Look over your shoulder

Something happened on that trip that changed who I am from the inside. Up until that point I felt invincible, as young people do. I’d never felt scared of being out after dark, even on my own. I don't mean I took risks but I believed myself to be anything but the typical victim. I walked with confidence and purpose, went wherever I chose. Getting mugged was a huge shock. I'd taken a shortcut through a square with a few trees and benches, a square I'd crossed numerous times by daylight; home was just metres away, I could see the light through the window of my flat. Ironically enough, when I was sitting on the U-bahn, I’d been mildly concerned about having a larger than usual amount of cash on me. Little did I know at the time that the mugger had seen me leaving the Bureau de Change and then caught the same train as me, followed me all the way back to my stop. So I'd been specifically targeted and it wasn't random.

The first I knew of it was feeling someone’s arm round the front of my neck (he'd approached me from behind) and being pulled to the ground. I had my bag over my opposite shoulder (so the strap was right across my body instead of resting over just one shoulder.) He tried to grab it, but in doing so it lifted me off the floor. I yelled at him and he kicked me in the face, which I didn't feel at all, then we had a bizarre kind of tug of war as he tried to drag my bag off me but I refused to let it go. (I've no idea why, everything you read says you should let go of your bag.) He was much bigger and stronger than me and eventually lifted me back to my feet as he was still trying to get the bag off my shoulder. He kind of yanked it upwards so the strap bruised my face and I was so angry with him and so disgusted by the injustice of it that I punched him in the face, really hard, which made him yelp in pain but by that time he'd succeeded in getting my bag and running off with it.

I got back home and my flatmate saw the state of my face, I was still adrenaline fuelled at this point; I felt no pain or fear. In fact I wasn't keen to go to the police station. But we did, and that was an ordeal in itself. I'm not used to police with guns (even the desk person was armed) and that felt disturbing to me. I reported it as best I could in halting language. The desk Officer was wearily sympathetic, I gave a description and was asked to look at some e-fit pictures of local known criminals. Then we were sent home.

We were about halfway through our trip at this point and it resulted in me becoming a bit of a recluse, I stopped going to Uni and put a halt on the socialising. There wasn't really anyone to tell there and I didn't want to worry my parents back home. As the years have gone by, my confidence has returned. But I no longer ignore the kind of gut feelings I’d had on the U-bahn, perhaps I should've paid greater attention to my subconscious. But I always, always look over my shoulder.

The Expedition

But Which one? There are so many to choose from, so I will give you my favourite, although I have only some actual memory of this one. It has been repeated so often amongst family and friends, that I thought to share it with you.

They would always start with my eldest brother pronouncing grandly "we are going on an expedition, Mummy and we need provisions" These words always filled me with delight but back then, I wasn't even sure what 'an expedition' was.

None of us were aware, that fate would play a part in what happened that day, or even what was about to occur; we were more concerned about who had more jam in their sandwiches than the other and if we all had enough orange juice to last us until we got to 'The Top'

Finally we were ready; my eldest brother was always the General, the middle brother was The Captain and, Private Kitty (I never ever got promoted) tagged on at the back.

The General, gave a full 'kit inspection' of our rucksacks (school satchels)and pronounced that we were ready for an assault on Mount Stairway. I don't think that I really thought the mountain was very high but my brothers were always so good at fuelling the imagination. So, that day, as the sunlight filled into the hallway, the ropes(dressing gown chords)were very tightly knotted, binding us all together, ensuring, that if one of us should fall to his certain death, one of the others, would be able to bravely stop it from happening and more than likely get a medal for outstanding bravery too (all except, Private Kitty, because Privates never ever were awarded medals.

And so the climb began, on hands and knees, we skillfully maneuvered ourselves over the treacherous ledges; only once stopping for refreshments on about the fourth or fifth stair. That was when the baby (who also became a Private at a later date) crawled up beside me; he was fast on the stairs and fearless, he overtook both The Captain and The General and went to sit on top of the mountain and wait for us all to catch up.

Finally we all safely reached the 'top' and admired the view ( I think this was just a picture on the wall)and finished off our provisions. There was then some discussion of how we would get back down the mountain and we began preparations...

I have to halt at this point and take you out of the hallway and into the kitchen; this was where my mother usually was; she was very very busy, doing whatever it was that mothers did, and we all knew very well, to stay out of her kitchen and out from under her feet. So, anyway, Mother was in the kitchen, when she suddenly realised that ominous sound of silence from her children; she wiped her hands on her apron and stepped into the hallway.

It was a timely entry on her part; she saw three children on the landing above the stairs, all were holding very tightly onto a rope made of the dressing gown chords; the other end was dangling over the bannister rail, firmly knotted around the neck of the baby, who was at this point, turning blue and making odd choking sounds.

And the reason this story has been told so often, is the delight we have in repeating the General's words: But Mummy, we were only abseiling the baby.

There are all kinds of cages...

Kookaburras

For the past couple of years, while I've been unemployed, I've had my own personal reasons to go out walking quite a lot. Often, especially during the spring and summer months, my walks would take me to a local park, where there's a small aviary and an even smaller menagerie.

A couple of years ago, there was a new addition to the aviary in the form of a pair of kookaburras. I suppose they might have been described as a mating pair, though I'm not sure if kookaburras will breed in our climate; even if they didn't, they were still inseparable as a pair. Most of the time when they appeared in the open, they'd be together; when they weren't, it wasn't for long because as soon as the one who was outside started its song, it wasn't too long before the other would pop out through the little door from the enclosed area at the back of the aviary cage.

The sound of their song was lovely, and as I spent more time near them I discovered that their song varied at different times of day. It seemed that they had one form of their song for the morning, and another for the evening. Both were so beautifully musical, that I recorded both of their songs on my telephone, and on later visits, if there was no sign of either bird, I'd play them back. If I played the wrong song for that time of day, there'd be no effect, but if I remembered to play back the correct one, first one bird, then the other would emerge from their shelter, flock to where I stood at the front of the aviary, and sing along.

Then last summer there came a time when only one of the kookaburras would emerge. At first I thought that one of them had gone, but then one day I arrived to find them both out in the open, They were now in adjacent, though separate enclosures. I saw the attendant and asked why they'd been separated and he told me that the female had become ill, and they were being kept in separate cages in case whatever she had was contagious.

For the next couple of weeks, whenever they were both out in the open, the female would sit quietly on a branch near the fencing that separated their two cages, and the male would be clinging onto the same fencing as close as he could possibly get to his mate. Often he'd be singing his heart out, but rarely got any response from the female.

Then one day in August, there were no kookaburras in sight. I played their evening song, and almost immediately the male emerged into the open, though it seemed with more urgency than ever before. He ignored me and went straight to his place on the cage fencing and began singing his heart out, but with no result. The next day, the attendant told me that the female kookaburra had died a few days previously.

I often played their songs to myself after that, but I thought it would be cruel to play them at the aviary again. Around October last year, my own personal circumstances changed: the details are still too painful for me to relate, but suffice to say that I had no reason to spend time walking in the park again. Then in early January this year, just after the snow had cleared, I paid a visit to the aviary again. The little kookaburra was still there, and after all these months he still clung to his chosen place on the cage fencing, singing for his mate. His song didn't seem quite the same though, it seemed more subdued, as though his little heart wasn't in it. He seemed to know that his mate was gone, but his affection for her wouldn't let him just give up. There had been cages separating them before, and to him, it must have seemed that death was just another cage keeping them apart.

Of course, not all cages are made up of bars or fences. Distance can be just as restrictive as any cage. It may seem silly to say so, but I felt a kind of empathy with that little bird. Though I was free to come and go as I please, I was still in my own cage, kept away from where I wanted to be & from who I wanted to be with by distance in the same way that the kookaburras were separated by physical cages.

But even cages, those of bars or those of distance are not enough to keep lovers apart, until something happens that separates them permanently, and then the parting becomes more real; then, just like the kookaburra where he is, I have my memories to dwell upon within my own cage. He puts everything into singing to bring back his mate, even though he probably knows the futility of it; love is like that, and though it may also be futile for me, I too, still dream and hope that one day I can overcome the restrictions of my own cage.