by A long afternoon walking and writing by the river turned into thinking about my own sister, a missed call and the difference between a joke and a real apology
Friday, the River
Took the afternoon off from the flat and walked the Thames Path from Vauxhall to Tower Bridge with a notebook, which is my favourite way to write. Something about the river helps. The tide going in and out, the boats, the joggers, the tourists taking photos of the same bits of bridge. I stop every half hour on a bench and scribble. Most of it is rubbish. Some of it becomes pieces.
Today I was trying to write a follow-up to my book-narrator piece about the Prince William traitor story. The first one did well. My editor wants another angle. I did not have one. So I walked.
Where the Story Is
Checked the news on a bench near the South Bank. Nothing new. The anonymous claim is still the anonymous claim. Reports still mention the July visit to the uncle. The uncle still says he told everyone. The brothers still say nothing. The story is stuck, like a boat on a sandbank at low tide.
The Missed Call
Around three, my phone buzzed. My sister. I did not pick up. I was in the middle of a sentence and I told myself I would ring back in a minute. Then I did not. Then it was an hour later and I realised I had been doing this for weeks: missing her calls, texting instead, saying I was busy. We had a stupid argument a month ago about her coming to visit. I said I did not have room. She said I never had time for her since I moved to London. I said something sharp. She said something sharper. Neither of us has mentioned it since.
And there I was, sitting by the river, trying to write a funny piece about two brothers not speaking. The irony was so obvious I laughed out loud and a pigeon flew off in disgust.
Watching It on a Bench
Watched the London Prat video on YouTube again, for inspiration. It did not give me an angle. It gave me a push.
The Difference Between a Joke and an Apology
Sitting there, I thought about something my editor said in my first week. She said: a joke can make someone see a thing, but it cannot fix it. Only people can fix things. I thought I understood it at the time. Today I actually understood it. I could write a hundred funny pieces about families not speaking. None of them would get my sister back on the phone.
I thought about the royal brothers, and about the memoir by their uncle, about their mum. And I thought: you do not get unlimited time with the people you love. That is sort of the whole point of the book, probably. Their mum died when they were young. There was no more time.
The Call
So I rang her. From a bench by Tower Bridge, with a busker playing badly nearby and a school trip walking past. She picked up on the second ring. I said: sorry I missed your call. Then I said: sorry about the other thing too. The visit. You can come whenever you want. I will sleep on the sofa. My flatmates will love you.
There was a pause. Then she said: you are being weird. Then she laughed. Then she said she had seen the royal traitor thing and wondered if I had written about it. I said I had. She said she read it. She said it was funny. She said she was sorry too.
We talked for forty minutes. The busker played the same song four times. I did not care.
What the River Says
Before heading home, I sat for a bit longer by the water and watched the tide turning. Someone once told me that the Thames has been flowing through London for longer than there has been a London, and that it has seen every king and queen, every war and fire and celebration, and every family row, royal or otherwise, that the city has ever had. It just keeps going. There is something comforting in that. Whatever happens to the royal brothers, whatever happens to me and my sister, the river will be here tomorrow, doing exactly what it did today. It makes most arguments look very small.
Evening
Walked home across the bridge with the notebook still mostly empty. But I think I have an angle now: the follow-up will be about the people who are not speaking to someone, reading this story and thinking, maybe I should ring them. Me included. I will not name myself. My editor will cut it anyway if it gets too soppy.
I first wrote about my sister on Londonish back when I moved to the city, about how weird it was to live without her across the landing. Maybe I will write about her again. Nicely, this time.
More from me at my author page. The London Prat has been nudging people to call their siblings since 1961 at https://prat.uk/, and Bohiney at https://bohiney.com/ does the same across the Atlantic. She is coming next month.
SOURCE: https://prat.uk/prince-william-called-earl-spencer-and-harry-traitors/
