically around, shaking a bag of treats shouting, “Rosie, where are you?”
I am so grateful for all you were.
I am so glad we could give you the most loving of homes.
But most of all, I’m so grateful for all we were together.
We’ll never forget you.
Please don’t forget us.
And please forgive us.
Because we love you so much.
Always will.
Thank you for everything you gave to us.
We send you off with hugs, kisses, brushes and Friskies.
Sleep well our dear Rosie.
Sleep well.
Rosie. 1st July 2007- 12th August 2024.
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Age, Attitude & Aptitude, Bands, Bangkok Shakes, Childhood, Dad, Jill, Mum, Mum & Dad, Music, My Childhood, My Fatherhood, Nottingham, Otis
You know those time capsule things that were all the rage for a while?
Where people bury artefacts from their life with the sole intention that it is dug up 20+ years later for people to marvel at. Or be confused by.
I always liked the idea of it but never got around doing it … mainly because I imagine the outtake is massively underwhelming unless you’re directly attached to it.
Well, I’ve been proved right … but in a way I love and am amazed at.
As many of you know, I was in a band called Bangkok Shakes.
Thee were 2 iterations of the band – with different singers and bass players – with the 2nd version almost becoming something of some note.
Till it didn’t.
Anyway, while I had a huge amount of fun – touring and recording – the fact it all ended when I was 23 or 24 means I only think about it when I occasionally pick up a guitar and play a few of the songs we wrote.
Enter my mate Sam.
I love Sam.
He’s a brilliantly annoying person … and I say that with utter love.
He also buys more ridiculous shit than me, and that’s saying something.
And yet despite his natural tendency for mischief and mayhem, he’s a wonderful, kind and caring human. Or he is until he gets something in his head, and then no one is safe.
Oh the stories I could tell …
In fact, I bet the people at Virgin Broadband are still counting the cost of trying to mess with him because he’s like a crime-fighting cockroach who won’t give up. Or die.
But his behaviour is not always acts of commercial terrorism, as I was soon to discover.
You see one day, he woke up and – for reasons only he will know – I was in his head.
Or specifically, Bangkok Shakes was.
So he decided to go on one of his legendary explorations resulting in me receiving a Whatsapp from him that said, “this is you, isn’t it?” with a link attached.
Ignoring all safety protocol, I found myself on Youtube, staring at this.
This shocked me for 4 very specific reasons.
+ The song it relates to was one I wrote in 1991.
+ It’s a song I didn’t know was anywhere near the internet.
+ It was a very early demo of a song we did, not the final recording.
+ The handwriting on the tape IS MY HANDWRITING. MINE! WTF?!
But wait … there’s more.
You see, I was so shocked that I put a screenshot of the Youtube page on insta regailing the whole story.
Enter Gareth Kay.
Now I love Gareth too.
He’s very different to Sam [thank god, ha] but as wonderful.
Gareth is a music obsessive so imagine my surprise when a day later – after seeing my instagram – he sent me an email with another link in it.
And yes, I pressed it without any consideration of network safety.
Except rather than take me to Youtube, it took me another site altogether … a fan site … a fan site featuring not just the stuff Sam found, but the ENTIRE GROUP OF SONGS FROM THE SESSION WE DID IN 1993.
Not only that, it also showed the inner sleeve of the cassette the demos were in … where I’d carefully written out all the song names and info of the recording. Including the ‘then’ phone number of our drummer, Jason!
Now I was properly flabbergasted.
How?
Why?
Where?
Of course I downloaded the tracks and while they sounded a bit pants – made worse by the recording coming from a tape that was obviously old and a bit screwed up – it was an utterly joyful experience.
A chance to revisit my past.
To be taken back to another time.
Where life was only about excitement, hope and energy.
And while I know we made a better version of this demo – and made a shit load of better songs after it – it was something very special for me. A reconnection to something that was incredibly important to me. Something I hoped would be the foundation of my entire life.
But how did this tape end up on this blokes website?
Well, it gets weirder … because this bloke is based in Perth, Australia.
He loves 80/90s rock and trades tapes from that era to build up his collection … which means that a tape that I helped create and wrote out in Nottingham, THIRTY ONE YEARS AGO in Nottingham, England, somehow ended up in the possession of a person literally on the other side of the planet who decided he liked it so much, he added it to the internet.
And I couldn’t thank him enough.
Not just for the memory and the connection to my home and history bu because I remember everything about that recording …
After spending a month in hospital because my retina in my eye continually collapsed, this was the first thing I did ‘back in the real world’.
It was a Sunday and I remember our singer – Joe – bitching about having to carry my amps into the studio as I was not allowed to lift anything heavy for a few months to ensure there was no strain on my eye whatsoever.
It was a quick session, designed to try out a few songs and be used to play to a few promotors we knew – but never for wider public listening – so if someone told me then that 3 decades later, I’d be listening to it on the internet from New Zealand, I’d have said you’re mad. And not just because no one would know what the internet was back then.
It was pretty emotional to hear it … and to play it to my family … because it represents a time where pretty much everything from that era has either gone or been left behind.
+ My parents were alive when we recorded that.
+ Dad hadn’t even had his stroke at that point.
+ So Mum was still working.
+ I lived in my family home.
+ I had no idea I was going to leave Nottingham.
+ I was working, but we were being courted by record companies so I thought things were about to change.
+ My wife – who was in Australia, a place I’d never been to at that point – would have been 17.
So Otis was -21, hahaha.
It was a chapter of my life that was wonderful, but I thought fully closed.
And while that door has not been smashed open, listening to those songs on that wonky tape cracked it open a little.
Which is why I laughed when Sam then came back again with another link … this time taking me to a page of old gig dates, where on Saturday 17th of some month and year, we played at the then iconic Narrowboat [RIP], scene of some of the best nights of my life.
We often look back at life with rose-tinted glasses.
Reimagining our history to be something more than it was.
But on this occasion, it was better than I remembered.
Not because of the music or my overly fancy handwriting … but because it allowed relatively new friends to walk around my old life … to let them inadvertendly know a bit more about the person they’d only casually heard about in convesation … to give me the gift of shining sunlight upon a time of my life I’d almost forgotten … a time of my life that was deeply important and special to me … one I never thought I’d be able to expeience again, let alone be able to finally share with the family I love.
And it’s because of that I want to say a huge thank you to Sam and Gareth, they may never know what they have done for me.
Just like that guy in Perth who somehow got a tape I wrote out in my bedroom in the early 90’s in West Bridgford, Nottingham.
They say elephants never forget, but neither does the internet.
And while that might be scary for some, it’s made me realise that maybe the time capsule is an even better idea than the worldwide web.
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Apple, Attitude & Aptitude, Creative Development, Creativity, Otis
So a few weeks ago, Otis – aged 9 – turned to me and said:
“Why didn’t Apple call their charging cable, ‘Apple Juice’?
I know he’s my son … my brilliant, wonderful son … but you have to admit, that’s brilliant.
Up there with the time Apple gave their iMac’s names of fruit to correspond with their colour.
And back then it was hailed as a legendary marketing move … reframing, differentiating and humanising a tech company.
OK, so this isn’t that … but by the same token, it’s a damn sight better than a lot of stuff out there. Stuff created by people who are a lot older and on a lot more money than the small amount he gets Robux each month.
So I’m pretty proud, even though being a natural at marketing means I can’t look forward to a future where he pays for my life, not the other way around.
Damnit.
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Attitude & Aptitude, Cats, Death, Emotion, Empathy, Family, Hope, Jill, Love, Loyalty, Mum, Mum & Dad, My Childhood, My Fatherhood, Otis, Paul, Respect
This week has been a week of pretty heavy posts.
But given the standard I normally write at, this has – if I may say so myself – been pretty good. And hopefully today will top that off, albeit in a pretty emotional and confronting way.
Let’s see …
When I was young, I remember thinking that I never wanted to be with my parents when they died. My belief was the pain of watching them go would be too much for me to deal with. That seeing their final moments would leave an indelible scar on me for the rest of my life.
Thank fuck I came to my senses …
Because while their deaths were – and continue to be – the worst days of my life, I’d have been haunted if I’d not been by their side.
It could have happened.
It could have happened easily given I was living in different countries when they passed.
Australia for Dad. China for Mum.
But for reasons I’ll be eternally grateful for, I was there. With them. Able to tell them how much I loved them, was grateful for them and would do my best to honour them.
Because even though I was drowning in a sea of overwhelming grief as I witnessed them take their final breaths, it was the moment I understood – with absolute certainty and clarity – why I had to be there.
For them. And for me.
A few years before Mum died, her sister-in-law passed away. It was unexpected and she died at home on her own. To be discovered the following day.
Mum was understandably very upset about this. Not just for the loss of a woman she liked very much, but that her final moments had been on her own. That she must have been so scared. So desperate to be surrounded with the people she loved.
One day, while visiting from Shanghai, Mum confessed how she feared this would happen to her. That she’d be alone. I’d never heard her say something like this before and it genuinely haunted me. Not just in that moment, but till the end.
My Mum was an amazing woman. She had endured a huge amount of hardship through her life and all I wanted to do was look after her. But she was also fiercely independent, so it was always hard to get her to accept anything from me. In her mind, I had to focus on my life – not hers – which is why revealing her fear was so heartbreaking.
You see, not only was she acknowledging her own mortality – which was devastating to hear, let alone for her to say – she was admitting there was something I could do for her, even though we both knew it was something that was almost impossible to ensure.
What made this even more emotionally charged is that we both knew that this admission had ‘slipped out’.
Mum spent her life trying to protect me from pain and inconvenience at all costs – from her gentle words to try and coax me out of my delusion that Dad would miraculously get better after his devastating strokes through to me finding notes she’d written prior to death to make sure it was easier for me to handle her affairs – so the pain of hearing her fear was no doubt matched by the pain she felt for causing me sorrow.
She was that sort of person. A wonderful, compassionate and considerate human. A woman who would genuinely give someone her last £1 than keep it herself. Which I admit, annoyed the fuck out of me sometimes. Ha.
And that’s why I’m so grateful I was with her when the worst happened. As I was with Dad. And if you look back to March/April 2015 on this blog, you will read the anguish and pain I went through. But among all the desperation and loss, you’ll also see clues why I was so happy to be there on one of the worst days of my life.
Because while the idea of not having to see your loved one’s die, makes some sort of sense – the reality is quite different.
In fact, I’d go even further.
As bone crushingly devastating saying goodbye to a loved one is, it’s not as agonising as you would feel for not being there.
You see at that point, it’s not about you – but them.
However you feel has to place second-fiddle to their needs and situation.
For them, knowing they’re not alone at their final moments gives them peace. A way to leave with love rather than just fear. It doesn’t matter if they’re conscious not, they know and I can say this with absolute certainty.
As I said at Dad’s funeral, when we arrived to be by his side after an urgent call from the hospital, we found his body in the throes of turning off all the lights. Imagine someone walking around their old house and checking that all the windows were closed, all the lights were off and all the doors were locked. Making sure everything was done before they left for good. That was Dad and his body had almost finished its final check bar one little candle flickering in the night. But the thing was, he wasn’t going to blow that out till we were there … till we could tell him he could go … that we loved him … that we were grateful for all he had done for us … that we knew he loved us.
And when we did that, we watched him metaphorically blow out that final light out without fuss. A dignified, quiet passing, leaving us distraught with the loss but happy we were together.
Which is why I am so glad I came to my senses about not wanting to be there when my parents died. Because if I did that, not only would I have left my parents to experience fear instead of comfort and loneliness instead of love, I would have spent a lifetime trying to come to terms with what I’d done. How in my selfishness, I’d left people I loved – and love – at their most desperate and alone, at a time where they arguably needed me most in their life.
Of course, for some, they don’t have the option to be there.
Sometimes it’s because of circumstance, sometimes because of situation. And to them, I hope they are able to find some sort of peace because I can’t imagine the pain and burden that must inflict on them.
Now I say all this for 2 reasons.
One. Because tomorrow is the 9th anniversary of my wonderful Mum dying.
Two. I recently read an article that brought all this back to me … but through a perspective I’d never considered – the final days of a pet.
As you know, I bloody love my cat Rosie.
She’s basically my first real pet … and while we originally got her to keep Jill happy, she has become a true member of the family.
I’ve turned down jobs because of her.
I’ve started companies to bring in her favourite food for her.
I’ve taken big freelance jobs to aid her movement to new countries for her.
She is very, very special to me.
She is also, very, very old … and while she is generally fit and well … for the last few years I’ve wondered if this is the year we have to say goodbye.
It will happen eventually. I mean she turns 17 this year. SEVENTEEN. And my worst thought is having to one day take her to the vet to put her down.
And despite the lessons I’ve learned from my parents passing, my initial thought was if we had to do that for Rosie, I’d not be able to be there. It would be too hard.
And then I read this.
[Whether a pet owner or not, please read it]
Of course it should have been obvious.
Of course it should never be even a consideration.
But while we treat pets like members of the family, at the worst moment – many of us disassociate ourselves to try and protect ourselves.
Forgetting that at that moment, it isn’t about us – but them.
Yes we will be devastated.
Yes it will be horrific and hard.
But how do we think it is for them?
To face your final moments and not see the person who has been there loving them and looking out for them must be terrifying and confusing. Alone in an unfamiliar room with unfamiliar people.
As the article states:
“You have been the centre of their world for THEIR ENTIRE LIVES!!!!”
“90 per cent of owners don’t actually want to be in the room when he injects them so the animal’s last moments are usually them frantically looking around for their owners”.
Frantically looking for their owners.
Take that in.
I don’t imagine its that different for people in their final moments.
They need us. They need us to feel they still have us. That their final moments are with love and not abandonment.
I know it’s hard. I know it’s horrific. But I also know it’s not about us – not really.
So I write this to say that should you be of the opinion you don’t want to be there … that the pain would be too much. Know I sympathise, but also know it won’t nearly be as painful or deep as the knowledge that you weren’t.
Give the people. pets and places you love a hug, call or kiss this weekend.
See you Monday. I hope, ha.
Filed under: Attitude & Aptitude, Dad, Daddyhood, Death, Emotion, Empathy, Family, Fatherhood, Humanity, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, Otis, Parents
A while back, I saw a tweet by the incredible Alison Moyet, quoting CS Lewis.
It was this:
It captivated me. Both for how beautifully it is expressed and how true it is. At least to me.
You see the older I get, the more I realise the phrase ‘everything happens for a reason’ is the perfect encapsulation of how life is.
Whoever we are, wherever we live, we experience a rollercoaster of emotions.
Good, bad, scary, sad … you name it, we go through so many of them each and every day.
In many cases, they’re but a temporary moment in a day full of temporary moments. But occasionally, they can be something that leaves a lasting scar … a scar that transcends all that has gone before and shapes all that comes after.
That doesn’t mean it’s always bad, far from it. But it does mean that it is the start of a period of your life where it creates a lens of how you see and live life.
What is interesting is that while you are living through it – and think you have clarity because of it – the reality is we often only get understanding of why something happened with time.
Not that we realise that at the time, sometimes it can take decades … however even though we may stlil find what occurred unfair or unjust, there is a sense of enlightnment because of it.
The feeling that everything finally and suddenly makes sense.
Of course, that can also trigger disturbance inside you all over again … because you discover the scar you thought had healed, was just hiding … but it does have this amazing affect of revealing something you had not seen.
And that’s why that CS Lewis quote hit me so hard.
Because I went through some of that, especially when my Dad died.
I was full of anger and anguish.
Tears and tantrums.
At a loss for what to do or how we had got to this point … even though Dad’s journey to death was over years, rather than days.
And then a decade later – on the eve of my birthday – something happened where the byproduct of that experience was that I learned the last 10 years of my life had been spent in mourning.
Which had been a byproduct of denying my Dad’s health reality for years.
Not due to stupidity, but a need to survive.
To think it was not going to be the end – even though my wonderful Mum tried to gently get me to acknowledge the reality of his ill-health.
And what she did … and what this enlightnement did … and what my wife and Otis did ultimately led to me being able to better handle the tragedy when Mum died, 16 years later.
I was still devastated.
I still had anger and anguish.
But this time, because I knew why, it let me move forward … so I could focus on her wonderfulness, not get lost in the injustice of her passing.
It’s why I think it is so important to talk about death.
Fuck it, it’s why I think it is so important to talk, fullstop.
Not the mindless shit, but to make time for the personal and important shit … because nothing shows love and generosity than ensuring someone you care about doesn’t lose decades of themselves because of things they wish they knew or things they wish they’d said.