This mini memoir was the inspiration to start a blog earlier this year.
So really it should have been #1>#6!
When I declared that I was issuing my last installment on the 6th day, many begged me to continue. I’ve thought about that on and off since, but “going there” is tricky. There’s no easy way to say some things and I’m not sure I can summon some laughs in this next bit of the story…..
Those who missed the reason I came to Australia in the first place, might like to catch up with that.
​So here it is…..

40th Anniversary Mini Memoir - published by KS (copyright) on FB from 2/1/23 - 7/1/23
Hold on to your hats lovelies because this week I bring you a mini memoir of sorts. For 40 years ago I was poised for my flight, literally and metaphorically, from the grey, heavy, sad days of my UK life to the sunny Australian shores.

Many, many times I have been asked what brought me to Australia, so here it is…………..(in installments this week)
One depressing February day in 1982, I was standing at a depressing bus stop on my way to my depressing workplace. The dull, depressing skies, lowering above me, raining upon me and the chilly wind whistling around about me, tearing at my skirt, my brolly and my hair!
My depressed, heartbroken soul cried, “this is the pits!”

It’s difficult in the few words required by FB posts to thumbnail what had brought me to this depressingly, depressed point.
But I will try.

Picture if you will, the 25yo Kate, married to a sweet man for 5 years, (yes, youthful folly! But I knew nothing about myself or the world at that time) whisked off her feet by an older lover, taught a thing or two in a whirlwind of passion, reconnecting with music and song; breaking the heart of the aforementioned husband to pursue a hopeless love affair.
The man said he loved me, that he would marry me, but he withdrew both concepts and left me languishing.
The February morning was two years into this heady, horrendous period of my life with no end in sight and my addiction to the relationship had me deeply in its grip.
A few weeks later, I caught up with my sunny Australian cousin Claire in the UK visiting family.
“Come to Australia!” she announced, “it’ll be fun,” she assured me and, “you can’t possibly stay here like this,” she quite rightly declared.

So, I saved like crazy through ’82, maintaining my crappy, full time job, moonlighting, singing in piano bars and restaurants, and waiting at tables. Had enough for a one way ticket with $400 leftover by year’s end and packed up to head off as ’82 turned the cogs into ’83.

The lover was relieved to be let off the hook from this pathetic lovelorn wafer thin waif. His parting gift though, was to record all my favourite Beethoven to cassette for my journey and indeed my onward life.
So each day, I give you a sound track for the events as they unfolded that week.
Bad behaviour though his was, he did me an incredible favour, for the wake-up call ultimately found me here!
Today, the yearning, sweet, but desperate intoxicating turmoil of that time encapsulated in his piano concerto #4, 1st movement.      https://youtu.be/R4eWa6sdqBA
Mini memoir - 2nd Installment! A festive season of farewells

Christmas at Orchard House with my little old darlings was always such a special time. They just knew how to “do” Christmas; the place festooned with garlands, wreaths of holly, sprigs of mistletoe; glorious carols from Kings College of course; turkey with all the trimmings; Christmas cards, hundreds of them, displayed in banners; tree twinkling in the window for all to enjoy, a roaring fire in the grate and our favourite little three kings, who nobly made an appearance year after year.
They now turn up at my sister’s house. That’s what you call commitment!

I’d love to say that Christmas ’82 was a white Christmas, with frosty mornings and sparkling skies, but alas, we were dished up the usual damp and rather dreary December days. White Mythmas is the truth of the matter in the UK.

But with my new mate Leonie in tow, helping me pack up the paltry pickings from my share house, stashing them in my car bound for the Orchard House attic, I drove away from London, and away from “him”; a moment of respite from the high decibels of despair.

Aussie Leonie, ironically also had swapped hemispheres on account of a futile addictive love affair, so she was an old hand at this stuff. She was much travelled and knew what was what for the long haul, so she was tasked with helping me pack for the flight of my life.
Lots of laughs along the way there, I mean I’d better take plenty of Nivea as I doubted I’d find it in Australia if I ran out. Leonie’s advice about footwear on account of the feet swelling up on the long haul, wearing your heaviest gear to avoid it being in your luggage incurring you excess costs; all that sort stuff.
I’d only ever done hour long flights, so it was in at the deep end this trip; or should I say high/pie in the sky?
She and I popped out to meet up with Tobes at the Rifleman’s for some younger festive frivolity and as we were turning the corner at the Bere Lane mini roundabout, I wrenched my shoulder on account of the push me, pull me, gear stick in the dashboard of my little old Renault 4, and the wet, slippery road on the tricky camber.
So it’s all Toby’s fault that I stepped into the world of the frozen shoulder, which has plagued me on and off for the last 40 years therefore!

Of course it was Christmas/New Year so nothing was open to have it checked out properly as the pain got worse and worse in those days before ibuprofen.
So off to London I went for a couple more days of turmoil, torment and tears with the by now indifferent lover; who did trouble to take me to emergency where a nurse prodded and poked and tried to manoeuvre the now totally immovable arm attached to the frigid shoulder.
Shrugged, shoved me in a sling and sent me on my way.
Good riddance.

The mates that I’d made in my short moonlighting career, gathered at Captain Wooduck’s for a goodbye binge and song fest, one of whom played for me as I couldn’t on account of my useless left hand. Sang my heart out I did. All the oldies, ageless and Evergreen for it was The Way We Were and I Smiled, though my heart was breaking………….

Today’s Beethoven is the slow movement from his Pathetique Piano Sonata. The gentleness of it holds me in the manner of the arms of my family; quietly, peacefully together at Christmas time and always, our love a tangible, trembling treasure.

Little bit of turmoil in the middle, my own fear and foreboding at that time.
No excitement about what I was about to do.
​Only sorrow and trepidation, stepping out alone.
https://youtu.be/n2nG1bt7IBM

Mini memoir - 3rd installment - 4th January 1983
So began the journey……….
My little Renault stayed in Somerset with my mum, so my dad had driven me and my worldly goods and two suitcases up to London. (In his Renault 4, which at least had the redemption of being a cheerful buttercup yellow!) He came to the songfest farewell, which was very good of him, since there was no Wagner involved!
My lover too came to Captain Wooduck’s. He and Dad had met briefly before, but you can imagine my dad was none too friendly there, but polite enough, I guess. Leonie of course was also there along with maybe a dozen mates.

Afterwards, Dad went off to stay at his sister’s and my lover and I went to his place in Kew for my last couple of nights on English soil.
It was all pretty fraught.
Me desperate and mostly crying, the pain in my heart outdoing the significant pain in my shoulder by a long stretch and him, diffident, adamant although gentle too. He wasn’t a terrible man, you see. How could he know that this apparently strong young woman would become such a drip?

Anyway, the day came and off we went to Heathrow on the Tube. Dad, Toby and Leonie met us at the airport. A fine quartet to send me off.
With Toby on the scene and his usual repartee flowing, we were soon quite a merry band and I started to feel excited once my dose of Panadol had dulled the throbbing of my shoulder.

In those days without security screening (remember that?) they were able to come right to the gate with me.
So they were with me when a tannoy announcement declared my flight would be late; then later and then later still.
My dad needed to drive back to Somerset in the waning winter’s day, my lover wanted to be done with the situation, and I think Toby and Leonie had only taken the morning off work and needed to get back, so the merriment wore off allegro-style.
Finally, my flight was cancelled altogether and the passengers were to be bundled off to a cruddy Heathrow hotel until the airline could work out what to do.

Toby, Dad and Leonie hugged me and said goodbye, and my lover, well, he did not like “protracted goodbyes,” so he went home once I was corralled onto the bus and off to the outer wasteland of Heathrow.
So there I was, staring at the sterile wall of a murky airport hotel, lost and lonely, (I was yet to work on the concept of alone, but not lonely) but grateful for Leonie’s wisdom about packing undies and sundries into my hand luggage.
And then I began to shiver and my nose began to run…………

I think the second movement of Beethoven’s Symphony #7 is the perfect choice for this moment in my life; mournfully desolate as his life closed down with fast approaching deafness and mine, well it seemed to be then for me.
And it was a long time before I was to realise that actually it was opening up.
https://youtu.be/KbNGklNz8Yk

Mini memoir - 4th installment - 5th January 1983
So began the journey….take two
Of course Covid was yet to be invented, but I reckon I was afflicted with its evil step-mother, determined to inflict as much suffering as possible on her spurned and suffering child.
Unprepared for this event I was soon reduced to unravelling the cheap, coarse toilet paper from the seedy hotel ensuite, which was so small that I managed to bang the elbow of my good arm!
Insult to injury and all that.
So it was with a nice bruise and now two broken wings that I buffet breakfasted on cardboard cornflakes, rubber eggs, thin white wettex toast that stuck to the roof of my mouth and some watery, glutinous orange mess, sporting the lying label of marmalade. Yum!
Between the whole kit and kaboodle, trying to catch the drips from my prolifically flowing nose.
Misery plus, my friends.
It was a pretty grumpy bunch of people who were squished into the bus back to the airport that grim old January morning.

It has to be said that the erstwhile lover did reluctantly return to the airport so that I had someone to see me off, for real this time, on a flight now twenty four hours overdue.
He was actually very kind that morning, although kept being overly jolly and referring to my Great Big Adventure. I wanted none of it. I just wanted him to love me.
But you know the horse had bolted there and there was no bringing it home.

Important wisdom from this; you cannot MAKE anyone feel, think, be, do, say, anything. Ever!
Not that I was capable of philosophising at this point.
The catastrophe of the whole affair and the fallout from the same was to take five years and at this point I was only half way through that dark old time.
Anyway, at least the airport shopping mall, such as it was back then, enabled me to buy extortionate supplies of tissues and further Panadol for I was running low by now.

At the gate, oh god, the tears coursing down my face; pain, pain, pain everywhere; heart as sore as sore; my lover took my desperately clinging arms from around him for the last time, kissed me on the top of my head and sent me on my way out into the world…….

Ah but Beethoven to the rescue!

So this was an easy choice for today.
Proud of the Walkman a very generous friend had bought me for Christmas, into its little deck went grumpy old Ludwig’s 5th Symphony when I squeezed myself into the diminutive cattle class seat.
With all the preflight fiddling about I was well into the depths of it as the engines thrusted the wheels off the tarmac and into the sky I went, just as the fourth movement triumphed over all adversity.
I’m crying here this morning, remembering that moment.
You just can’t plan some things.

https://youtu.be/DAyUzxDB9eE

Mini memoir - 5th installment - 6th January 1983
“One night (day) in Bangkok and the world’s your oyster.” Apparently….

With good ol’ flu well and truly in its grip, the touch down in Bangkok delivered the first of the agony of pressure change on my snot burdened head.
So it was with searing pain in my ears that I was turfed off the plane and into the tropical humidity of that teeming city.
My connecting flight to Perth had long gone of course. With no one much wanting to go there, such flights were maybe twice a week max!
To give Thai airlines its due, alternate plans had been put in place to get me to my final destination and it was all efficiently organised with nary a computer in sight! Amazing to recall how well our quaint little lives worked without them……..

The lay-over was twelve hours. These days you would be left to find a cosy spot on an airport lounge floor for the duration, but in this case I was transferred in a crushed, sticky bus to a rather smart city hotel. Fortunately for me, Bangkok was insufficiently on the tourist map to warrant the cluster crap of Heathrow accommodation.
Of course, I had already used my spare undies at the outset, so without knowing how long I was to endure this odyssey, I rinsed out both pair of knickers. Wise.
So I spent the guts of my bout of flu in relative comfort, albeit with delirium, misery, and the ongoing pain from my shoulder burdening my day and my very soul really.

How had I come to this forlorn, lost and lonely state from the sweet comfort and security of my baby marriage?
So let’s name him now there’s air miles between me and the whole sorry affair.

David had given me Sagan’s Bonjour Tristesse to read on the plane. He had admired the relationship of Simone De Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Satre as a fine model for modern times and as I read Sagan’s novel of lust without borders, I started to realise that he desired a much looser approach than the status quo. For me who had dabbled for a decade in the straight-laced world of blinkered Christianity the idea was both novel, if you’ll pardon the pun, and horrifying.
Yes, some of you may not know that about me; the once described “gem for Jesus.” - I know….totally weird to imagine, but there you have it. You may understand therefore, that I was totally incapable of thinking that those Frenchies were onto something, taking their notion of liberté to such extremes.


Basically, David was everything my husband was not. Worldly, wiser, unafraid, with that frisson of wickedness ever flickering away close to the surface. The devil is in the detail I guess…..
I didn’t realise it, but I was ripe for the picking when he came along.
The bottom line in my marriage was that my dear, kind husband was afraid of me. Fearful of much, truth be told, but yes, afraid of what he rightly suspected, lay within me. The depths, the heights, the dimensions, all the things that you, my friends who know me now, realise pretty much go with the territory.
I diluted myself to be with him; stepped back from myself, hid in the shadows so as not to outshine him.
So silly really.
But he did not deserve what I did to him and I lived for years with the memory of him raising his hands to his face and sobbing into them as I started to break away from our life together.
Even now, that recollection catches in the depths of my being.

David, of course, saw all that strong stuff lurking within me right away. He was very attracted to me and it was a wild ride for us both when the floodgates opened.
He had other messy stuff going on with an ex-wife and an ex-lover and there were kids involved across the lot.
Ironically, he had been a man of the cloth and his awakening came when his ex-lover turned up and threw his life into turmoil.
I think he carried with him the guilt of what he did to his family to pursue what turned out to be a futile relationship and that was very much the reason why he wasn’t really free to love me. Only the success of that relationship could justify the pain he had inflicted on his wife and kids.
So, I wasn’t going to cut it.
And of course, that was passed onto me.
I’ve done this to a dear and lovely man and I can only justify it if David loves me and marries me. You may recall he had said both those things backalong in the early heady days.

It was too soon for me to be able to contemplate the no care, no responsibility version of the De Beauvoir/Satre arrangement.
So, disappointed, David withdrew from me.
And when he did that I became desperate, clingy and needy. It just did not go down very well.

So with all these things teeming around in my head I spent my day in that sad, soulless yet comfortable place.
I can’t remember what I did about food, but I’m fairly sure I wasn’t going anywhere, knickerless! Hadn’t counted on the ineffectual attempt to dry them in humid conditions……

I think this is the spot for Beethoven’s exquisite 2nd movement from his 5th piano concerto. Yearning, delicate, a smidge of sad rage in the middle.

https://youtu.be/IS30yphoy50

Mini memoir - 6th and final installment- 7th January 1983…..
Aussie arrival at last……

At that point, little traveled you understand, I didn’t know about the good ol’ towel squeezing technique; pathetically obvious though it may seem. So in the humidity of the tropics my undies, both pairs of course, were still damp when it was time to head out to the airport again.
Uncomfortable though that was, at least I was morally decent as I boarded the plane bound for, wait for it……..Melbourne!
Yes, I know!
Furthermore it went via Singapore and Brisbane and each time, especially in the descent, the coagulated mucus in my nasal passages promptly delivered the piercing pain of those air pressure shifts.
Fortunately, the city-hopper didn’t require me to disembark each time, but sat on the searingly hot tarmac waiting for the stragglers to board for the ever onward journey.

Touch down in Melbourne saw some jovial Aussie blokes come aboard and spray us all with noxious chemicals (remember that?) and then I finally put my feet on Terra Australis.
It seemed a miracle when I spotted my luggage on the carousel!
How ever did it know where to find me? Perhaps there is a god after all?

But…..this was to be the first time I had to manoeuvre my suitcases myself as I had able bodied assistance at the beginning of this, long, long; still yet to be over, haul.
Now, all this time I had my arm in a sling, not that it was of any use in the case of a frozen shoulder, but some cheerful cavalier saw my plight and helped lift my bags onto a trolley with a smile.
The passport guy seemed happy too; a rare soul, among the uniforms usually schooled in looking morosely suspicious.
His “welcome to Australia” seemed genuinely warm. He might have been decidedly chilly had he known I would still be here forty years later! But my assertion that I was on a working holiday was no word of a lie at the time.

The plane to take me back across Australia to Perth wasn’t for another 6 hours and it was way too early to check-in my luggage.
What could I do but rely on Ludwig to accompany me?
I cashed a travelers cheque, (remember them?) and called my cousin to tell her where I was. Amazingly, she knew! Her hubby was on oil rigs and was coming and going all the time, so I think she was on first name terms with Perth’s airport reception (remember them?) who gave her an accurate ETA.

I put on my still vaguely damp, spare undies; stocked up on AA batteries and more tissues, as the snot was still along for the ride; and maybe a drink and a cheese sandwich and pushed my trolley out into the glaring sunshine of that hot January day.
Of course, even now, you can’t see Melbourne from the airport and this was well before our sky scrapers began seriously piercing the great blue yonder; so as my plane flew in over the “sun-burnt country,” there was precious little to indicate that I was within coo-ee of any kind of civilisation.
The cheese sandwich bore this out!

I espied a concrete bench, lay down upon it, placed my headphones over my ears and played through each of the Beethoven cassettes, turning them over (remember that?) and then reloading them until I had listened to every note of each.
And then started from the top when I still had hours to spare.

Later, when I came to live in Melbourne and did what was to become the very familiar airport run; I always looked fondly at that bench, seeing the poor little waif there, clinging on to the edge of the seat and the edge of her life really, for fear of falling off both.
I think I was numb by this time. Numb and excruciatingly lonely, sad beyond sad that I was at the end of the world, spurned and unloved.
That’s a load of nonsense of course. Only one of the people I had left behind didn’t love me. But you know how it is with obsession; there’s just no leeway.
And I was going to be with my cousin who loved me too, for heavens sake!

But the thing about Beethoven is that he just knows these things, you know? Bless him.

Finally, the last flight took me across the endless Nullarbor into the dark night of the late hours of 7th January. My heavily pregnant cousin threw her arms around me and held me tight for a long time. Between us, Claire with her burgeoning bump, me with my broken wing; we somehow managed to get my luggage into her car.
At that time she lived in Yanchep, a glorified sand dune well north of Perth, so it was a pretty long drive across town as we headed home.
She said to me, “you must wonder where on earth you are.”
Indeed, dear cousin, indeed!
But I was safe at last; still sad and would remain so for many a month to come, for the bumpy road of sorrow is not easily left behind; but certainly the miles between me and its source was a starting point, where before my Great Big Adventure, there was none.

My choice of Beethoven today is the first movement of his much loved Pastoral Symphony.
Subtitled, rather aptly in the context of this little story, as the “Awakening of Happy Feelings on Arriving in the Country.”
Thought you’d like that!
It’s difficult to believe that this little piece of cheerfulness followed the tumult, though ultimately triumphant, fifth symphony.
But that’s life, I guess.
It would be a while before Happy Feelings would be Awakened in me.
But they surely were, my friends, they surely were.

Thank you for being with me as I recalled that rough and tumble, messy odyssey of sorts, to what was to become the most wonderful life imaginable.
How could I have known, eh?
Ever grateful to too many to name, but the last forty years have seen me blessed beyond measure.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Yes, a tear in my eye……….
https://youtu.be/_zKiDXbwdR0

The liars of the commercial world spend a lot of money on how to persuade us to spend ours. 🤑
Fear is everywhere you look. Right here on FB and anywhere on any platform, every moment. It. Never. Stops.

Fear of aging, fear of failure, fear of peril and accident, fear of flying, vying, dying, crying and so on and so forth.
And no, I’m not immune. I wish I was……

​Anyway, what say we form a pact to thumb our noses at any deliberate commercial act, prompted the moment we scroll for the elixir of youth (for instance)?

​What say, that instead of diving down the rabbit-hole, we listen to some lovely music, bury ourselves in a good book, go for a walk in a leafy glade or along a sandy beach?
Have a great week everyone.
Love to all,
Kxx

Adding to Voice Preparation exercises 1&2 to complete the fantastic trifecta with #3 - so then we’re ready to sing!!!!
YAY!

“Some writers are skilled with words, but all of us are skilled with procrastination.” Joseph O’Connor

Made me laugh! Me all over, the quote and Jemma Correll's brilliant map!
I guess we all procrastinate over the tedious ho-hum hum-drum bits.
But I procrastinate even over the things I actually enjoy doing like reading a book, going to bed, singing practice.
The only thing that readily has my attention is the crossword of a morning with my coffee. ✏️ 💭🥴
Ah well. Guess I’m human and I guess I’m in good company!
Have a fabulous week my lovely friends.
Kxx ❤️❤️❤️😘😘😘

VALE my beautiful friend Sarah Martin (née Locke) 1/8/56- 27/3/23

Mostly friendless as they were, my school days weren’t my favourites. But the lucky last experience of them served up Sarah; the wittiest, most brilliant, funniest pal to knock about with.

​In truth our paths overlapped only briefly. She, being of high academic stripe was in the Latin stream and I, relegated to the nuffy one which did “Environmental Studies.”
I didn’t turn up at that school until well into second year high school and she was moved on to a boarding school at the end of the third.
So yes, only eighteen months to form a bond which began in the school choir then flourished in youth clubs and sleepovers.

I said she was brilliant. Beyond the incomprehensible Latin, she sang, played cello, guitar and piano with easy facility and pretty much everything on the curriculum was a breeze for her.
She knew long words - lots of them! Crosswords were a snack! Going for a walk with her was a lesson in botany, geography and history well beyond anything any hallowed halls of learning had to offer.
Fun-loving and bubbly, she was a favourite with my family too and continued to be so over the years, always troubling to visit our little old darlings as they aged, who were much brightened by her visits. She undertook the four hour round trip for both their funerals, bless her dear, lovely heart.
Her own family were wealthy, but rather austere adherents of the Plymouth Brethren, I believe it was.
“Father” - and he was always that; had great expectations for his brilliant daughter and tipped her for being the lawyer of the family.
Because they were wealthy Sarah had no hope of receiving a county grant and Mr Locke would only support Law as a study choice.

To be honest whilst she could have knocked over a law degree in a blink; being bound to musty tomes for a few years didn’t really have any appeal for her.
Supported by Father, she did dabble with legal studies, but never completed her degree. She dipped in and out several times doing this and that, including a stint teaching in war torn Beirut, returning to a few thankless jobs in drab old London, staying with me and my then husband.
As with us all at that time, she married young.
It was far from happy and she ended up bundling her baby Mary into the car and doing a midnight flit for fear of her baby’s and her own safety. She lived in that car for many, many weeks, strapped for cash and scared of putting down roots in case she and Mary might be found.
By this time I was in Australia and for years I seldom could afford trips back home. Sarah wasn’t a regular correspondent I have to say, but when she did put pen to paper she was gifted as a writer too. For despite the terrible trials of homelessness, penury and the rebuilding of her life several times over; her letters were full of witty twists on those situations. You could be reading the most awful stories yet howling with laughter.

We did catch up when I was over and of course you’ve guessed by now that we just picked up where we left off, as though we had merely been in different rooms of the same house.

She was a brilliant home maker. On a shoestring, she managed to create a warm welcome into her many homes, most of which were wreckage of cottages salvaged from demolition and many out in the sticks of Dartmoor where she lived from the 90s.
Here she married again and had her son Sam. Sadly, that marriage too didn’t work out.
But Dartmoor was her “place.” She rekindled her love of nature in that wild and rugged terrain and conducted walking tours across the length and breadth of those gaunt tors and deep bouldered gullies of rushing crystal streams. Recalling our early walks, those visitors most certainly had a gold class experience in her fleeced and sturdy footed company.
At this time she ironically went into Law, becoming a Magistrate and also, rediscovered music, finding a passion for opera which she travelled the country and the world to see. Oh, and she kept sheep, of course she did! and learnt to play the flute too during this period.
In more recent years she trained as a nurse specialising in palliative care. Despite having a very difficult relationship with her father, she joining her mother to nurse him through his agonising cancer to the end was something she didn’t think twice about doing.
She mourned him deeply too.
In 2020, hers was the first hand up to go into the Covid wards.
Sarah found the 21st century difficult to navigate. In her latter years she walked hand in hand with depression. There was much latent hurt and dismay in her life’s experiences and her lack of a soul-mate was a source of sorrow too. Suitors a-plenty, but she never could get that bit quite right in her life.
But it was up on her beloved Dartmoor that she took a tumble last week, sustaining serious injuries from which there was to be no return. She had made her wishes about this situation clear to Mary, Sam and her wonderful friend, Louise. She and I had many conversations about how we wished our end to be; to exit on our own terms with our dignity intact.
She was lucid at the end and reiterated this wish in full knowledge of what she was asking of her children, her friends and the medical team.

I have loved this friend of my heart so very dearly.
My sorrow is deep and time will have its healing properties tested over the loss of this wonderful person, whose golden thread of a story has been so intricately woven with my own.
To find her end resulting from one last walk on Dartmoor was fitting though.
For it was there, where she was at one with nature, that she found peace.

My love to Mary, Sam and her wonderful friend Louise and all who knew her and loved her as I have done.
She will surely rest in my heart forever.
Bless you, my darling Sare.
Loved forever by me and the many now contemplating life without you walking this earth.
​Kxx