Low lights

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Haha! Love that the title of my last post applies to both spring and me. I don’t know what it’s been like where you are, but here in the UK we’ve had an abnormally cold and wet spring, with the occasional warm day to confuse us even more. So these pictures from March actually still feel relevant. One Tuesday evening I met with my old magazine crew (not pictured - my old boss) at the Holy Tavern pub in Clerkenwell.

I’m not sure if they’ve always done this, but this winter they had “Candlelit Tuesdays”, as a lot of pubs have done (to deal with the insanely expensive energy bills).

It makes it incredibly cosy, and gives you a bit of a flavour of what hanging out in pubs pre-electricity might have been like. This particular pub is faux-Georgian, in a real Georgian building from 1720, but re-decorated in a Georgian style.

Of course we ate better than they would’ve in those days.

Even though some of us might have fitted in table manner-wise.

A and I used to sit next to each other at work some 20 odd years ago, (when we were kids basically) and we’d always make each other laugh, occasionally singing (more often than not this) and dancing, but on the hush. A knew the whole Janet Jackson Rhythm Nation dance routine, and I would answer with my Michael Jackson face in the Thriller video, when the camera pans round to show him having turned into a zombie, with the following shoulder shrug, sideways hip thrust and claw hands (starting at 0:44). I need to see her do that routine again, for old times sake. I’ve had the (not) joy of having a frozen shoulder since December, so I feel jealous of anyone able to to a shoulder shrug right now.

We’re off to Amsterdam again in a couple of weeks time, and that trip has been my dangling carrot this whole winter. It always felt a long way away, and now we’re in the middle of May, and almost there.

When we met up a couple of days ago D was still wearing the same hat. So come on spring, make your mind up, and don’t pass on your moodiness to summer this year. That would just be too mean.

A Sunday morning walk in Stockholm

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We stayed in the Kungsholmen neighbourhood, and one morning me and mum went out for a walk along Norr Mälarstrand, in the sun, which I think was only out twice the whole time we were there. I spotted this lady resting in her boat, and had to get closer.

Oh wow, she really had it worked out. An old record player playing I can’t remember what, coffee, not just in a thermos but with an actual cup, and is that a toaster I see below it? Impressive.

Ahh, just looking at these pictures is a sight for my sore eyes. I’m so over this winter; it’s been incredibly long, cold and weird, but spring will come one day, and hopefully the sun too.

A dog on a bench is always funny.

And a dead rat maybe less so. We couldn’t see that it had been injured or killed, so maybe it just died of old age, a bit too publicly.

Concertina building.

We made sure we captured the autumn colours.

Some people really know how to make the best of Sundays, don’t they? I need to master that.

I saw a couple of people swim, and as usual I hadn’t packed my bathing suit. When will I learn?! My friend M (my Swedish cold water swimming buddy) moved back to Stockholm last summer, and has kept up with it. It doesn’t seem like it’s as popular there as it is here, but maybe that’s to do with it being a lot colder there in winter. She’s sent me beautiful footage and pictures from her new swimming spot, and in one of the pictures she’s hacked herself a hole in the ice, by the ladder going into the water. She’s got a massive smile on her face and there’s just enough space for her to stay holding on to the ladder, with solid ice all around her. If that’s not a Viking I don’t know what is.

A little summation of sorts

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The 12 or so days that I spent in Stockholm for my godfather’s funeral and the subsequent logistics that had to be organised post-funeral, were actually rather good. My sister A flew in from LA, my mum from the south of France and me from London, all of us landing within an hour of each other. I remember seeing the moon while I queued at passport control; it was unbelievably huge and the sky a perfect gradient of colours, and it felt like Lasse had somehow commandeered the sky for it to be that beautiful at that very moment. Like a sign saying “Don’t worry, it’ll all work out.”. And you know, it really did. We experienced what felt like being in flow for the whole time we were there. Everything did just seem to work out. It was both little and big things that happened that made what could’ve been a really hard time relatively smooth. The car that my sis had rented wasn’t available, so we got an upgrade instead. Mum’s best friend, who was away for the time we were there, offered us her flat for us to stay in (what timing!), and there was a parking spot just outside the apartment block when we arrived (and almost every time we came back from somewhere). Or like texting my cousin at 7am the same morning as the funeral (I’d forgotten to let her know in the midst of it all what had happened - she’d grown up knowing him too), sending the details, in case she could make it. She could, as her office was only a 20 min drive away. Or how quickly I found a lawyer to deal with the will, and how she made everything that felt overwhelming a much easier thing to go through. Or how, after dinner at my other cousin’s place on the opposite side of town, the only local bus you could take, went all the way to the bus stop right by the flat we were staying in. Or how, when out on a walk with my mum, we bumped into the son-in-law of her friend who’s flat we were staying in, which resulted in us being invited over for lovely dinner with her friend’s daughter and grandchildren. We didn’t force anything, and just simply let each day take its own shape, and let ourselves be guided by what had to be done, keeping an open mind to whatever arose. We kept saying that Lasse was somehow giving us a helping hand, making it all easier, when it could’ve been the worst of times.

I hadn’t really cried until we went round to Lasse’s flat to try and make a start on tidying things up a bit. When we entered the scent of the it was exactly the same as when he lived there, and that’s when it really hit me. He was never coming back.

We found his jacket that he used to wear all the time, still holding the shape of his body within, even though he hadn’t worn it for years. As much as we hoped that it would fit one of us, it was simply too big. My dad has it now, as a memento.

On the day we saw him, while we were talking, it came up that he was asked if there was something he really fancied having, as a treat, just days before he died. He asked for an ice cream sandwich. So after our hour with him was up, we thought we’d buy some and give him a farewell toast in Kungsträdgården, the park in which we had spent endless hours with him when we all were younger. Here we are saying “Skål Lasse!” as we did so, although my sister H had to forgo the dairy with a hot drink instead. It felt right to do something so funny/eccentric, as it was so like him. I think I’ll go and do the same every time I go back to Stockholm. A little personal hello and a sweet moment of remembrance.

We also laughed when we realised that the day we’d gone to see him was Halloween. He would’ve loved to have known that.

I think it’s quite common that at the time when someone dies, you look for signs or imbue meaning in things, to feel that that person is still with you. When we arrived at the cemetery for the funeral there were two moose in the field next door, munching away, without a care in the world. I have NEVER seen wild moose in my life. What were the odds of seeing them just then and there? Surely this was the work of Lasse again?!

The burial itself was slightly surreal. We women had to stay behind for the whole ceremony as the imam and the men present said the funeral prayers. My dad had organised it all through his local mosque, and had also bussed in friends from around Stockholm for a proper send off. I thought it wonderful that my white Swedish godfather’s funeral was so multi-cultural, which really reflected on him and his life. He travelled extensively in Africa and Asia in the 60’s, so it made sense that this was how he was laid to rest.

As a result of the funeral I got to see and properly hang out with my mum, who I hadn't seen since 2019. No offence to my husband or son, but to just be a daughter/sister this time, and have time on my own with my family felt so special. Also, the last day, before the three of us who live elsewhere left, we realised that it was Lasse’s birthday. We picked up dad on the way and drove out to Lasse’s grave to sing him Happy Birthday, and that evening we went out for dinner, just me, mum, dad and my sister A. We realised that it was the first time we’d all sat down together for a meal, just the four of us, since my parents divorce in 1988. See? Another little helpful nudge 😉

I’ll never forget those two weeks, which in despite of everything, felt like a gift. In fact I know it was. Tack Guffar.