Kindness

The nurses at St. Thomas’ took good care of me and cleaned me up. Moments after my feet hit the pavement a stranger kindly gave me a polo shirt to put on, and later that day I picked up a pair of standard issue black pumps whilst at Southwark police station. These, together with the jeans I escaped with, would be my worldly possessions. After the fire, the pub cook let me camp on her floor for a month or so, a lovely lady full of east end life and a heart the size of a bowling ball. She was a mother to me whilst I was in London.

There were a few weeks to go before the end of the summer term, and the end of my degree. Everything rested on a final project that had gone up in the fire. I’d have to start again. The university gave me the summer break to put it together. A good friend, MD, gave me an old drawing board of his so that I could get back to work. AK loaned me her boyfriend’s apartment to work in over the summer whilst he was out of the country. JH provided some company and even pitched in with my drawings. This amazing show of kindness came together like a wind behind me. I did my bit too, and I graduated alongside everybody else that year.

The days after the fire, walking about with nothing but the clothes I wore… without so much as a piece of paper with my name on it, those were strange days. It was a long time before I went back to ‘owning things’ again… but I still don’t care about ‘stuff’ like I used to. I’ve lost sentimentality.

The landlords cried; they blamed themselves for cutting corners: no fire alarms or means of escape; the bars on the windows; the drunk and unconscious bar manager that had slept in the bar whilst the events of that morning unfolded; the loss of somebody’s precious daughter. The bar, ironically, had escaped the fire. The arsonist had posted his petrol bomb through the side door and the fire wound its way up the three flights of staircase in search of fresh oxygen, tearing through the accommodation. The arsonist was later identified from camera footage purchasing the fuel from a near by petrol station. He and his accomplice stood trial and served a few years. The pub was refurbished but never really recovered, and I believe it now stands empty.

I graduated into the recession of the early 1990’s and after several hundred rejection letters from sympathetic architectural offices I took up a couple of jobs at local retail stores. So many people did little and big things to help me get a foothold after the fire. “I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel” Maya Angelou. Well, I remember it all and I’ll never forget your kindness.

White Noise

On Wednesday night we had dinner and drinks with friends over at their place. I’ve not been taking Fluoxetine for that long so I’m still trying to figure out how it gets on with alcohol. Experiences with other antidepressants have been enough to put me off alcohol for many years now. Every now and again I take a chance and have a few drinks but it leaves me regretting the decision for several days afterwards as my mood plummets.

On our recent trip to London we had generous quantities of rosé with our meals without any unpleasant consequences. I was amazed. I used to say a house without wine is not a home, and the fridge usually had a bottle of champagne in it. Don’t misunderstand, I’m not suggesting I had a trust fund to dispense with at the local wine merchants. But it is fair to say that a significant portion of my student loan whilst studying architecture went towards supporting my friend, Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin. I think much of the rest fed the pool tables of south east London.

In conversation over dinner that night Alicia mentioned the fire. It’s been in and out of my mind since then. I used to live on the Old Kent Road… a road well known to players of Monopoly, the cheapest property on the board, and the training ground of boxer, Sir Henry Cooper. A man who was robbed of his chance to take down an unsuspecting Cassius Clay with his trademark left hook. How different history might have been if that day, Cassis hadn’t had his fall broken by the ropes, or his corner man hadn’t illegally treated him with smelling salts, or ripped his gloves to buy him recovery time.

It was a busy place to live, an artery into Central London, home to dubious night clubs hosting the occasional shooting, public houses with security, and side streets rife with petty theft. I had a room above a well known public house. A small room on the top floor, made smaller by the folding of the pitched roof and the intrusion of a set of wooden steps that led up to the tiny window, providing a primitive means of escape onto a small parapet wall four floors above the pavement. It was a place to sleep and a place to draw, all I really needed whilst I studied in London. That and clubs. Looking for student digs in London was a minor nightmare, made worse by the need to accommodate an A0 drawing board on a stand, something of an awkward room mate and travel companion.

One night I fell asleep like any other night, only unusually the black and white portable TV was switched on playing the soothing sounds of white noise to mark the end of the evening’s transmission. That exceptional circumstance would save my life. As the first broadcasts of breakfast television broke the early morning silence, I’d look up and see the black threads of smoke rising from behind the screen. What followed was my confused and sleepy attempts to make sense of what was happening. Not the TV, the bottom of the door, that is where the smoke was coming from. I opened the bedroom door and filled with fear from the confusion. Where was the window off the landing? It wasn’t there, nothing was there. It took a moment to understand what I was looking at. A new, live wall of impenetrable black smoke.

I flung the door closed… and shouted ‘fire’ as they do in the movies. My thoughts turned to the others in the building, friends. I opened the door again… I’d never seen anything like it. There was nothing but dense smoke, visibility zero. I could taste it. I couldn’t make it out there.

I had just enough time to put my jeans on, but that’s all. The smoked had filled the bedroom… and those funny little steps… that I used as a bookshelf… those funny little wooden steps that invaded my floor space and no other… provided a route onto that small parapet wall. I was terrified of heights, ordinarily. It didn’t seem to matter that day. I ran along the ledge to see what had happened to P, I called out for him and leaned round the corner of the building… and there he was… clinging to his third floor window frame with his big hands and just enough room for his toes on the ledge. And his first words “are you alright Med?” In the other direction M, I moved to his window and banged on the glass… my fist broke through. I remember at that moment worrying that the landlord would be angry at the broken window, I guess I hadn’t quite realised how serious the situation was. He woke and joined me on the parapet wall. Below people could hear us shouting for help. I shouted. I shouted as loud as I could… I realised afterwards that others mistook this for panic… I looked like I might have jumped… but I wanted to be heard. C was on the other side of the building, and her window had bars… how do you get other people to understand that in a hurry… I shouted.

When the fire crews arrived the frustration just grew. They refused to go in and look for her, insisting on getting us down first. I understand that… I don’t blame them at all… but I can’t help wondering if it could have turned out differently.

At St. Thomas’s Hospital, and at Southwark police station… I asked over and over if she made it. I should have guessed that what they weren’t telling me - told me everything I needed to know.

I look at that wall of smoke and wonder why I didn’t have the courage to go and get her. I wonder how different things could have been. I know people will say all sorts of things to reassure me, and they have… but I was the only one there. Nobody can know what I know. We all have things we have to live with.

Black is White

I was wondering if any of you fellow bloggers have any had any experience of 5-HTP (5-Hydroxytryptophan also known as oxitriptan). I read a newspaper article the other day where the author mentioned that this amino acid is sold over the counter as a dietary supplement, used to treat depression. She claimed it was nature’s antidepressant; that it raised levels of serotonin without the need for antidepressants. So I was surprised I had never heard of it before and decided to take a closer look.

“5-HTP is derived from an African plant called griffonia, and has been called 'nature's Prozac', because it works on the brain to boost serotonin, though without the side effects."

Stephanie Merritt, The Observer.

I find that you can use Google searches to find evidence to pretty much prove or disprove anything. I can type in 5-HTP miracle cure I’m led to personal testimonials on health and holistic remedy web sites, all very interesting. Alternatively, if I search 5-HTP myth, I learn about warnings, concern and bad science. Still interesting.

I’ve used this to great effect when my son was born. Alicia and I liked the name Xavier, and so we went for it… knowing that my parents were quite keen (understatement) on Islamic names. I think my mother’s main concern was that if we were to call our son John or something like that, she wouldn’t know what to say to the rest of the family. Oh just think of it! So to put her at ease I Googled Xavier, Islam and hey presto… up popped a website linking the two. Press print. Present the hard copy to my mother and disaster averted. Pathetic on my part, I know… but sometimes a quite life is all I ask. Funny thing was, when we sat opposite my parents and told them for the first time he’d be called Xavier, my mother almost burst into tears and my father unleashed an enormous grin on us. At first I though we had won 50% of the vote, but then my dad elbowed my mother boisterously and said “come on, don’t wind your mother up, what are you really going to call him?” It was a moment scripted for sitcom. Only it really did happen. And it felt a whole heap longer than a moment.

Anyway, on this occasion I am none the wiser. So I’m not going to waste anyone’s time by going into the scientific arguments for and against 5-HTP working on depression here. It would seem that there is a real lack of quality study on this so basically, the jury is out, or maybe the jury hasn’t even heard the case yet.

What I’m left with, in the absence of science… it a bit of good old gossip. So, have you had any experiences with this supplement? For the record, I do not use 5-HTP and I’m led to believe I should avoid it if taking an SSRI antidepressant. So there you go.

Have You Got a Minute?

I hate to put you on the spot by asking… and I don’t want to scare you away… but I just wanted to ask why? I have to admit that I like the conversation… and just talking is only half the pleasure. I like to know what you think… even if you think it is all a load of bollocks. Not what you think… that is too vague. Your opinion. No, that is too vague too. You could easily mistake that word for meaning critique. I don’t mean that. I mean… when I write it’s only about life from my perspective and I don’t really know what it’s like to be you. And I end up wondering if it is the same, or different, and different how? That’s the bit of the conversation I want to get at.

I’m rubbish at small talk. Yesterday I was painting a porch and I don’t know why… but so many people kept stopping and chatting with me… beaming smiles and complimenting me on the work. It was nice. It felt good. But as I say, I’m rubbish at small talk and I always try and wrap things up really quickly. I just have no idea about it. I envy all you out there that can just chat away to the person at the bus stop or the lady at the checkout. I often think of something amusing to say to people at checkouts… but then I play it out in my head. They will laugh, and then I won’t have any small talk to follow up, so then we will stop talking, abruptly. And it will be awkward. So most times I back out of striking up conversation.

So here I am, chatting away here like I never ever do. And you are there. And I am here. And you are quiet. So I just wanted to ask you why?