A Christmas reflection on whisky, family and memories.

To be fair I was at a low ebb, the last 12 months had been toxic to say the least. Much like the proverbial bus, three had come along in quick succession. In this case the three just happened to be deaths of family members. Firstly, my mum after a short but painful six week illness, then, a few months later my older and only brother in a road traffic accident, then my dad who at the time of writing was still of this world but with only a few weeks left. He was, as Christopher Hitchen’s put it "living dyingly"...and I was on a train travelling North to visit him after an enjoyable but tiring day in London.

 So, there was this guy on the train; sat opposite me. I'd say he was somewhere between 50 and 60 years old. There's a lot of leeway in there but it's not hugely important. He was bald and, in my experience, that adds a degree of uncertainty to the age question (on reflection, he could have been much older). Grey moustache and goatee, cut fairly short, in fact, it was neatly and methodically trimmed. Overweight, but fell into that category of "big bloke"; some might call it fat but that would be a little unkind. In terms of clothing he was travelling light despite it being early December. Jeans, a fawn jacket (draped loosely over an expensive yet worn leather holdall), and a short sleeved shirt festooned with writing that I couldn't make out initially but, after a while, I realised that it was row upon row of the word "Xmas" in different languages (Noel, Natale, Navidad, Kerstmis and so on). Middle-aged man in designer shirt, a little incongruous maybe, some lingering attempt to hang on to the vestiges of youth, perhaps. Anyway, it was a decent enough shirt. 

 We exchanged a fleeting moment of eye contact before settling into the train journey. Carriage life was as expected; the initial hubbub of passengers firing up software before burrowing down to social media activity, hushed shuffles & adjustments of clothing and settings, the well rehearsed rituals of isolation, insulation from conversational contamination, the positioning of elbows, music listening, the extension of the working day etc. Not for me, I was content to let myself drift off into fantasies of one kind or another, those moments of freedom where it's ok to do nothing, to switch off "mainline" and slide languorously into "downtime"; except, "downtime" had become an elusive sanctuary of late, a faraway country, constantly over the horizon or round some distant corner. Moments of genuine rest and relaxation had shuffled inexorably into some labyrinthine backwater of my memory. It wasn't as if I lacked opportunity to relax, it was simply that, when those moments presented themselves, a dull thump and sharp clatter of unresolved and unprocessed "past" would insinuate itself into my failing head. Over time, and through lack of use, I had forgotten the language of R & R. And so it was, on that December evening, that I sat on the train heading north.

 That was until the gentleman opposite began fumbling inside his leather holdall before producing firstly, a small tulip shaped glass, followed by a bottle of whisky. How did I know it was whisky? Well, although his hands were wrapped around the mid section of the bottle I could make out the letters "isky"...in white on a brownish background (I was certain that it wasn't a bottle of "Frisky" although the thought did amuse me somewhat). From what I could see of the bottle it fitted my experience of what a spirit bottle looked like, I'd had a “pleasure” of whisky in my time, and it didn't take a great leap of the imagination to reach this simple conclusion. But it wasn't the whisky bottle that first caught my attention, it was his hands. I hadn't noticed them when he first inhabited the seat opposite, but now...

 His hands were works of art; they were at the same time beautiful and terrifying. Big, powerful, well defined veins sprang from his wrists, flowing under and around cartilage and calloused knuckle, into fingers, purposeful and deliberate. The knuckles were a gnarled chain of worn peaks. Scuffing and scar tissue hinted at potent visceral experiences past, of manual labour, of heavy contact, of pain endured, of reaction to events rather than well thought through planned responses. The nails on the fingers of his left hand (the hand obscuring most of the wording on the bottle), were broken and bitten, like four worn piston heads locked at the end of his arm. In sharp contrast, the nails on the right hand whispered of quieter, more considered experiences. There was nothing rushed about those nails. Well tended, manicured, and shaped with a precision that did more than simply hint at attention to detail. I couldn't help but feel that the right hand was more of a window into this man, a glimpse into processes that went beyond the merely superficial.

 What had begun as a somewhat tentative exploration of the contents of the holdall had metamorphosed into a confident, assertive, almost dexterous celebration of........something. He handled the whisky bottle in an almost reverential manner, his strong hands at the same time vice-like and agile.  It was clearly something special to him and whilst the bottle was not totally unfamiliar to me, it had elements that were unlike any I'd seen before. There seemed to be facets at various points that served to suck in the carriage light, bend and refract it through the dark, lustrous liquid within. The colour of the whisky shifted with the movement of hand and train; at one moment a flickering gold, then to bronze, through ruby, vermillion, coral before trembling to a mercurial burnished ochre, and then on again...

  His left hand tightened around the body of the bottle, the right slid up the neck and embraced the cork stopper. Two twists of the right hand and the job was done. Just as the bottle had absorbed and then transformed the light, the short muffled pop of cork leaving bottle served to call all of the senses to attention, and then fold them, twist them, massage and gently play with them. That dull, innocuous pop resonated around the carriage paradoxically drowning out the thrub and rattle of the train, drawing attention to the bottle, and then alerting other senses to something extraordinary. In the now hushed carriage, perfumes, aromas, and scents emanated from the unveiled whisky, firstly permeating the somewhat stale carriage air before becoming the singular sovereign essence within that space. It was intoxicating; I could feel the chair supporting my back, my head cushioned on the headrest, my legs, indeed my whole body seemed lighter, my breath slowed and deepened, background noise faded and then disappeared altogether.....my eyes closed.

 Colours, memories, exotic fragrances and earthy aromas intermingled in a random sensory seduction. Faint breezes fashioned fallen fruit carpets on burnished autumn forest floors, bittersweet bucolic spring charms fell like rose petals, sea-breeze sands, rock pool memories and salt water spume upended me in a turbulent, tumbler sea...I was not drowning but waving. Yellow, hay baled and supine, sun-kissed in sublime, late summer magnificence. An "old gold" signet ring belonging to a grandfather I never knew. Saffron and brimstone wrapped and bubbled in sweetly spiced braziers, and warmth emanated from embers of Christmas fires past. Red, bronze, copper and carmine collided in sunsets long forgotten, unearthing residual traces of conversations long since spoken. I could hear faint whispers from the mouths of lost loved ones. The accents of my childhood reached out from within like a reassuring caress murmuring "It's OK, you'll be fine" 

 Slowly, the kaleidoscope took on a clearer coherence, became tangible, touchable, understandable. I could feel, touch, and smell the memories......and in that moment, I saw my dad holding my hand......my mum wiping my face with a tissue dampened with her spit.....and my brother laughing and running off with a ball. I wanted to play, eager to escape mum's beneficent ministrations, to experience the unconfined, uninhibited freedom so often the preserve of a loving family....to inhabit that time when freedom and safety coexisted.....but that time had gone, and they were gone, and there were no more of mum's tissues, and there was no more brotherly kickabouts, and there would be no more walking with dad whilst holding his hand. 

I could feel a deep, resonant, and profound swell of sadness forming in the pit of my stomach, slowly leeching its way into my chest, becoming cavernous and gaping as it tried to swallow me, whole and helpless. But before my throat and eyes succumbed, I saw my family once again. It wasn't some beatific vision, some angelic scene viewed through pastel lenses in an exotic paradisiacal location. I was at home, about 10 years old, lying in front of our busy, smoky coal fire, watching our black and white TV. I turned away and looked at each of my family in turn, dad (smoking a cigarette in "his" chair), mum (emerging from the kitchen with a freshly baked mince pie in one hand and my 2 year old sister who was holding a ragged doll, secure in her other arm), my brother (lying just opposite me), and my other sister (sat on settee). My sudden turn caught their attention and as I made eye contact with each one, we exchanged the briefest of smiles (all except my youngest sister who was chattering to her dolly)....and that was all. 

  

I sensed the dull commotion of the carriage returning. I opened my eyes, I was smiling, and I felt a serenity that had long been lost to me. My mum and brother had gone, my dad would soon be gone, but they would always be with me. Death's slick timing had muffled my mum's passing, scratched out my brother in an instant, but had not yet sucked my dad from this world....and there was still time to hold his hand.

 It took me a moment to realise that the gentleman opposite was no longer there. I looked around the carriage but he had gone. I looked at the table, empty but for the tulip shaped glass....half full. 

  

(c) Alcock 2013    

Surreal Dram no 5

The eminent psychoanalyst Dr Dolittle, caresses the neck of his pet giraffe, Judas, 

& pours himself a flute of Kilchoman.

(c) Alcock 2013

Twitter photos Oct/Nov 2013

After an exhausting, emotional, enjoyable 4 days in the North East, 

relaxing with some Yellow Sport & some Dobro action - 20.10.13

Ready to go at Mission control #TweedaleWhisky - 16.10.13

Last dram of the evening...with an added soupcon of chocolate. 

Difficult to beat a quality dram of Karuizawa : ) 06.11.13

Dram no3: I'll soon be twanging the Dobro. Competing with next door neighbours cats. 

Fast approaching "couldn't care less" 06.11.13

Totally exhausted. Couldn't make my last appointment of the day. 

Time for 1st dram since last Friday. Earned it! 06.11.13

I'm getting dressed up for tonight's MilroysTT2.

Rubber mask is on as I'll be falling flat on my face 30.10.13

Harvesting my bean seeds for next year! I'm at an age when this is an exciting evening

...more so with some Kavalan. 25.10.2013

The theme for this evening's drams is "whimsy"! Kavalan Solist, Naked Grouse, 

@BalconesWhisky 5th Anniv, Balvenie cask 7983

The opening riff from Aerosmith's 1975 Toys in the Attic 

represents how I'm feeling after my first blast of @BalconesWhisky True Blue. 

Quality. 12.10.2013

Sunrise from the office window after a superb @TWEWhiskyShow. 

I hope I didn't sleep here last night! 07.10.13

The cheeky Darach Ur in the background would be my choice...

but the others are good 05.10.13

Our house is part Victorian museum, part every child's nightmare. 

Things go bump in the night" 12.10.13

Seven Grand: Los Angeles: Part 2 - A garden of earthly delights

Location: Seven Grand 515 W.Seventh St, Second Floor, Los Angeles

Two days later, it's early evening, it's still hot, I'm making my way from my hotel to Seven Grand when I stop for something cold and non-alcoholic...a virtuous start to an unpredictable evening. I people watch near the corner of Seventh & S.Figueroa and I'm confronted by what seem like the LA equivalents of aged extras from "Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas" There's a psychotic on every corner, sometimes more than one, playing out surreal tableaux in which each actor tries to describe a different Hieronymous Bosch painting through the power of mime, gutteral utterances, and the exudation of noxious odours. People walk on by, trained not to notice, avoiding eye contact. The number of homeless people could be a reflection of the warmer clime but the florid nature of the behaviours seems to be some kind of testament to a failed health care system. A brief respite and then onward  I'm crossing 7th and Grand when a vagrant shouts "I like your beard white boy". He is smiling, so am I....for very different reasons I suspect.

Out of the heat and into the bar, the feel is the same. A little bit noisier, well, it is Friday. 

Elijah Craig 12yo Cask strength. 

Mama's Little Yella Pils

The mingling of bourbon/rye, ale, & a new city is a heady and intoxicating mix. Elvis blasts out of the Duke Box.....Costello that is (Watching the Detectives & then "Red Shoes"), closely followed by Bowie (not Jim...David). Am I in LA or my childhood boozer, The Blackburne Arms, Warrington, circa 1982? I don't mean that in a disparaging way....it's fucking brilliant. 

It has taken me roughly two minutes to chill out to a fine "cucumber raita, deep blue green sea, alone on the beach, no debt, no work, enough money, nobody knows me, stranger in a strange town" kind of tranquility. The night belongs to me again, I own it. 

"Who's Pedro"  On one of the signs behind the bar informs me that he's the guy to ask if you want to know more about the whisky society. 

"He's our whisky guru........he's not in tonight." The conversation ends before it even took off. 

I've been here twice so I can use the term "usual" in an appropriate context! I order my usual - Knob Creek Cask strength. There's the usual sub-frenetic hubbub of early evening pool ball banter, cocktail crowd clamour, and "winding down" schemas. Punters wash up to the bar where bar staff act as breakers, serving drinks and watching the drinkers ebb away before returning as the tide rises. The bar staff are warming to their tasks. Swift shimmies and sharp slaps on steel shakers, flick of the wrist sexy swerves and come & get me movements marking the agitation of alcohol & lemon, or cucumber, or strawberry, or whatever the cocktail demands, finishing in the "art of the pour"....it is the ballet of the barman/mixologist.

I meet an accent to my left...an opportunity for conversation presents itself. "That sounds like a Brit accent to me"......the evening takes on a new twist. Pat has lived in LA for a number of years (does that make him an ex-pat?). A brief conversation ensues, the "who are you, what do you do, why are you here, what do you think of LA, what do you miss about England" ice breaking checking out chatter to determine whether its worth investing more time in each other. I like Pat, he's a really nice bloke, articulate, engaging, eager to chat and willing to listen, his is a friendly face in the sea of strangers. He moves off to sit with his friend Tai. A few moments later he pops back and invites me over to join them. New connections are being forged. Tai is equally engaging, funny, interested and interesting, and a thoroughbred American - she knows LA and lives only a few blocks away.  

In drinking with Tai & Pat I suggest we recount one funny story from our respective pasts. The art of storytelling is alive and thriving in boozers around the world and I love listening to people tell quality stories that have significance and meaning for them.  We swap stories which are too long to repeat here but nonetheless, they are very funny, unique, and provide clear evidence of the value of our existence here on this beautiful/shitty planet. For the sake of brevity I'll simply include the "punchline" or "highest point" of each of the three tales without attributing them to either of the story tellers. 

Tale 1: "I just hope they put better padded rims on those Test of strength machines in Thailand!"

Tale 2: "...at this point I realised that not only was I at the wrong airport, but I was in the wrong country!"

Tale 3: "So all the Russian guy kept saying was "I am clean"

In the "rest room" there is a smartly dressed, African-American valet/butler/rest room guy with a smörgåsbord of lavatorial & post-lavatorial attractions (condoms, sweets, tissues, coloured pretty baubles, aftershave). This is new to me and I'm feeling uncomfortable. "Toilet/rest room protocol" is a minefield at best and I am thrown into confusion by this benign urinal confrontation. Do I say anything? If I do say anything, what do I say? What are the rules of engagement? What am I supposed to do? The one thing that I need to do is take a piss (note the American expression; in the UK we "have" a piss, in the US you "take" a piss. The former suggests ownership, the latter suggests theft, I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions). Anyway, even "doing" a piss is proving to be a challenge. It's not so much a case of "bashful bladder syndrome" but more of a case of "I'm trying to piss and there's a shop owner standing no more than 6ft away......syndrome". I wash my hands more thoroughly than I would normally do, it would be impolite not to. I am representing my country in terms of toilet hygiene. Never let it be said that the Brits are deficient in terms of urinary cleanliness. I don’t purchase anything (my level of unease is such that I barely make eye-contact), but my rye largesse is in full flow, I am Lord David of Alcock, I don't have any small change so I give him $5. 

I'm now on "whisky bar" time, where progress through the evening is measured not in terms of the clock but in terms of the shot. The lighting is set to convivial, the background hubbub feels like affirmation, the conversation, nurtured by Craig, Turkey, Grand-dad, Four Roses and Knob, builds in terms of enthusiasm, vigour, scope and sheer imaginative flair. The camaraderie is infectious, this is a transatlantic union of global significance, our discussions could make a difference not just to ourselves but to humankind in general.....and slowly, inevitably, things begin to blur, to merge, to blend, to become opaque, it is time to leave. 


I have the munchies, I need to eat. I purchase a filled bread roll that weighs more than my forearm and weave my way back to the hotel. I wake up at 07.36 in a hotel sheet sea of ham, chicken, cheese and breadcrumbs.

Seven Grand: Los Angeles - Part 1: An evening of short sentences

Location: Seven Grand 515 W.Seventh St, Second Floor, Los Angeles

Craftsman 1903 Pale ale

Knob Creek Cask Strength Bourbon 60%

A Black & White film on a small TV top left of bar, no sound, Juke box, “The girl from Ipanema” permeates the room, 20 punters, and two barmen. The sound of pool balls and conversations being struck. The beer...cold, the Creek...deep, sweet chocolate and caramel rye notes meander down my throat...escape, an escape from the oppressive heat, from the tensions that come with being alone in a sprawling city in a foreign country, from the streets punctuated with business bods and downtrods, and from the demands of having to stay focused. The decor whispers English boozer & American bar in equal measure. It's like a big old-fashioned, old English pub "snug" wrapped in speakeasy.

The whiskey list is impressive, they've even got Ardbog in here & it's only been out for three weeks!

Two guys swing alongside & order 2 old fashioned. I've still not dipped my toe into the world of cocktails, maybe one day. A waft of lemon hits me from the dexterously crafted drinks ... maybe one day. I occasionally try to strike up a conversation with the barmen who are very accommodating, but the problem is, once I've uttered my sentence, my musician deafness kicks in and I can't hear their response, so I come across as a muttering, hapless, odd Brit who's not worth spending time with! Enjoy the solitude.

 
I ask the barman what the procedure is regarding tipping. I suppose I want to come across as "all cutesy, folksy, quaint, British tourist" whose politeness screams out "look after me, pour drinks down my neck"! He politely explains that I could open a credit account & tip at the end, or "pay & tip as you go". I opt for the former; it seems cleaner, quicker, & less stressful. Perhaps more importantly, it would allow me to forget how much I might be spending. I reach for my wallet only to find that I've left my credit card in my hotel safe in case I get kidnapped, held hostage, caught in cross-fire, or mugged on the 800 yard route from hotel to bar (the unworldly wise, neurotic tourist screwing with my head). I come across as a muttering, hapless, odd Brit who's not worth spending time with!

This whisky/beer combo is hitting the spot. Physiologically, which spot it's hitting I have no idea...but in the head it feels good. 

"I haven't eaten today so I'll have a pint of lunch.... the O'Hara's  Irish stout", my humour goes unnoticed. I should have added “my good man” to the end of the sentence in order to provide the complete “Lord of the Manor” experience... maybe next time.

O'Hara's Irish Stout (in a Guinness glass)

Lost Spirits Leviathan 1 Cabernet Wine Barrel. 53%abv *

The phrase "good pour" has entered my mental vocabulary. There are no "measures" in here, it's at the discretion, manual dexterity, and bonhomie of the barman. The Knob Creek was a good pour. The Leviathan was also a good pour. The advantage of a good pour is a longer, more pleasurable experience with a quality drink. The disadvantage occurs when the whiskey presses your "wrong" buttons! For me, the Leviathan was a slow starter of a whiskey that gradually began to impress.

My immediate opinion of the Leviathan is that it is a marriage made in a 7/11 store, a marriage of convenience, an adolescent underachiever. The Cabernet influence is in my face demanding my attention and I don't have the time, there's too much other stuff to take in. Now this doesn't make it a bad whiskey, in my experience there aren't many bad whiskies, there are whiskies that don't meet your requirements at that particular moment, whiskies that don't match your mood, or styles/flavours of whisky that you don't like. There are those that don't work well due to their proximity to the whiskey you've just had, and so on. There are also whiskies that you need to befriend, to spend time with and appreciate at your leisure, I'm thinking that the Leviathan fits into this category. This is definitely not a bad whiskey. (I realise that I normally taste whiskey in the safe confines of my tasting space, I need to get out more! I'm running the risk of becoming a whiskey technician with a limited understanding of the totality of the whiskey experience.)

On my left, I hear a young man explaining to his new girlfriend how there are many different kinds of whiskey...bourbon, rye, Tennessee, Kentucky.. Should I correct him? I think not (this is America and he's probably packing a piece!). I don't need to look at them to know that this is a new relationship. Their conversation fluctuates between "shallow" and "über shallow" and that's absolutely how it should be. I'm sure the whiskey will massage their confidence genes, allowing them to stumble out of the shallows and flirt with "depth" before confronting the big question that has been on their minds from the moment they met.

On my right I hear a Frenchman trying to impress a Japanese woman....the conversation seems to have moved on to how you stuff geese (a "foie gras" moment if you will)! I can't wait to get home and try it out (not). It's also a new relationship........he's now talking about his mother.

A couple of minutes later, two young men (to my left) ask for tequila shots, I think the barman indicates that he doesn't have what they want, and offers them a whisky alternative. They agree, he suggests one or two possible whiskey options, they choose and agree, he double checks their choice, they agree, he comes back and asks them for $86 ...they are shocked, shamefaced, and shit themselves...they disagree...he is polite, he takes the drinks back and brings them two shots of bottom of the range, hang your head in shame, adolescent shot, puke in two hours liquor....they are happy.

It's been a while since I've turned around. I've not eaten for 18 hours, I'm jet-lagged, the adrenalin of the day has eaten into my reserves. Focusing on the bar and drink in front of me provides a much needed anchor.  Everything seems stable when I've only got two things to focus on. Fuck me, this Leviathan is starting to taste good, perhaps that's the secret of whiskey drinking...perseverance, it will all taste good in the end.

I'm walking back to the hotel. I'm smiling, LA seems somehow safer. A great bar, top quality whiskies, and great bar staff.

* I can't remember what cask Leviathan I was drinking (I think it was Cask 3). If you get the chance, try it!

(c) Alcock 2013

Girvan 1964-2012 48yo (49.4% abv)

The time....1964, I was six years old, one year into infant school, and in a world where everything was big! At some point in that year, in Girvan, a million miles away, a world away from my classroom, away from Miss Tivenan (my "big" red-curly haired, scary teacher), away from the from the vast playing fields that surrounded us, away from my Dad's huge arms as he collected me from school, 

.....away from the sweet shops with their mammoth collections of jars containing Rhubarb & Custards, Barratts shrimps, Sweet tobacco, white mice, Refreshers and  gobstoppers that did just that ...stopped your gob, 

.....away from the two huge breweries that dominated our town with their weekly eruptions of malt/hop aromas... 

.....the foundations of something big were being introduced to their home for the next 48 years.....

 The Whisky Agency and The Whisky Exchange captured this dram and have delivered 487 bottles of dramlusciousness.

Nose: None of the seductive elusiveness that I've come to associate with grain whiskies. For me, much of the reward of grains lies in the delightful struggle to unlock their secrets - there's none of that here! Big sherry, bold fruits, jumbo raisins, ballsy bananas, all softened with a leathery sweet mustiness. There's oak in there but it's as though the cask has adopted a light touch, cradling, nurturing, allowing the liquid to evolve, to assert itself, to become......big. 

Palate: Fuck me that's gorgeous! An initial fire slowly fades to a warming, languorous, smoulder. The fruits remain but other "hidden delights" begin to emerge. There's orange and mint, and a "rum like" element (but rum this is most definitely not). Dark "bonfire" treacle with hints of lighter caramel, a spiciness that, as you might expect, softens a little with the addition of a few drops of water...it’s a swirling, Jackson Pollock of a whisky. 

Finish: Long, spicy...this dram was 48 years in the making and, if I'm not careful, 48 hours in the drinking.

Overall impression: What can I say? I love it. If there are any “grain snobs” out there, stay out there! The less people that are in the know, the more there is for us. Seriously, if you can, treat yourself. It works out at just over £5 a shot...that can’t be bad can it?

Available at http://www.thewhiskyexchange.com/P-18820.aspx

Bells blend......

There are no tasting toes to accompany this entry. This is not about the taste, it is about the experience. The experience in question was the evening of my mother’s death in October last year, and the dram that I shared with my Dad in the quiet bungalow he and my mum had shared for the last 15 years of her life. They had spent the first 45 years of their married lives in the house where I had been born, a small, semi-detached house - tiny kitchen (3m x 2m), front and back room, tiny bathroom, one double bedroom, one single bedroom and a box room masquerading as a third bedroom - home to six of us. At that time it represented a monumental step up in fortune and standard of living although I wasn't aware of that at the time. Both my parents were from poor, working class roots (houses with outside toilets, no heating or hot running water), and the move to the semi was a significant one on a number of levels. 

Having spent many happy years there, the decision to move was not one that was taken lightly. In many ways it was prompted by a perceived decline in the quality of the neighbourhood, and a recognition that, with "older" age approaching and my dad's knees not being what they were, a move could provide a more suitable environment in which to enjoy their twilight years. So it was with much enthusiasm (on my mother’s part), and a high level of anxiety and uncertainty (on my dad's part), that they moved to the bungalow where my Dad now lives.

Mum's death was fairly unexpected. The illness leading up to it and the associated complications that finally took her from us, lasted about 6 weeks in all. That period had involved a number of hospital admissions, time in a council assessment home, visits to the GP, and minor alterations to the bungalow to accommodate her failing health. The merciless thread woven into the experience was the pain that she was in, a pain that didn't respond to any treatment that was fired at it, a pain that wracked her body, contorted her movement, a pain so consuming that her vocabulary during that time consisted of wincing groans interspersed with increasingly fleeting moments of lucidity and connection with those around her.

The day and evening of her passing were relatively quiet save for the normal hospital hubbub. Mum's two remaining sisters and respective husbands spent some time with her, my two sisters, their husbands, the grandchildren and myself were there for most of the day. It was clear to us that mum was not long for this world but the dilemma arose as the evening wore on - should we stay, not knowing how long she would hang on for, or should we go home and get some sleep in order to gather strength for what could be another long day? On the doctors and nurses advice we took the latter choice on the proviso that, if there was a marked deterioration, we would be called back immediately. No more than 10 minutes after arriving home the phone rang and we rushed back to the hospital (a journey of no more than 15 minutes) only to find that mum had died. 

Extract from book. Her eyes surrendered two weeks before, finally, her pious body broke, and her spirit rose through ghosted sheets, through the wrought fabric of the flimsy hospital room, down corridors filled with  "worker bee" nurses, through the potent cocktail of anguish and hope, the banal tedium of bedpans and drugs, past x-rays and "why now's?", up through the not so fab, prefab shell and into.... air....deep, crisp, clean, late evening autumnal air.....Hello God, nice to meet you after all this time". 

That she died in the presence of strangers was not an issue. To all intents and purposes she had been oblivious to her surroundings for some time. Indeed, in some ways it would have been more distressing to hear her last stertorous breaths as she finally left this world. Tears were shed, goodbyes were uttered, and Dad spent some time alone with the woman who had been his “constant” for more than 60 years.

We returned home, my sisters, their families, my Dad and I, to the bungalow that was now home for one. We talked, we were silent, we smiled, we cried, we uttered the full complement of clichés that are somehow married to discussions of loved ones recently divorced from this world, ("she was at peace in the end", "her suffering is over now", etc), we began to use the word "was" in relation to my mum. 

When a heavy silence descended on the house, after the rest of the family had left, my Dad poured two glasses of Bells Whisky. To his own glass he added copious amounts of lemonade (I remember cracking a slight smile), my own glass remained free of any contaminants. Now Bells blend is not one of my "go to" drams. Indeed, it is not a whisky that I have ever purchased. This isn't due to any inbuilt whisky snobbishness; it is simply that there are so many other drams that I prefer. This wasn't about the whisky itself, but it was about sharing a whisky with my dad at a moment that represented something greater than the sum of its parts; two men sharing a dram, a father and son trying to make some sense of a series of moments, scratching around and failing to discover, meaningful, insightful, things to say. It was as if simply hearing each other’s voices, filling the air with the noises of life, was enough to puncture holes in the powerful, pregnant silence. A couple of drams, a temporary softening of the acute sense of loss, a subtle shift into a contemplation of things beyond the immediate  - to memories of my mum as she was. Perhaps the seeds of coping were being sown at that very moment. 

 

Goodnight mum.....