Filed under: pink
Please only view Going Home to India until Christmas. Thanks!
Filed under: alcohol, balloon, celebration, champagne, dancing, final final, flour, flowers, friendship, happy times, hiccups, laughter, music, photography, picnics, pink, sambuca, singing, smoothie, stars, trashing, vodka
I would start this with a moan about how all of your sly antics have left me feeling more than slightly … tender … today, but I suppose that was the point of it all. 😉
So: thank you for coming to meet me (even if I wasn’t there, Phil!). For still waiting when I was spending too long reapplying eye liner. For wrapping me up in long strips of pink paper and for giving me a pink hat. For handcuffing me to the railings. For the flour and the soup and the purple glitter (and for avoiding my hair … selective trashing, you guys rock). For coming up from London just to meet me after finals. For the picnic in the garden and good banter about – was it prostitution?!
Thank you for nachos fun in Meltz and for bearing my it’s cheesy it’s OVER it’s feel good music while I got ready to go out. For telling me that my eye makeup wasn’t too much (even if it might have been). For coming to take over a corner of the Kings Arms … for all of the drinks. Vodka. Dark sambuca, light sambuca. And some more – then refilled (yes, it seems I did fall for it). For taking movie clips of my somewhat inebriated condition. For girlie bathroom trips, and for bearing my need to shoot photos.
Thank you for telling me that I wasn’t going to die from drinking too much! For ignoring my unstoppable hiccups. For helping to convince the bouncers that I really was over 18 (the eye makeup didn’t work). For too much sexy dancing. For taking me home and persuading me that walking in the road really wasn’t a good idea. For bearing my perfectly out of tune and hoarse rendition of kumbaya (I really am so sorry), and star-spotting in dew drenched grass.
Thank you for not yelling at me for waking you up this morning. (Oh yes, the first time I sleep without an alarm, and I wake up at bang on nine am.) For inviting me over for breakfast. For buying me a hangover curing smoothie. For still wanting to have dinner with me tonight, despite, well, all of the above.
Thank you: you guys rock. I had the best time.
My new neighbour came over, in need of paracetemol. (Yes, he’s a finalist too.)
He spotted my OK! magazine on the side.
–Sanjay: “Sam! Why on EARTH are you reading OK!?”
–Me: “Well … you know … philosophy, politics … er, um … sometimes I need a break!”
–Sanjay: “No – I meant, why not Heat?”
New friend. Instantly.
Filed under: death, flowers, friendship, hearts, life, love, misunderstanding, mourning, pink, serious, strangers, tribute
Sometimes they stop to read. The kinder ones retie fallen flowers. Sometimes they pause, but keep walking: drowsy, guilty steps for wandering on by. Maybe they think it’s not their place, or maybe they don’t even care. Perhaps they just can’t take it.
The mourners stand and stare. Shoulders tensed, arms defiantly crossed, they breathe in the ironic beauty of his flowers. The braver ones glance to the criminal road, trying to understand what happened. How it could happen. They hold one another, brushing away the tears. Eventually they leave; eventually they must leave.
But their steps are heavier, as are their hearts.
Dusk has fallen on the bunches. At present, I see fifty seven. The messages are beautiful: tributes to his sunny, triumphant life. To his rowing, his dancing, his ever cheery disposition. To a life lived so gloriously in just twenty two years.
Tsz, you will be missed.
My scout alerted me to the scene outside my window. Cordons, a large lorry. Policemen, black and white hats, fluorescent jackets. Notepads, cameras. Official hustle and bustle.
A red bicycle.
A large white cloth.
A young life, extinguished. Too early.
Tourists posed by the Bodleian, parading toothy smiles for freeze frame portraits. Online comments tittered about negligence: the city drivers, the city cyclists, the city council. Workers reclined on benches, guzzling down precious morning coffee.
While he still lay there.
Maybe a brother. A son, certainly. Perchance, a lover. A friend, a student … no more.
There was a backpack, its straps cut. A wallet, a mobile phone. A few other pocket items. Simple tatters, now, of a life gone by.
The cordons came off within hours. Nonsensically, life poured back with remarkable ease. The news listing dropped from its lead position, the excited chatter of finishing finalists floated up to my room. People forgot, or never knew.
A devastating reminder of the fragility of life. My deepest sympathies to all those who knew him.
Unapologetically Pink 