Author, editor, attempter of this thing called life. Social anxiety warrior. Re-Connections, a collection of short stories, published with Ocelot Press, 15/10/2025.
My UK-based Twitter followees are complaining about the current cold weather. It wasn’t like that when I was there….
***
It is particularly unpleasant to spend a festival alone. I was hoping it wouldn’t be so, but it is and I get through this, too.
I do enjoy my walk to Hengistbury Head and back, despite the weather, which goes: grey – rain – grey – rain – grey – rain – sun!
I also enjoy watching the last night of the Proms on TV. I haven’t seen that for many years.
For anyone who is still confused, I returned home from my holiday over two months ago. The present tense of this narrative is not supposed to imply that it takes place in the present time.
***
I have met several social anxiety sufferers over the years since discovering the disorder. Some are extremely quiet and reserved. Others are warm and bubbly; you wouldn’t know the problems that hide below the surface. P is somewhere in between. I meet him for the first time in his home town of Southampton and we spend most of the day together. He apologises for himself and for the town (which I’ve never visited before), but really he has nothing to apologise for and I enjoy my day out.
We visit an art gallery, which includes pictures of famous writers, and we walk along the remaining walls of the city. The walls are not quite as impressive as those of Jerusalem, or of Chester which I visited once, but, knowing nothing about the history of Southampton, I’m interested to see a little of it. We even spot the mayor of Southampton, by chance, talking in a shopping centre.
P is the only person I meet on my trip who thinks – or owns up to thinking – that I have a foreign accent. Crikey! I know I’ve been out of the country for a long time, but still….
I can do this. A week on my own is manageable. Any more and I’d go crazy. How do people do it?
I spend a whole day in and out of shops, first in Boscombe and then in Bournemouth. After finally finding two tops that I like, I don’t want to visit another shop. I’ll do without the other clothes I wanted. I buy a 99 and consume it in the Bournemouth Gardens, while watching the world go by. Then I walk back by the sea.
In the evening, I do some writing. It’s good to get back to it.
The trouble with blogs is that you can’t say everything in them, and there isn’t a lot I can tell you about the two-and-a-bit days I spent at Gill’s house. We had a lovely day out at Chatsworth House, and we spent a pleasant day just chatting.
I left full of admiration for Gill and Jane, who have been though tough times and handled them with discretion and confidence.
There was plenty for me to think about on the four-hour ride to Bournemouth, but not much of it was about school, despite the fact that this was the connection between all of us. On arrival, I collected the keys to my mother’s flat from the estate agent (is anyone looking for a flat in Bournemouth?) and prepared to spend a whole week on my own. Well, mostly on my own.
Even I have happy memories of my childhood and this is one of them:
This post was inspired by fairyhedgehog.
Normal service will be resumed tomorrow. Hopefully.
The day starts at Portabello Road market, where M2’s daughter is selling articles for charity as part of her course. I buy a present for my daughter there. M2 and I then wander through the market and I make another purchase, once I know what to ask for.
You see, when you leave your home country and go to live elsewhere, your native language changes without you knowing it. And the thing I want to buy, which I know as “tights” turns out to be “leggings”. Fortunately, I’m not caught out asking for the wrong thing, because I assumed “tights” wouldn’t be used for both tights and… erm… tights. Other changes have hit me over the years, like the meaning of the word “right” when used as an exclamation.
M2 and I go to Earl’s Court on what I’m sure is a wild goose chase. My daughter has asked me to collect a mask that she inadvertently left in a cupboard in a youth hostel over a week ago. Surely, it couldn’t possibly still be there. But there it is, in a box in a plastic bag, lying at the bottom of the cupboard. Amazing! And M2 kindly offers to take it home with her so that I won’t have to drag it around with me.
After a very tasty lunch near Waterloo Station, I go on to Euston to catch a train to Stoke-on-Trent, where I’m met by Gill’s husband who takes me and Jane (who arrives from elsewhere) to their house where I stay for three nights and two very interesting days.
Oops, I missed out yesterday. I was too bogged down. In my WIP, that is; the bogs of Scotland are all but forgotten.
***
Three lovely days in Amsterdam. On the first, we visit an art exhibition: From Matisse to Malevich, the Royal Palace and the Historical Museum. All are very interesting, especially the historical museum.
On the second day, we walk 16 km from Castricum to Egmond-on-See. The terrain is flat. Flat! So different from Scotland. On the way, we see a group of children on bikes. “Probably a school trip,” my brother says. “What happens if a child doesn’t know how to ride a bike?” I ask. “All Dutch children know how to ride a bike,” he says.
The walk ends at a beach. I’m interested in the seat cabins people have brought with them.
On the third day, we hire a bike and go for a 35-km ride through the Amsterdam Bos to Waver and along the river Amstel back to Amsterdam. It’s fun and I’m proud of myself – I haven’t ridden a bike for a long time. But, when in Rome….
I hop on another plane back to the familiar south of England. Cheap flights are good, although I don’t enjoy standing for over half an hour to wait for the plane to arrive and unload its passengers, especially as my legs are aching from all that exercise.
M2’s house is always busy. People are in and out all the time, phones ring constantly. Despite all that, M2 manages to organize food and other things and can even keep up with my activities. I don’t know how she does it. M2’s house becomes my base for the rest of my stay in Europe. It’s convenient to have a place to leave some of my stuff. She apologises for dragging me to the supermarket, but really even that is fun with her. And I buy things I have to take home, like salt and vinegar crisps.
M2’s husband tends to ask interesting questions. That’s not to say that M2 doesn’t. I suppose his questions are more thought-provoking. He asks me what I learned in my life that I wish I’d known earlier. I don’t answer. I say I have to think about that.
One day, I go to visit P in Windsor. We’re joined by someone I haven’t seen since uni, and later P takes me for a walk round Windsor, where I see the theatre where I enjoyed watching several plays while at uni. All is in keeping with this trip back to the past.
After three days at M2’s house, I hop over to Amsterdam where my brother lives.
Our visit to the nursing home where my mother resides is a bit hard. It’s hard because you remember the person as she used to be and realise that person is no longer. The carer who tends to her is very patient and I remark on that. “You have to be patient to work here,” she replies.
The next morning, I receive a text message from M2: “Happy birthday!” I phone her back. “Thanks for reminding me!” Later, we set off for the Jewish Museum, where we meet another cousin. We see three exhibitions – Judaism: a living faith, History: A British Story and a changing exhibition: “Illuminations”. I find the history one the most interesting. Afterwards, we have lunch in the café. I choose a salt-beef sandwich in rye bread (what else?). In the evening, I’m delighted to see all the birthday wishes on Facebook and reply, “Just for that, it’s worth having a Facebook account.”
The following morning, I take the train to my childhood. I look at the house where I grew up. The stone wall is now painted white and the front garden has become a parking area. I take a once-familiar walk up to my old school, which I haven’t set eyes on for 39 years. As far as I remember, the outside of the building looks just the same.
The school is closed for the summer holidays. That’s probably just as well. I’ve seen enough. I visit a nearby well-equipped leisure centre. Why wasn’t that there when I lived here?
In the afternoon, I meet up with my cousins for a play at the Churchill Theatre – Alan Ayckbourn’s “Bedroom Farce”. I have a lovely time, but … well, I’ve seen better farces.
***
Looking at my school’s website, I see that today is the start of anti-bullying week, and that the school has an anti-bullying policy. Progress has been made. I wonder if it would have made a difference in my case. I hope so.
This is taking too long. It’s now two months since I returned home and my blog is still on holiday. So I’m going to post every day until it’s finished. Well, that’s the plan anyway….
***
I say goodbye to M1, who has been so good to me, take a train to Euston Station and walk to St Pancras Station dragging my suitcase with me. I’m sure those mounds on the pavement at each crossing are useful to some, but they’re quite a nuisance when you’re wheeling a suitcase. It takes me some time to discover I’m in King’s Cross and not St Pancras. While I’m waiting at the information desk to ask, “Sorry for the stupid question, but where is Starbucks?”, I notice that one of the staff’s jobs is to help elderly/infirm people to get to their platforms. I’m impressed.
Fortunately, I’m still on time for my meeting with Cathy Walter, who turns out to be a friendly, warm person and very pleasant to chat to – even for me. The two hours we spend together fly by. She says she wouldn’t have known I had a problem and that causes mixed feelings. I’m happy that I’m managing to keep up my side of the conversation. And I wonder if I come over as a fraud. The fact is that I behave differently with different people, and Cathy is very easy to talk to. Also, I’m generally more at ease with strangers because they don’t have preconceived opinions of me. Most people with social anxiety are just the opposite and are most scared of talking to strangers.
Then I meet my eighteen-year-old daughter, who has been visiting Paris and London with a friend. I’m amazed how well she has coped. She gives me a music box with my favourite French tune, one that brings back pleasant memories:
I don’t want to arrive at my cousins’ house too early and I don’t want to wander around any more with my suitcase. So I sit in the station and watch people and wheeled articles going past. Of all the things we used to manage without – mobile phones, laptops, electric kettles that lift off the part connected to the electric point – wheeled suitcases are the most unfathomable. Surely the technology was available to put wheels on suitcases fifty years ago, a hundred years ago, and more. I also see wheelie bins in a line, pulled by a man in a vehicle. They remind me of a line of ducklings following their mother.
My cousins are pleased to see me and tell me the plans for the next three days.
Miriam Drori, Author