Three years a wife. Four years a widow.

It struck me this week that I've been widowed longer than I was married. That's a bitter pill to swallow, but swallow it I must. I will always wish things had worked out differently for me. And for poor T. Especially for T. But this is my lot and I have to suck it up. I've said it before but I'll say it again; I wish T could come back now. He's been gone for long enough. I've endured a lot. It would be so nice if he could reappear and we could pick up where we left off, which would admittedly take time given the person I now am, but it would also be the best thing in the world. I just know it. But it can never happen. I can never see T again. Sometimes that hits me hard too. Even now.

But I know he'd be proud of me and where I've got to. I'm in a good place. I'm happy at work (dare I say it, although they recently offered me a permanent contract which made me baulk a bit!). I'm loving my Pilates and recently went on a Pilates retreat to Majorca. Yes, on my own. I loved every second of it. I'm also trying to get my head around having a new kitchen fitted - I'm getting a bit fed up of going to visit friends in mansions/houses they've built/places they've done up while I live in the same surroundings I've lived in for the past nine years; same second hand sofas, same cheapest Ikea furniture. But I need to bite the bullet and make some changes. On my own. That bit sucks. But again, it's my lot. Bugger all anyone can do about it. I can wallow and moan and groan. Or I can get on with living, which is what I always try to do.

Speaking of which, another mantra of mine is to live in the moment and not waste valuable time and energy worrying about things that may never happen. I try really hard at this but it's not always easy. Here's an example: I wanted to book time off over Christmas but when I checked the holiday calendar at work I discovered that the world and his wife had already booked those days off. I suspected therefore that my holiday request would be refused. I agonised about having this discussion with work for weeks. Weeks. Then I plucked up the courage to put my holiday request in and it was approved. Just like that. Pah!

4

Here we are; four years on. Time passed so slowly in the beginning. I didn't know how I'd get to tomorrow, nevermind next week, and next year was beyond the realms of comprehension. But here we are at four. And the first one I'll spend in the home we shared.

This time of year will always be hard. All the difficult, 'four years ago today' memories (which, right now would probably have had T Egyptian dancing across the hall while I was trying to blowdry my hair. Not something he'd ever done before in my presence, but something that made me laugh. And it's so important that that last memory is a happy, crazy one.).

I still think of T multiple times every single day. And miss him. And love him. And wish with every single ounce of me that he was still here. I still sometimes think I've seen T at the train station, in the supermarket, on the street - it's weird and kind of hard to explain. It's like an instinct thing I guess; when you're so used to seeking that familiar face out of crowds, it becomes a habit that's hard to kick. It's like my eyes react before my brain has had the chance to correct them. Then the other day I caught myself wondering if we'd moved to NYC, as T was rooting (apologies for the use of that word, Antipodeans) for at one point, whether T might still be here today. Like Sliding Doors. Except I'll never know how that parallel life might have worked out. Which is probably just as well.

While I think of him daily, I rarely dream of T. Unfortunately. I'd like him to star in my dreams more often. When I do, it tends to always be along the same lines of him coming back from somewhere. As a slight aside, I've been watching the brilliant and compelling first series of The Returned on Channel 4, which finished last night. It's about people who come back from the dead, but in a very real way. (Well, as real as that can ever be, and it gets much less real as the series progresses, but they're tangible.) That made me wonder what it would be like if T came back. Which is just crazy thinking, but interesting too.

It hasn't happened quite yet, but one thing about The Returned is that the dead came back at the age they were when they died. Which made me think that I'll always have photos of a 33-year old man up in my house. Even when I'm 90. T will never age. Like that other movie, whose name escapes me... Oh yeah: Forever Young :-)

The suddenness of T's death will always be difficult for me to accept. No warning, no time to prepare. One day there we were, living a normal (very much in inverted commas) life, the next T is lying in a hospital bed on a life support machine. We spend one final and very precious night 'together' (again in inverted commas), then he's wheeled away to have his ventilator turned off. See, even writing that feels surreal. Back to that feeling I've described before of, 'that can't have actually happened to me'. I don't know how I could survive that happening to T. But the weird thing is, I did.

And so, four years on also means a time for me to reflect on where I am on my journey - 4AT. I feel more self-assured, more confident in many respects, definitely sweat less of the small stuff, tolerate less shit, am comfortable in my own company, spend more time and money on my appearance than ever before and both appreciate and really try to live life to my max. That's not to say I do crazy shit the whole time. Sometimes that means going to Pilates several times a week. Sometimes that means whipping up a mean poached egg brunch. Sometimes it means basking in the sun. I have an amazing lifestyle - one which I need to be more accepting and appreciative of. And I'm lucky enough to have amazingly supportive family and friends who are there for me come rain or shine and help to keep me on the straight and narrow.

4AT also sees me reading a novel in Italian. Granted I don't understand every word, but I understand enough to get the gist and keep me turning the pages. I'm super pleased with my progress in Italian - just need to keep it up now I'm not spending quite as much time there. Having said that, I'm off to Italy soon to see everyone, swim in the sea (CANNOT WAIT!!) and go to one of the food festivals - sagre - that we went to last year, where we're guaranteed to eat exceptionally well, get rather merry and dance the night away. (Chri always tells me I need to remember two words whenever I'm out drinking, in any language: non merci, no grazie, nein danke, no thanks, no gracias... He says when I touch the stars (I think that's his expression) I need to use those two words and maintain that happy point, not descend past it, as is my wont. This time, however, Massimo has arranged for us to stay in the village where the sagra is being held, so Chri tells me that this is the only time none of us have to remember the two words. I'll be packing the milk thistle!)

Seemingly small things are also significant when I look back on how far I've come in four years. I recently did a reading at one of my good school friend's weddings. Big deal. Except it is a big deal when I think back to how just going to a wedding on my own used to be a challenge in those early days. So this time, I not only went to a wedding quite happily without a date, but I tottered down the aisle in my stilettos and did a reading in front of 130 guests. Boom!

Of course, my life isn't always rosy and exciting. I have chores and mundanity the same as the next person and the lows this year have been challenging to say the least, but I'm trying super hard to live in the moment and enjoy life and the various curveballs it throws at you. I recently read a great little book that I'd highly recommend, called 'Man's Search for Meaning' by Viktor Frankl. I like this quote, written in the Preface by Gordon W Allport:

"... to live is to suffer, to survive is to find meaning in the suffering. If there is a purpose in life at all, there must be a purpose in suffering and in dying. But no man can tell another what this purpose is. Each must find out for himself, and must accept the responsibility that his answer prescribes. If he succeeds he will grow in spite of all indignities."

That resonates with me at 4AT. Especially the growth bit.

RIP my gorgeous boy. I dedicate this post, and my life, to you.

And belatedly, part two...

After the hens' lunch we headed back to the farm and chilled out in the sunshine before a few of us set about filling jam jars with flowers. It was so nice getting to know close friends and family of the bride and groom and to be part of the preparations. It was also really good to be back on the farm with my NZ family again - I think I've said before I'm convinced Laura and I are related through our Scottish ancestors.

Being back in this place reminded me once again how much I've moved on in the past three years. After T's death I can remember being told that things would gradually improve with the passing of time. That things wouldn't always be so bleak, so colourless. That meant nothing at the time. Now I can see how true that is. It's imperceptible really, until you have something to measure it against. The me that arrived in NZ three years' ago was a broken, fragile, bewildered me - still reeling. Still grieving. Less a shadow of my former self; more a different person altogether. It felt good coming back. Remembering the past, acknowledging the journey I'm on, looking to the future with a happier, lighter heart.

One of my new friends, a super lovely friend of Laura's called Katie, and I stayed with some super lovely neighbours that night; an Irish lady called Margaret and her husband Chris. We were made to feel so incredibly welcome and at home in their home. Sharing a bed with Katie just a few short hours after meeting her helped cement our friendship. We woke up on the morning of the wedding to a slightly hazy day that held the promise of hot sun to come. After a cooked breakfast with our hosts, Katie and I headed over to the farm to lend a hand with the preparations. We hung pom-poms in the sheep shed, arranged flowers, set tables - whatever was required to help make things less stressful for the bride and groom. I felt the burden of responsibility when Laura asked me to do a walk around as if I were her - checking for an out of place fork, a missing glass, a cardboard box poking out from under a tablecloth. Laura was calm and serene, as I'd expected she would be.

After a quick fashion show for Katie, it was decided that my black jump-suit was too avant-garde for a Kiwi wedding (lol!) so I settled on one of my favourite black dresses. There was barely time to do my make up and hair, grabbing some pastry-less quiche and wine with Margaret, before it was time to head back over to the farm for the ceremony. By then the sun was out and the farm was awash with guests, all there to help Laura, Steve and Rose celebrate their special day. There was a palpable buzz in the air. I was so pleased I'd flown half-way around the world to be there to join in the celebrations.

The ceremony was beautiful. The bride and wedding party looked gorgeous. The service, conducted by the most lovely padre (who I drunkenly christened Pedro), was lovely. The setting and weather were perfect. It was very special and very unique. After the ceremony we stood in the sunshine, drinking champagne and eating delicious canapés, including the most delicious macaroons. Later on the guests meandered through the trees towards the marquee overlooking the fields. Katie and I took a short cut to be there to shower the bride and groom in confetti as they arrived. We perched on logs in the warm sunshine, drinking more champagne, talking about the day, getting to know other guests, admiring how lovely everything was. It was picture perfect - like something you'd see featured in a magazine.

Dinner was delicious - hog and lamb roast with wonderful fresh, homemade-style salads; my kinda food. The wine was good. Obviously; most wine in NZ is. The speeches made me cry. I cried for Laura's brother, James, who died five years ago (today, in fact). I cried for Laura's family. I cried for T and for me. And I cried because it was these two facts combined that meant I was even at Laura's wedding. Despite the geographical distance, Laura and I definitely became closer as a result of that.

The compulsory dancing began after dinner. And I got compulsorily drunk, as is my wont at weddings. I even karaoked (thankfully with the mic stand, not the mic), which is also compulsory for me at weddings, despite knowing full well I can't sing. Wouldn't be a wedding without it though! Later in the evening Laura's brother and I discovered a stash of leftover champagne. Which we drank out of whatever glass we had in our hand when we staggered to the esky, which was sometimes a pint glass. Oh well. That's what weddings are for. Angus reckons his hangover lasted three days as a result. And he's just young. I smoked celebratory cigars with Pedro the padre, a glowstick (used to light the path to the portaloo) around my neck. Then a male guest changed into his mankini, as he'd promised he would. Persuading him to wait until 10pm to do so was one of the better things I did that night. Not sure all the guests would have approved of him doing so before the watershed, although I think both the bride and groom's mothers were pretty happy, even requesting a photo of the three of them together. All in all, it was a pretty awesome day. I was so happy to be part of it.

The next day I was meant to head back to Laura's house ready to catch a flight to Melbourne with Janelle. Instead I called Qantas at 5.30am on the Monday morning to change my flight so I could stay on in NZ for a couple of extra days. Then called them again a couple of days later and changed my flight again. Went on a roadtrip up the coast to Hawke's Bay, Napier and Gisborne. Learnt how to corner on the twisty NZ roads. Camped. Swam in the sea. Ate fish and chips on the beach, washed down by delicious Esk Valley wine. Ate Sunday lunch at a winery, under the shade of the olive trees, a seven-piece ukulele band playing. Got my nose pierced. It was all pretty amazing. Liberating, refreshing and fun. Something out of the ordinary. Totally unexpected. It felt like I was really and truly living in the moment. Finally! It also meant I got to hang out more with Laura and Rose. I sorted out a couple of her kitchen cupboards, got to know Rose a bit better. Helped them do a supermarket shop. Put the world to rights. It was all good.

Eventually, after 13 instead of 5 days in NZ, it was time for me to say my goodbyes and head to Australia. Again, it was a bit of a landmark moment being back in Melbourne. Back to the flat I'd helped Janelle move into three years ago. Walking the Tan every day. Having lunch beside the sea. The familiarity of Flinders Street station. Meeting up with Ben, who Tim and I met in Peru over 10 years ago, for a couple of indulgent sunny afternoon wines. Catching up over a delicious Mexican meal with my school friend, Chris, and his now wife, Genevieve. Everything was the same as it had been three years previous. But so very different. I think the same is true of Janelle too. And that makes me happy. We've both come a long way in three years. All for the better.

From Melbourne it was on to Singapore for what turned out to be a drunken haze of a weekend with Pam and Mick. There was champagne on Pam's terrace to celebrate the birth of her nephew. Frozen margaritas and a Mexican meal to celebrate her friend's birthday on Arab Street. Shisha and buckets of beer at a street cafe one balmy evening. More drinks with a very old family friend - I was bridesmaid at his sister's wedding when I was 9. He just happened to be in Singapore on business that weekend; it's a small world. A mani pedi. Of course. A rugby game - cheering Mick on as he played in the sweltering Singaporean heat. How, I don't know. Then a house party with very drunken rugby boys and WAGs and on to Club Street. A night that somehow involved a fight with an overly agressive bouncer (not me, I hasten to add), the police being called and me telling a very drunken boy about T as the only way to connect with him in his drunken fury. Then the aftermath. Waking up to Babybel wrappers and hangovers. Struggling through lunch in China Town. An afternoon of back-to-back dvds (and some sleeping during the very long, not overly riveting Lincoln) and McDonald's home delivery. I'd expect nothing less from a weekend with Pam!

On Monday I managed 100 lengths in the pool before meeting Pam after work and heading, in a torrential downpour, to a hawker centre to meet Mick for dinner. Then it was time for me to get a taxi back to the airport, yet another amazing trip to the southern hemisphere drawing to a close.

Coming back to the flat was hard. Partly because I'd just stepped off a long-haul overnight flight. Partly because the tenants had left the place in a mess. Partly because I was coming home after 8 amazing months away. Partly because it felt like going back in time, back to a previous life that didn't feel connected to my present life. Partly because it was winter and cold and grey and depressing. I literally burst into tears as I walked through the door. Didn't want to be there. At all.

Since then I've settled back into life in my flat. It's nice to have access to more than one suitcase's worth of stuff. It's nice to have a base and not feel like I'm constantly relying on generous friends' hospitality. Nice to be sleeping in the same bed for more than a few nights in a row. My bed. I've started, slowly, to clear shit out the loft. Shit that I've been hoarding for far too long. Two-people's worth of shit. It's not always easy, but it's necessary. I'm also working again. That bit's the easy bit. It's good having some routine, earning some money, having a distraction and some purpose. I'm doing pilates at least twice a week and absolutely love it. I'm going to give Bikram yoga a try too. I've discovered a nice independent coffee shop in my hood. Like hanging out there. I've bumped into a friend at the station after work and gone for an impromptu G&T. I've had Graeme to stay, and my Italian friend Luisella. I've caught up with London-based friends. People who always welcome me back into their lives with open arms, regardless of how long I've been away. That all helps.

A New Zealand wedding - part one

Well, I survived the long flights to get here, stopping for a couple of hours each in Singapore and Sydney. Sleeping tablets and Stugeron helped. A lot. Flights all went smoothly. Food was good. Film choice was disappointing (although I did watch a beautiful French film called The Intouchables that I'd highly recommend). Can't remember the company I had on two of the flights, which I guess is a good sign in some ways but on one flight I spoke a lot of Italian to a young Belgian girl who is more in love with Italy than me. Headphones became compulsory...

Coming into land at Wellington was actually quite emotional. I could have cried but didn't. I was in such a different place when I came here last. And I'm so proud to be in the place I am now. It was so nice seeing this beautiful country again from the air. And being in summer again. I was happy. After eventually clearing customs and immigration, I went straight to the ATM to get some dollars. Card didn't work. Tried another. Neither did that. Worked out that I had just under $20 to my name so headed out of the terminal to see if that would get me to remotely where I needed to be. Fortunately the shuttle man took pity on me and although I didn't have the full fare he let me hop on anyway. Love the Kiwis! He dropped me at my hotel (West Plaza on Wakefield Street for future reference - I have found that my blog has become a good way to keep track of travel tips) and I checked in, taking a much-needed shower. Resisting the urge to sleep, I made a call to my bank to get my card released. Despite my prolific travelling, I made the classic schoolgirl error of not telling my bank I'd be away in advance. The guy on the phone said, yes madam, unusual activity was noticed on your account. Your card has been used in three countries in 24-hours. Yes dude. Tell me about it! I then had a stroll along the waterfront, reminiscing about the last time I was here and soaking up the deliciously warm sunshine.

I took myself off to Floriditas on Cuba Street for dinner. It's a restaurant Laura took me to last time I was here and I remembered it being good. It didn't disappoint. I managed a main and a glass of red before I started to feel very sleepy and called it a night. I had a really good night's sleep all things considered although I woke up feeling very confused. I accepted the fact I was in a hotel room and knew that some friends were arriving that day but couldn't think where in the world I could be. It took me a while to piece it together - I'd just spent a day on three planes and I was back in NZ for lovely friend Laura's wedding. And my lovely friend Janelle was arriving from Melbourne later that day. I lay in bed feeling very happy indeed.

I passed the time in Wellington until Janelle and her friend Steph arrived to pick me up and we drove about 50 minutes north to Raumati, where Laura and Steve live. They had already left for Laura's parents' farm, where the wedding was going to be held so we had the place to ourselves. We treated ourselves to a coffee. Then a sharing platter and some wine. Then I had a swim. In the sea!!!! It was so amazing. Not necessarily the hottest nor deepest sea I've ever swam in but heaven to be swimming in any sea in February. Then we shared fish and chips and a bottle of wine on the seashore, watching the sun set over the south island in the distance. It was great!

On Friday we drove into the Manawatu to a small town called Feilding and had a small hen's lunch with Laura and her friends and female relatives. It was so good to see Laura again, and to meet her beautiful daughter Rose. One thing I've noticed about social media and the ultra-connected world we now live in, is that when you meet up with overseas friends you don't need to spend much time on the catching up bit as you're already caught up. You can literally pick up where you left off. It definitely didn't feel like three years had passed since I'd seen the girls. I guess that's the thing about good friends too. Time and distance don't matter quite so much.

Gotta go now. Will do the wedding write up soon!

The birds

The other day I had a stroll along the promenade at Nice just as the sun was setting. It was spectacular; I think sometimes winter sunsets are more impressive than summer sunsets. The evening skies recently have been a blaze of colour - the sun a fierce red fireball drifting either into the sea or behind a mountain. Once the sun had disappeared I continued my stroll but soon became completely and utterly transfixed by the sight of the Nice starlings flocking before going in to roost.

Of course I've seen this before - it happened daily in Perpignan - but it never fails to amaze me. Sat on a cold metal seat on the promenade I was completely mesmorised, unaware of my surroundings, lost in the incredible movements and patterns these birds were making. It was like watching an art installation, a live performance that was finely choreographed and breathtaking. Sometimes a breakaway group would form, and I was treated to not one but two displays. They would then regroup seamlessly, without collision and were as one again. Sometimes the sky was awash with swirling, hypnotic black. Sometimes the birds disappeared momentarily from sight as they turned on the wing, coming back into sight at speed, forming heart, cone, and kidney shapes in the evening sky.

I actually felt slightly exhausted at the end of it. Like the feeling you get when you come out of a particular intense theatre production. I resisted the urge to applaud, but inside I was giving these birds a standing ovation. Their perfomance made my day.