The mind is an odd thing. I cannot remember a time when I
didn’t want to Foster, or adopt. Even as a young child it was one of my
life ambitions. As soon as I knew it existed, I wanted to do it. As
an adult I once came across a lady who had literally found a baby on her
doorstep, just like in the books, and she had raised the baby as her own.
I envied her. I had my own children, but ever wanted more. And so a
few times I have taken the uphill struggle of a climb on the mountain of Social
Services and the endless courses towards Fostering. Last year I came so
close. And then the non action of one person closed that door.
Maybe I will get another chance, who knows. To be honest I cannot help
but feel that somewhere there is a child I could have helped, and didn’t.
My daughter and I stumbled across an amazing café held in an Arts
building, amazing salads with crumble fresh quiche and soups with the best of
vegetables steeped and steaming in a bowl accompanied by soft fresh bread. Real flowers at the table. Views onto a garden made for families with
children displaying the various uses of a grass hill for play. We sat, we supped, we talked and we
looked. It was a morning of calm and a
lunch to enjoy at leisure. In contrast,
behind us, we overheard a man giving what sounded like am organised talk to two
companions, about working hard on themselves, about seeing themselves in truth,
about what they had to achieve and a lot about their current failings.
Glances showed me an older man, oriental in heritage, and two slightly meek
London men, looking down. The speaker, the older man, sat and lectured,
the others absorbed. The speech sounded as if it should have been a pep
talk to a better life, but it mostly came across as a lecture on what failures
the two men were. ‘And look’ the older man announced ‘for what we have
paid today for our tea and cakes we could feed a child for six months at
home’. The two companions looked at the tea, at the cake half eaten in
their hands, and drooped their heads. I looked at the man who was
speaking. He was very well attired, very well clothed, he sat upon a new
looking coat, with the label Hugo Boss clearly visible. I wondered who
was he, this man of means, to lecture the others so when he sat upon a coat
that would feed children for a year or more. And Hugo Boss? I had read that Hugo Boss, the man rather
than the present day company, had been a member of the Nazi party, that he
designed the uniforms for Hitler Youth and the SS, that he gave funds to
support the SS. I wondered, did this man
know these things as he talked of charity?
I also wondered if it is ever excusable to interrupt a conversation to
ask such questions. My daughter and I
browsed the bookshop. The men remained
in conversation. Uninterrupted.
A recent survey sent to me asked – what can’t you live
without? It was probably selling something. Suggestions had been
‘my car’, ‘my iPhone’ and even ‘my friends’, ‘my health’. All super
lovely. My first thought, on reading the title – a bath. If I am
ever stranded on a desert island but allowed a comfort it would have to be a
good double bed, life can be so much better if only you have a good bed to curl
up in, and the difficult days more bearable when seen from the folds of a warm
duvet and soft pillow. However, in life here and now, I want a
bath. A hot (not too hot) bath, deep, Lush products in, scented slightly
with natural scents, a smatter of candles flickering, proving the only light,
and time. No one banging on the door, no one calling, no phone ringing,
no appointment urgently appearing on the horizon. Just time. Its
what I love best about hotel stays – that moment of stepping into a warm swirl
of comfort with all the time in the world. You shower people don’t know
what you’re missing.
