My Bloody Valentine

And so it was Hallowe'en, yet again, already.

It's been six unbelievable years since the one person I wanted to grow old with, died. He just didn't wake up one day and that was it; we were in our mid-thirties, and our story had a sudden ending.

We spent most of our life together in Hitchin, so I went back to Hitchin tonight in the hope of finally laying his anxious ghost to rest. I've somehow managed to miss being in this country for most of the Hallowe'en nights between six years ago and now, but there are other people in the area who still miss Floyd, and some years ago a bunch of us arranged to have a meeting on this night every year we were around.

It was a bit of a sad turnout in the Red Hart this time, in that only Andy (ex-landlord, ex-employer, owner of studio, music production man), Tracy, his gf of three years (?! when did that happen again?!) and myself were physically present. But Ken, Floyd's old buddy and supplier of Ivor Cutler tapes, who wanted to be there and couldn't, enlivened our evening with text messages from Newcastle. The other Andy, the pub landlord both then and now, stood us a round at the official end of the night; and his partner, Livi, whose task it was all those years ago to break the news to me that Floyd was dead, shared a box of wine with me after everyone went home, talked long and hard about the old days, and helped me smoke my way through all the cigarettes I could afford.

That's how I ended up leaving the bar some time after 7am and coming home on the commuter train - breathing fermented grapes, cackling over a copy of Viz, muttering lines from our play under my breath, and alienating everyone out there with a proper job. Floyd would have approved. Fuck it, Floyd would've loved it...

I don't know if it's possible to say how much I miss Floyd. I rather suspect it isn't.

It's my mother's birthday today (there's a kind of theme running through my life whereby everyone I love dies on someone else I love's birthday) and I need to get her flowers 'and shiznit', as Sara would say. Mum arrived home from Canada last night, exhausted but still sympathetic - my Dad died on Nigel's birthday, so she's familiar with the theme even when it touches on her own special day. But the note she left me this morning was pretty unsentimental and Mum-ish. It went something like 'Steph, would you please track down that funny smell in the kitchen?'.

(I had a nasty incident with a pound of cod and two unseasonably warm days last week.)

Freesias in the fridge should do the trick...

I missed the good part about walking back into Hitchin after all those years. It was down to the total stranger I met in The Albert (the bar nearest the station) who asked why I was visiting the town and who, when I told my story, was visibly stirred: "He's a bit of a legend hereabouts, is your Floyd."

You'd have to witness the crap flying around in Baldock - only five miles up the road - to fully appreciate just how wonderful it was to hear that from someone who never even met my man. I think if things don't pan out in Israel, for whatever reason, I'll be living in Hitchin for the rest of my days.