Well. I’m sitting in a darkened cabin somewhere in the sky above Baffin Bay and now seems a good time to write the first of my holiday diary entries. I’m seated behind a distinctly grumpy lady who is taking exception to my gentle tapping, but she’s had her seat reclined for the whole journey so as far as I’m concerned it’s her turn to suffer a bit of discomfort. TAP FUCKING TAPPITY TAP TAP How d’ya like them apples, Mrs Grumpy?

Now back to my news. I’ve spent the last three days answering mail from people who saw this site mentioned in one of the Sunday papers. I always get an influx of mail when the site appears in the press, and up to now all the e-mails have been from people asking for advice or sending letters of support. So imagine my surprise when a short, sharp message arrived in my in-box. It was my first piece of hate mail. The person in question said that my site offered nothing and was purely a vehicle to plug my book. I’ve never had my efforts described as ‘disgraceful’ before and I have to say that I was left feeling pretty stunned. I did think about writing back and trying to explain that I have spent the last two years answering every single e-mail that has been sent to me via this site, and that I do so because I am driven to offer all the help I can to anyone who asks for it. I don’t expect anything from the people who visit my site, and it hurts me to think that anyone can accuse me of trying to make money out of the grief of others. I’m not going to write back to the angry lady, all I can do is hope that she will go back to the site one day and actually read the guide - the free guide that has helped many thousands of people, hasn’t made me a single penny but has made me an awful lot of friends.

Now I’ve got that off my chest I can talk about where I’m headed. My girls and I are on our way to sunny California to stay with a family that we met on the ranch trip last year. I have written at length about holidays from hell, but I would like to reassure you that once in a while I get a lucky break. Holidays have been a constant source of worry for me ever since Charlie died. I embark each year on a journey into the unknown, and the only certainty seems to be that I’ll be left sitting on my own in the dining room each evening, looking out at the setting sun and wishing someone, anyone would take me far away from paradise. I never thought I’d find anyone who would willingly spend holiday time with me – save perhaps for a short sighted timeshare salesman, or a couple of elderly swingers who might have been short of a fourth for a rubber of bridge, or the last link in some geriatric daisy chain action (but not necessarily in that order…)

I had clearly done my time, and so somebody in a celestial palm-fringed cabana decided to look kindly upon my predicament and give me a break. Through a chain of events, starting with Rosie falling over and gashing her knee, and culminating with an unforgettable ride to the prairie divide I formed a friendship with a couple of wise-cracking Californians who didn’t seem in the least bit fazed or frightened by the company of a lone widow. Gregg and Sharon Hartman understood my humour, understood that I wasn’t some predatory home wrecker; understood that we could all spend time together without it all going horribly, horribly wrong. There were other couples on the ranch that week that could potentially have become friends for life, but somehow my big mouth or their weirdness prevented any lasting attachment.

I remember sitting on the porch one afternoon with the woman who was married to the man in the wrong trousers; like the baddie from an undertakers golfing convention he arrived on the ranch dressed from head to toe in menacing black casual wear. His easy-care shirt and slip-on shoes seemed incongruous in the dusty heat of a Colorado summer, but he strode purposefully around the ranch looking like he’d lost a pair of Wranglers and found a really comfortable pair of Farrah slacks. I thought his unusual attire was just a first-day mistake, but it clearly wasn’t. He wore the same sombre outfit every day for a week, and never, ever looked at ease. When I found myself sitting beside his wife I thought it best to strike up a conversation. After the initial pleasantries had been exchanged I found myself at a loss for words. The phrase, ‘Your husband’s a bit odd, isn’t he?’ came into my head, but was quickly brushed aside by a much safer silence-filler. The subject of my proposed comment was just ambling past the porch; he was an adolescent boy of unusual size and startling limpness. I’d been riding with him earlier that day and he didn’t say a word for the whole trip; all he did was sit hunched loosely in his saddle, under the shade of a ridiculously floppy hat. The hat had probably once had a shape, but had now taken on the same flaccid appearance as the boy sitting beneath it. I watched him as we rode and decided that what he needed was a big shot of vim or vigour, or, failing that, some splints and lots of really tight bandages.

The young man looked like Droopy – only droopier, and was lolloping slowly in front of us, arms trailing loosely from his shoulders, seemingly unconnected to the rest of his body except by two dangly bits of rather tired ligament. His big feet scuffed up the dirt, which hung around in languid clouds behind him, and the whole effect was one of teenage torpor. Boys of his age are supposed to be full of hormones and mischief, I don’t know what he was filled with, but I’d hazard a guess that you could happily us it in a trifle. I watched him pass and then turned to the wife of man in black and said, ‘That boy is really droopy.’ ‘What do you mean?’ said the woman. ‘Well’, I replied, ‘everything about him is just…well, droopy.’ The woman paused slightly and said, ‘He’s probably just tired.’ And it was at this point that I suddenly connected the woman’s hang-dog expression and limp handshake to the lose-limbed youth before us. Mrs Floppy, proud mother of young master Floppy was not amused. After I had insulted her son the lady was disinclined to speak to me further and suffice to say that we haven’t kept in touch.

After that I managed to steer clear of a family of earnest Mormon chiropractors and a gruff lesbian who insisted in donning stout boots and walking where others rode. That left Sharon and Gregg, the only normal couple on the ranch. We decided to ignore the oddballs that surrounded us and spent our time cracking dirty jokes and drinking beer. I felt happy and normal (well, everything’s relative…) and the holiday was a blast.

And now I’m sitting on a sunny terrace somewhere in southern California, drinking Pimms and feeling content. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such luck, but I fully intend to enjoy every moment of my stay.


© Kate Boydell 2004. All rights reserved. e-mail: [email protected]. Close window.