Basia Unleashed

Out of the horror (said in a Marlon Brando Apocalypsey way) that was working for DeathStar there came a light and I was lucky enough to have that light as a friend. My most potent memories of her are from London, for that’s where I decamped to after DeathStar, back to the world of tellyvision where my talents were appreciated and allowed to blossom, and are thus: gin, wine, vodka, a Spanish restaurant in Canary Wharf, Pimms in Greenwich, feeeling queasy on that really high footbridge over Royal Victoria Dock, Hamilton making medicinal peppermint teas, gin, wine, vodka, my big birthday bash in Hampstead (and the next morning when horribly hungover having to endure the arrival of a birthday card from my ex and his wife), gin, wine, vodka and shopping for shoes.

There is of course, much more to it than that but this is a time for celebration, for celebrating the fact that my beautiful friend is getting married to a lovely Anthony Head-alike, will complete her PhD and move to Cork for the start of another wonderful chapter in the life of a wonderful person.

Sometimes I still can’t believe my luck that I have friend like you. When I had nothing and you had even less, you still gave me what you had, no conditions attached. I owe you more than that, I owe you so much more. I wish I had been in the right hemisphere to have seen you doing a Riverdance with your knickers on your head; I wish I had been in the right hemisphere to have witnessed the return of the hangover-ridden nosferatu creature known as ‘the murderer’ (still at large in east London, I believe!), but most of all, I wish that I could be in the right hemisphere to see you on the happiest day of your life.

I miss your sense of calm, your gentle spirit, your razor sharp tongue and your unconditional love. Most of all, I miss you. This is for you, Bronagh, this is my gift to you on your wedding day.

Posted by Basia at 2:26 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Apologies for those who think I am speaking in tongues here, but some of you will know exactly what I mean and who I am talking about. I heard something about someone yesterday that really, absolutely 100% confirmed what I already knew and what I didn’t want to admit to. This person makes my heart fly like no other - and always has - and on more than one occasion my feelings were reciprocated. This person also makes me sad like no other, but I only have myself to blame for that.

Love is a stranger
In an open car
To tempt you in
And drive you far away

So now I find myself wondering about it all, because of what went down yesterday. Because now I can see clearly the parallel lines our lives really are (or should I say now I finally admit). This is the point I bow out gracefully and try not to hear a special message in every song on the radio. This is the moment where I act the adult I am supposed to be but inside I can still dream of all the flickering moments of pleasure, of all the maybes and what ifs - and what remains can still be the place where all my thoughts go hiding.

What happens next is anyone’s guess but I know the outcome and this is how it will play out: I will say nothing, I will never say anything and I will continue to pretend that everything is the same as it ever was (after all, he is me as a boy) and whenever I see his face I will, as I have always done, think, “you’re a song written by the hands of God”.

Posted by Basia at 2:13 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Last night in Sydney, the sky was particularly clear and for all the light interference of a big city, the southern sky was remarkable. There is something special about the southern sky, something bigger and wider and more infinite than its northern counterpart could ever hope to produce. It reminded me of Margaret River, of surfie glass blowing Gary and his hillbilly Hilton house in the bush, where I played chicken with a kangaroo the size of Tana Umaga (guess who won that one?) and lay out half the night on the trampoline in the yard just watching the heavens in all their glory. That was an amazing place to live - there was zero light interference, there was a skink under the porch who thrashed around a lot when beer got spilled, and the bathroom walls were made of glass. Comments like “Guys, I am going for a shower now, stay HERE!” always made me wonder - did they?

The Margaret River and the surrounding part of western Australia is a special place. One night in a pub, with my vat of beer, I bet on a dog race purely because the dog, Sheza Worry, had a pink coat on. She won. The bar was full of men peculiar to out of the way places in Australia, the kind of throwbacks who went to establishments that banned women and their carb-lite beers and white wine spritzers and even though times had changed and there were women drinking wine, it was one of the best atmospheres I had encountered. Maybe it’s the Irish in me, but I prefer unfashionable pubs with grumpy old men who always come around in the end and have a laugh. You can make friends in places like that. Anyway, Sheza Worry’s pub had this poster on the wall, a 1950s-inspired image of a clean cut man tipping a bottle of beer to his lips. And it said: Beer - because every man needs a hobby.

I have hunted high and low for that poster ever since. If you know where I can get one, email me…

Posted by Basia at 1:57 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)