A week since my first chemo session and I awoke this morning feeling pretty close to normal. Seems that once the bulk of the drug cocktail has worked its way through the system some sort of normality returns. That’s great. Quite a high in itself!
After a day closeted at home on rainy Monday, during which I managed to force myself back into work mode and file a story, I needed air yesterday. There was very little going on news wise in this run up to Christmas, so lunch with my dear old friend Franny was the perfect solution.
The sun was shining and I took a leisurely walk to St. Katharine’s Dock. Still felt a bit “cotton-woolly” when I started out but it definitely gets better once you get going.
Franny was running a little late so I settled myself in Zizzi’s at a table by the window overlooking the dock and the Thames sailing barges. It was a weird sensation. The first time I’d been to this Zizzi’s, but by no means the first time I’d sat in that very spot! This place used to be the St Katharine’s Yacht Club. From 1986 to 1988 Martin and I lived on our boat, Smokey, in St. Katharine’s.
They were heady days. I was 27 years old. There was a big group of people living on boats there from all walks of life. The yacht club was the hub of everything. You’d turn up there after work and there might be just one person there. By the time you left your table had grown and grown. Buying rounds of drinks for 20 people was not unheard of. To this day, we’ve no idea how we ever afforded it.
Oh, and the characters! That club saw the most eclectic mix of people you could ever attempt to dream up. For a start, this was the height of the “YUPPY” boom. So early evening, the place would fill with noisy, cocky, Gordon Gecko-styled traders brashly buying up the stocks of champagne to celebrate the day’s wins.
Then there was the News International crowd. Mostly sub-editors and the like, several of whom became very good friends, but who could drink for England and usually did. Once or twice a week there’d be a pianist playing jazz standards and encouraging the likes of Rosie, actually a sub on the Telegraph at the time, to just get up and dance, or sing, or both. We had wild fancy dress parties, parties on boats, impromptu parties. This was a seven-day a week party!
If the walls at Zizzi’s could talk!!
While reminiscing I decided to treat myself to a small glass of Prosecco and some garlic bread to soak it up. Franny had some catching up to do when she arrived. Franny and I met on about our first day at secondary school, Wanstead High, and have been friends ever since. We don’t live in each other’s pockets, but there is an ease and comfort when you’re with someone you’ve known since age 11 that can’t be underestimated. Where the two plus hours went I couldn’t tell you, but we chatted and ate a lovely salad and by the end I was feeling better than ever. In a really sweet gesture, Franny insisted on paying for my “get well lunch”, which, she said, obliged me to do just that and get well. I have no intention of letting her down!
By the time I walked back to Limehouse I was feeling almost normal, and content. You can’t beat fresh air and special friends!
We’d also planned to see another old friend in the evening, Pedro, who, coincidentally, we’d first met in those days in St Katharine’s. So to be sensible, I went home and had a bit of a rest. Nothing major, just a sit down with a cup of tea in front of some boring TV.
Then popped out to the Grapes for a couple of small glasses of red with Pedro. I felt great and appreciated every minute of it. Martin rustled up a fab prawn and noodle dish when we got home and by the time I got into bed at 11pm, I was ready for a good, normal night’s sleep. Joy!
