A Pencil With My Name On

I had reached the epitome of Primary School life. I was in the Blue group for maths. You weren’t supposed to know that it was the top group, but it was. Johanna wasn’t in it and Rebecca was. You knew, by those things if nothing else that this was the way it was. Hierarchies are important to kids. They help you understand where you stand. After months in the red group, I was at the top, working really hard and the pronouncement had been made that I could swagger my way to the blue group for maths. If it had been Friday I would have been thrilled, but this Monday nothing could lighten my mood.

I was a gimmicky kid, much to my Mother’s disapproval, and largely because of it, I had no interest in her quality wooden toys I wanted Carebears ™ and My Little ponies ™ and plastic made by children in Taiwan. Most of all, most of all, I desperately wanted a pencil with my name on. 

Whenever there was a trip I would find the carousel of unicorn and rainbow emblazoned crap, I would search for the S names and there I would find Sarah, Susan, Steven, Sian and Stuart and Scott but never a Serena. It became a ritual, visit a historical place, search for the gift shop, search for pencils with names on, find the S’ group and then bitter disappointment every single time. I had never really understood that I had an unusual name. My reasoned, logical, explanation was they had sold out of my name. In my mind, hundreds of little girls had come to the museum/ cathedral/ house or another place of historical significance, moments before I arrived purchased the Unicorn rainbow pencils and left. The curly-haired girls with the pretty dresses were now happily filling out their rather prosaic Cathedral worksheet with the pencil that proudly bore their name… SERENA

It seemed that misfortune seemed to follow me everywhere I went. There was always a gift shop, there was always a carousel of pencils but there was never a Serena. In my 7-year-old logic the only explanation could be that they had sold out.

By the time I reached 8 I had seriously had enough of this misfortune and I was bent and determined to get to the bottom of the pencil mystery. We had family visiting and so we took a trip to our local historical house. I gave my parents the slip and headed to the gift shop. Sho’ Nuff a large space where the Serena pencils should be. I approached the gift store worker. He was about 17 but looked so grown up and wore a name badge. Pulling myself up to my full 2 ft 6 height I took a deep breath and said.

“You’ve sold out of the pencils with my name on.”

Him: Oh what’s your name

Me: Serena

Him: That’s an unusual name, we don’t have that name, it’s too weird.

Me: But I want a pencil with my name on.

 

Him: We don’t sell them, you’re too weird 

I turned before the first tear fell. This revelation was no small tragedy. In a kid’s life, there are small tragedies and enormous tragedies. This was a tragedy on the magnitude of discovering that Santa is not a real thing, and merely an anagram of Satan, a real thing. I ran to the woman’s toilet where I locked myself in. Sobbing, I'm weird, my name is weird. I'm never going to find a pencil with my name on. I sat there for hours. It might have been 3 minutes. I walked out to discover my Mum unfazed looking around at the pillars or stain glass or some other thing that was not a pencil with my name on. 

“Do you want to go to the gift shop?”

I do not want to go. Gift shops have lost all their allure. I shake my head. The depression and trauma lasted all weekend. Saturday night treats did little to improve my mood. Sunday consisted of a walk at our local lake where the ducks and swans taunted me with their honks that sounded like “pencil with my name on.” The tragedy lessened with the purchase of a 99 but the flake morphed into my beloved pencil.

The next Monday at school Mrs Hackett announced that we were all moving groups for maths. I sheepishly and humbly took my seat at the blue table. I looked over and Rebecca was not holding a school-issued pencil. It was not a 2 b. It was not hexagonal. Her pencil had a smooth circular shape. A pencil of the jaunty variety. It was not burnt Sienna in colour. It had a unicorn and a rainbow on the side. Right there, at the very top, in slightly chipped, tacky gold paint, it was emblazoned REBECCA. I was devastated. If I couldn’t have a pencil with my name on it, why did Rebecca get to have a pencil with her name on? It was just so unjust. I didn't get to choose my moniker. It couldn't be that unusual my rather dull parents had thought of it.

 Rebecca went to fetch the milk for our class that morning. She returned to discover her personalised pencil had a broken lead. I didn't volunteer my sharpener when she asked for one. She finished her maths lesson with a homogeneous, hexagonal pencil like the rest of us. I felt better.

We get to fast forward to 2013 now and to be honest I still like the idea of personalised things, my brother does too. His name is Courtney and he’s never had a pencil with his name on. It's Christmas and he hands me a roughly wrapped bottle-shaped gift. It's a bottle of wine, Pinot grigio, called Serena. Take that Rebecca, child genius, in the rock paper scissors of adulthood wine beats pencil every single time and twice on Sundays.

 

Klara and The Sun

    

Ishiguro is a master storyteller, one who is not afraid to look in a mirror and tell you, darkly what he finds. Klara and the Sun is a unique look at the trajectory of our world through the eyes of an Artificial Friend - Klara a solar-powered robot. Klara has an uncanny ability to mimic and notice people and situations.

Here I am talking about her as if she were a human. In my opinion that is what makes Ishiguro a master. He takes this idea and makes you care about her destiny in a tangible way that takes you on a full spectrum of emotions. Every so often you have to remind yourself that you are attached to a robot.

The book asks questions, like all great works of art. Questions like, 'Is there anything particular about humans? Are we as unique as we think? What does it mean to love? What I love about the story is that Ishiguro gives us space to answer these questions and to fight for what it means to be human. There are two moments in the book that moved me to tears.

The first is a moment at a party. There are a few children present who also have Artificial friends like Klara. They start to talk about tormenting her. Throwing her into the air to see if she lands on her feet. My heart was in my mouth for a few pages. Yes, Ishiguro made me care deeply about the physical and emotional well-being of a robot. A robot. I found myself choked up, to think that we accept any kind of bullying of anyone or anything. 

Later, there is a moment in the book when Klara is walking through a field and sees the grass bent down, in her mind 'to worship the sun.' This moment gave me pause. Of course, with no skin cells, she cannot feel the breeze on her arms. Klara herself is powered by the sun. The breeze is obviously having an influence on the grass. Klara does not have this piece of information so worships the gift rather than the giver. This scenario made me question if there are times when we place our admiration in the wrong place because we have less than adequate information. Has this ever happened to you? Share your thoughts in the comments. 

Strolling

Piano lessons. My favourite activity as I was growing up. That's not exactly the truth. My piano teacher smoked and she used to hit the piano with a ruler if I didn’t play loud enough. She, as well as her house, were the exact colour of mint humbugs. It was not a pleasant learning environment. I was at best an average musician and my dreams of being discovered never came to fruition, even though I always practised with the window open. However, the piano lessons facilitated a 20-minute stroll with my Dad. He would walk me to the piano lessons and walk me home; usually in time for The A-Team. A far preferred activity to piano lessons. In the busy lives of a working family, that time alone was precious. 

Fast forward to August 2012, piano lessons were a thing of the past. again, simple moments with my dad were at the forefront of my mind. Britain was the happiest place on earth, seriously, it rivalled Disney World. I flew into London as the fireworks for the opening spectacle of the Olympic games lit up the sky. Everyone on the plane cheered. I sat in my window seat, head against the wall, heavy-hearted. The next day, as the medals began to fly in, and the world’s attention was on our little corner of it. I faced a struggle of a different kind. A slow race, with an inevitable finish.

9 weeks earlier, as part of his 40-year discipline of daily diary entries, Stoical McCarthy penned, in his shaky left hand, these words: Living with terminal cancer day 1- The air smells sweeter and each breath tastes finer. The garden looks lovely and Carol is cooking chicken. The weather is good. 

These words rob joy from the world. They steal colour; slowly, the way the chemo steals energy, pounds, and the will to live. By the time I arrived for my visit, his size was diminished and his hair was gone. He was a man at peace with God and ready to meet him. As hard as it was, I could not ask God for an extension to this misery. Trusting my good God’s hand I prayed for His timing, His healing and for sweet fellowship during the agonizing waiting. 

Cancer slows everything down. There is so much waiting. Terminal cancer even more. I had time and I took it. We sat in the garden, in the bedroom, in the dining room. We were mostly silent, we watched films, and we spent one full day listening to Mr Trololo. If you are ever depressed look at him on YouTube. There was humdrum and Grace for everyone to do their thing. These were precious days; a privilege. These times are not afforded to all, a time to reflect on a life well-lived. They were filled with joy, remembrances and the ever forgotten life hack to “never go to the supermarket hungry.”

On one of the good days, the last good day; Mo Farah was running 5,000 metres. Dad and I took a stroll. It was the sweetest, slowest walk I have ever taken. A walk past my primary school, and past my piano teacher’s old home. It was our walk. We didn’t discuss the route. We knew it. We knew each other. We were mostly silent. It was sweet. It was us. It was ours.

I stopped a car in its tracks and shuffled my dad across a road. We walked. Arm in arm. Holding each other. Our hearts breaking, and our smiles betraying the truth. We knew; this stroll was the last. The cared for and care-giver roles; they were jumbled at that moment. On the other, side there was a definite switch, but at this moment, it was jumbled.

We arrived home. We watched. Halfway through the race my dad leaps to his feet in a burst of energy and exclaims “I look exactly like Mo Farah” Mum and I fall to the floor laughing; if there was anyone in Christendom, who resembled Mo Farah, less than my Gaelic, emaciated, Father, I would like to meet them. There was joy. There was laughter. There was loud cheering. There was hugging as his race was won.

There was sadness. There were tears. There was laughter. There was hugging. 9 weeks later the words “Well done, good and faithful servant” were uttered from the one who wipes every tear. His race was won.

There was fear, there was anxiety. The Olympics were Brazil’s now and the memory of the last summer games stung a little.

Again, not quite the truth. The sting I expected never came, it's as if the great healer of time had done its work completely. 

There was a stroll. Past my old piano teacher’s house. There was a moment. There was fondness. This new moment was marked with joy that it happened, not with sadness that it wasn’t anymore. There was a victory for Mo and a restoration for me. 

Time is a great healer; but time cannot restore.