As I travelled down to London from Edinburgh early one morning last week, as usual the predicament was, post packing unreasonable amounts of clothes and shoes for three days, which book to take for the journey down.
Thanks to the wonders at FOPP I regularly stock up on books I may otherwise miss, and post kids my Amazon suggestions look like I have multiple personalities.
As is, I opted for The Death of Bunny Munro, the sophomore literary outing of Australian cultural behemoth Nick Cave.
Settling in to my seat it became apparent that the text would scarcely make the journey (it did by 10 or so pages thanks to my propensity for a nap or three); this was a book which you consumed, or inhaled rather than perused.
Compelling, awful and tender in equal turns, the most profound affect it had was to make me miss my children, page by page, incrementally more. Such was the mood altering affect that I almost winced as the text lurched beautifully from one darkness to the next.
The curious funk which fell over me on arrival at Kings Cross stayed with me for hours; the city seemed more remote and foreboding than I could ever remember (that following a cub trip to Baden Powell House), and my family seemed, inexplicably, a lifetime away.
Suffice to say the mood passed, and the novel will live on for years to come in my memory. I write this now returning from Glasgow on the train with the baby criminal blissfully asleep in front of me in her buggy, while Oran and the boss examine the scenery; stolen passports and my ability to spread an air of procrastination meant that an emergency appointment was required for us to have any hope of getting away.
It strikes me, though, that there is something wonderful in simply missing your kids. I tell Oran when I am away (and it’s never long) that I can never be sad because I carry his heart in mine, and thinking of him makes me happier than anything, and while the words are (in part) stolen and the sentiment unsurprising, I have never said a truer word.*
As one fortunate enough to work from home a fair percentage of the week it seemed a little absurd and melodramatic, akin to the wailing and gnashing of teeth that befalls reality tv ‘stars’ when ripped away from the bosom of relative strangers as if news of a family bereavement has reached. Much of my rambling on here, I fear, does have more than the hint of scarcely removed narcissism. A good percentage of the chats I have now with friend and ambivalent stranger alike can turn all too easily into an inadvertent treatise on the wonders of parenthood, delivered with an evangelical zeal. That said, I can think of nothing better to be a bore about.
* I carry your heart comes from the E.E. Cumings poem; as with a lot of poetry and love songs, it seems more apt when applied to the youths. http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/179622
Another super talented pal, Leo Zero also did this beautiful remix of Bloc Party, the wording which has the same resonance (if you don’t take it too literally)- soundcloud.com