Snow Patrol - Crack The Shutters - Royal Albert Hall 24/11/09

Snow Patrol - Crack The Shutters - Royal Albert Hall 24/11/09

Testing YouTube to my blog with Snow Patrol, Crack The Shutters from the magical evening at The Royal Albert Hall

The Diminishing Of A Star

A couple of weeks ago I was sat at home rather bored, monitoring Twitter when it occurred to me that Jonathan Ross who tweets under the name @Wossy had been a bit quiet of late. His wife disappeared off the face of Twitter quite some time ago but @Wossy was one of the key people, along with Stephen Fry and later Philip Schofield, in encouraging the rapid take-up amongst the UK showbiz/comedy circuit of Twitter. So I looked at his profile, spotted he had made recent posts I had obviously missed but more strangely it seemed I was not following him. This was most irregular, I must have made a false click of the mouse on a previous tweet, so I clicked the Follow button to return him to normal service. Lo and behold I had been blocked!

This was rather disconcerting. I had been a fan for years. I had praised his Radio 2 Saturday morning show in company on more than one occasion, I had stood up for him throughout the Sachsgate saga, felt his pain and defended, as much as was possible, his actions. Sheer brilliance wouldn't be sheer brilliance if it didn't go off the rails from time to time was the gist of my defence of his behaviour. I was once on the verge of tweeting him about his constant cajoling of 4 Poofs And A Piano with comments bordering on the homophobic but decided it was between consenting adults and I often guffawed at the choicer jokes anyway so that would have been pure hypocrisy.

But what had I done to offend this possible future knight of the British entertainment establishment?

Well there was the moment at Live 8 when he introduced the Italian concert from "Wome" and I immediately shouted out "Wome, where's Wome?" to the obvious enjoyment of 50 or so people around me in the enormous crowd. I could be identified from my inflatable pink pig which had later appeared with me on my TwitPic account but I suspect @Wossy never heard my joke being about a mile away from me on the stage.

I had made a couple of comments on Twitter about the appearance on every series of his Friday night talk show of Jimmy Carr and Ricky Gervais. Somebody on Popbitch less kind than me had suggested they were linked to the same agent but I kept this to myself.

Today it dawned on me. Back in September @Wossy launched the latest series of his chat show and included an interview with Jamie Oliver. Jamie has good comedy value for his supposed mockney character, despite being a genuine Essex boy, but equally he says some very interesting stuff. Unfortunately @Wossy was obviously suffering from being off our screens for a while and had his worst ever outbreak of interrupting the interviewee to make a gag then changing the subject, @Wossy duly laughed with, rather than allow the interviewee to continue the story that merited the question in the first place. I genuinely wanted to know the answer to a couple of questions so decided to ask Jamie himself.

There was one story he told about his daughter wanting a skateboard, so rather than just give her one he insisted she learn the names of and identify by sight all 25 herbs in a patch in his garden. Just as we were about to find out the outcome @wossy interjected, cracked a joke to further @Wossy and we never knew if Oliver Jr achieved her tough target. So I asked Jamie pointing out that @Wossy had interrupted him and, being a gent on Twitter, he later replied :

@gashead yes daisy did learn all 25 herbs from the garden by look and by smell nd she did get the skate board i have to up the anti now jox

Result, curiosity satisfied and a shiny celebrity reply, much craved by many on Twitter to validate their very existence and make cleaning other people's toilets or whatever their miserable day job entails less of a chore. So I asked another question :

@jamie_oliver What were you going to say about 15 in relation to your 19th century relative who fed the poor? @Wossy interrupted again.

and to the best of my knowledge my timeline hasn't been troubled by a tweet from @Wossy since then. What a sad, petty thing to do. I was using Twitter to enhance the viewer experience of his show by asking an interviewee to finish what @Wossy didn't let him complete. No harm in that, benefits to be derived and it was all said in fun. But maybe the world is only allowed to laugh with him, not at him, unless you're Ricky Gervais or Jimmy Carr of course.

IFPI/Cheryl Cole vs Gashead

Last Thursday I went to the most excellent Children In Need Rocks The Royal Albert Hall concert and carried on my usual habit of videoing some of the concert for fans to enjoy on YouTube. By this morning I had over 120,000 views of my videos and apart from the usual flame wars in one particular video's comments the fans were happy and grateful.

This afternoon a notice appeared against my recording of Cheryl Cole's Fight For This Love telling me it was no longer available due to a copyright breach.

Sanction 1:

Cheryl Cole - Fight For This Love - RAH 12/11/09 - (alistairburns)
Video ID: sdnl4C8a-98
Removed due to a copyright claim by IFPI on 16 November 2009

Moreover my account was no longer in good standing, 2 more strikes and I could be out! Of course there is a laughable side to this in that when Cheryl performed the same song "live" on X Factor she announced in advance that she would be performing to a pre-recorded vocal. I didn't watch my video in any great detail as it was a bit out of focus and I missed the beginning but several comments noted that this appeared to be far from a live performance. From what I know about YouTube's AudioID the soundtrack must have flagged up as an exact match to the original studio recording. Rumbled by themselves LOL etc!

However this does pose a danger to me if I ever happen to record 2 more performances using a pre-recorded music track as YouTube say "Accumulation of three strikes may result in the termination of your account."

Proper live performers seem to have no difficulties with my many recordings of their performances. Two examples. Editors' official forum asked me if I would be kind enough to let them link to my recordings of their concert at Fabric despite it being their copyright. The great Mike Tobin manager of Stackridge contacted me and asked if I could make my Glastonbury 2008 recordings available to the fans with reasonable costs paid to me, I made them available on the understanding a donation would be made to Air Ambulance.

Even megabuck stars like Coldplay, U2 and The Killers have given me no grief whatsoever for videos I have posted. In fact I posted an ENTIRE Killers concert to YouTube 4 months before it was released on DVD. I suppose I should have expected the first grief to come from the record company of an artist associated with X Factor.

p.s. Cheryl I love you! Your performance here, while it lasts on YouTube, was a very pleasant surprise. Shame your record company are threatening my sharing of live music with fans on YouTube

2-4-6-8 Motorway - Road trains get ready to roll

2, 4, 6 or 8 vehicles linked on a motorway? Who better for the job than "Tom Robinson, project co-ordinator at engineering firm Ricardo"

BBC NEWS | Technology | Road trains get ready to roll.

 

The Maldon Mud Race 2002

I wrote this in 2002 :

"As all but two fingers have now recovered their full range of sensations a note on the above.

Don't do it.

The course is Maldon Promenade Park down into the river, through it and up the other side, along that side and back down into the water and back into the park. 150 competitors.

A good-natured Bank Holiday crowd awaited the start as the competitors moved into position at the top of the river bank. Ice covered some of the mud giving a deceptively firm footing. The starter said rice pudding and off we went down over the mud into the 3 foot deep river. I attempted to swim across but the number of people splashing around me and the sheer cold made this impossible. Waded on through for a keenly anticipated romp up the other side. That was where it got nasty.

It was impossible to move through the mud without going thigh high into the stuff, especially where other competitors had already been. My only option was to crawl across the mud on all fours attempting to pull my body up the 20 or so metres. All around people were suffering bitterly cold fingers and I was fearful of losing my wedding ring. In different circumstances I would have been very interested in the different colours and layers of mud but not that day. Near the top of the bank I had to stop from sheer exhaustion struggling to catch my breath. The official route was 40 metres along the top of the bank through more mud but like most others I opted to crawl 10 metres further up the bank so I could walk along the grassy bit at the top. Such relief to make it I was almost looking forward to going back down through the mud to cross the river again. It was marginally easier and I managed to walk more than I crawled. Second time around the river was relief and the climbing up the last bank was relatively painless. One git asked me to pull him out of the mud only for him to walk in front of me at the finishing pen.

As we walked past the crowd to the showers people looked shocked at how exhausted the competitors were. The commentator was making predictable comments about somebody on the other side still doing seal impressions but they appeared to be in great distress and had to be helped out by stewards in wetsuits. I assume the commentator has never exercised anything other than his tongue and tedious wit. As I removed some of the mud in the cold showers the guy next to me bent over and threw up at the side. None of the post-race exhilaration of a marathon was evident.

Rather than hunt out the official showers I headed straight for the car and spent ten minutes trying to remove my shoes which were tied to my feet to stop me losing them. I was not shivering, I was jerking continuously. I finally got shoes off, me in the car and headed for home only to be stuck in a traffic jam of spectators all the while jerking backwards and forwards with cold unable to properly feel the steering wheel.

As I got out of the car a neighbour tried to talk to me but I was shaking too much to talk intelligibly and was turning blue. I had a long warm shower, got out and immediately started shivering again. For three days afterwards I had a terribly painful nose, stinging eyes and sneezing fits. Even now two of my fingertips are partially numb.

There was no good memory to take with me, this is a very unpleasant way to spend Boxing Day"

Despite all of that I have entered again for 27th December 2009!

The Importance Of Organ Donation #4

7th July 2009

Dear Alistair

Once again, please excuse this intrusion to your life. I hope you are all well over a year down the line from our meeting.

I am writing again as I have more news. Another baby, a 6 month old boy received a heart tissue patch for a congenital defect. This procedure will have made a huge difference to his health and will allow him to grow and develop normally. This is only possible with thanks to your decision to allow your partner Anne-Marie to donate tissues, following her sad death last May.

I hope this news continues to bring you some comfort.

http://www.uktransplant.org.uk/ukt/how_to_become_a_donor/how_to_become_a_donor.jsp

The Importance Of Organ Donation #3

9th February 2009

Dear Alistair

Once again, please excuse this intrusion to your life. I hope you are well at this time and Christmas was not too difficult for youl (sic, Anne would have enjoyed that typo!).

I am writing as I have received more news. A 3 month old baby girl received a heart tissue patch as part of a complex procedure called a Norwood Operation. This procedure is performed to repair one of the more complicated congenital heart defects where all of the structures on the left side of the heart (the side which receives oxygen-rich blood from the lungs and pumps it out to the body) are severely underdeveloped. This procedure will have made a huge difference to her health and even saved her life. This is only possible with thanks to you and your partner Anne-Marie, following her sad death last May.

I hope this news continues to comfort you in your grief.

http://www.uktransplant.org.uk/ukt/how_to_become_a_donor/how_to_become_a_donor.jsp

The Importance Of Organ Donation #2

12th December 2008

Dear Alistair

Please excuse this intrusion to your life. I hope you and your family are well at this time.

I am writing as I have just received news that a 3 year old little boy has had an Aortic Arch repair, with the patch of heart tissue retrieved from your partner, Anne-Marie, following her sad death in May. This procedure will have made a huge difference to his health and even saved his life.

I hope you gain further comfort in this news.

http://www.uktransplant.org.uk/ukt/how_to_become_a_donor/how_to_become_a_donor.jsp

The Importance Of Organ Donation #1

2nd July 2008

Dear Alistair

Again please accept my condolences following the death of your partner, Anne-Marie. I hope that you are starting to come to terms with your loss.

As promised I am writing to you as I have now received further information from the eye bank in Bristol regarding Anne-Marie's very generous donation.

Two people have had their sight restored through corneal transplants. The first is a 74 year old female and the second is a 30 year old female. This will have had an incredible impact on both their lives. On behalf of these two people, and their families, thank you.

http://www.uktransplant.org.uk/ukt/how_to_become_a_donor/how_to_become_a_donor.jsp

Being There : Editors Live At Fabric 16/09/09

It was announced very late, just one week before, but Editors were launching their new album at Fabric, more renowned for non-funky and non-hard house, techno fine, R&B right out. I already had tickets for their Hammersmith Apollo concert later in the year but the chance to see them somewhere unusual, small audience, close to the stage couldn't be passed up.

I had seen Editors three times previously at Glastonbury and V Festival. Their performances were always very intense with singer Tom Smith appearing to go through intense mental anguish at times. But there was always the screeching sound of Chris Urbanowicz's guitar running through every song. It was time for something different and previews of their forthcoming album album In This Light And On This Evening indicated something beyond their previous sound. The choice of Fabric was probably intended to reflect their new sound which the remixers will have great fun with, strong keyboard rhythms reminiscent of Kraftwerk or Portishead's Third.

Down into the depths of the club we descended to a Cavern-like room with a mixing desk right in the middle and a small stage. Despite the edgy nature of the group the crowd were polite, good spread across the age ranges. It was strange being served drinks in glass bottles and wine glasses. The freeloaders had their own little area up on a balcony where they could look clean, neat and jig politely like John Redwood at a wedding, downstairs was sheer enthusiasm, fanatics and the usual types who you never expected to be there.

As for the music, judge for yourself from my selection below. We all loved it, dynamic, never boring, sung with their characteristic passion and an amazingly good sound system. At one point Tom Smith finished a verse then turned away from the keyboard mouth wide open, neck sticking out like a swan appearing to let out a silent primal scream. The new album will be a classic, even if it alienates many existing fans. File under fucking brilliant night.

Some snaps from the evening :

Editors live at Fabric 16/09/09

Here's my seven recordings as a YouTube playlist :

Or the individual songs :

Waiting For The Inevitable

Although I normally sleep soundly I didn't that night. My conscious and my subconscious were both still working at trying to take it all in. It was very comforting laying next to Anne, able to put my arm across here and kiss her cheek but the hard reality of it was that I was waiting for her to die. Every time I woke up I would look at her face, listen to her breathing and every time there was no perceptible change. She didn't have any need of life support for the time being. The nurses were exceptionally kind checking on me as well as Anne, making sure I was comfortable, one of them saying she didn't think she would fade away in those crucial first two hours despite what the surgeon thought. We agreed she was a tough old girl and wasn't going out of this world without a fight.

So it continued for two more nights. I spent the Monday and Tuesday nights in a chair beside the bed trying to sleep upright despite having never been able to sleep on my back but wanting to make sure Anne was never alone, sometimes one of the boys would join me, for 4 hours I slept in a room at the side while Martin or was it Rich kept the night watch. There was little change. I had the idea Anne would die and I could go back to Woolacombe to sit out at the front of the house looking over to the sea and hills we both loved and I could find the peace to try and come to terms with what had happened for a few days. As time passed I began to think about having to return to The Quest on the Friday, which we were due to leave at 10am, pack up Anne's and my belongings and return to Plymouth. I was uneasy at the prospect of having to leave the hospital for up to six hours.

Meanwhile there were day to day needs and, in the case of nicotine requirement, hourly ones. From 10pm to 6am the hospital front door was locked. It was easy enough to get out but getting back in was another matter. This was not helped by the lumbering security guard Mr William Goat-Gruff. Mr G-G was a keen pasty man as is common in Devon, he was famous for his position at the front of the queue at the hospital bakers every morning for his favourite local delicacy. When you get to control the front door this is easily manipulated. But when it came to letting people in over the night he was far less keen and fleet of foot. he would see my face at the door, give me a look common to dog walkers when they discover somebody else hasn't cleared up the mess in the main thoroughfare, and very reluctantly leave his tabloid, ITV Quiz and stand in front of the door to let me in. He obviously wanted a magic button to open the door, I wished he had one, but there was no such facility and so we became sworn enemies at a time I had a new love for my fellow man and tolerance for any indiscretions. Fortunately our battle of wills only lasted for two nights, after which I discovered there was a little outdoor area accessible from the wards where cigarettes could be smoked and mobile phones used, The Japanese Garden prevented fisticuffs. I spoke with one of the nurses about this unpleasant man. She told me that a few monthss back he had to have some blood tests. One of the nurses asked a colleague how he had got on and was told it was bad news, he was Ginsters positive.

Meanwhile, back at the car, 3 dogs were having to put up with very poor conditions. A Peugeot 407 SW has a fair bit of room but it was a very hot May in 2008 and they were used to having a house to roam and regular exercise. Chris from the transplant team had very kindly printed me a map of the area highlighting good dog walks and so I headed up to Dartmoor, Plymouth Hoe and other beauty spots at various times of the day or night where they could run around and waggle their tails. Anne's dogs seemed a bit puzzled as to why it was just me taking them out but once they got the smell of a Dartmoor pony or rabbit all seemed right with them. These times away from the machines that go ping were invaluable for me, trying to make sense of how something so apparently trivial had ended up this way. The early morning sun and wind up on the moor or along the water front was harsh and my heightened senses felt everything but I was still able to see beauty in new places and new that life could still be good, it hadn't suddenly stopped. Throughout the days in Plymouth the dogs lived in the back of the car uncomplaining, grateful for treats, never barking or chewing in frustration or unhappiness.

One morning as I was about to walk into a lift in the hospital a man emerged wearing a pink vest with a rather splendid moustache. I tried not to laugh in his face and thought I must tell Anne I've just seen the only gay in the hospital, that being the kind of joke she would labour endlessly and share with everybody she saw for the next day or so. But I couldn't, it really hit home how hard it would be to realise that the one person in the world who seemed to share my sense of humour so completely was unable to do so any longer.

I had no spare clothes with me and so I went on a 4am shopping trip to Tesco for T shirts, socks and pants. I decided to pick up two sets of boules for £25. We had seen an identical set for £40 in Bristol on the way to Devon and Anne and I both loved a bargain. One of the kindest nurses in HDU reminded me very much of Sir Walter Raleigh in his physique and impressive Elizabethan beard so I referred to him as Sir Walter out of ear shot. Later that morning I mentioned to Linda my strange purchase. Being of the same mind set as Anne she immediately suggested my sub-conscious intention must have been to challenge Sir Walter to a game of boules on The Hoe. I laughed and laughed.

By the Wednesday Anne's condition had changed slightly. I would put my face up to her mouth and listen to her breathing and had got to know the patterns. There were times when the nurses thought, from experience, she was fading, then it would resume its steady rhythm. But that day it seemed a little shallower, her strength seemed to be fading. That night it was the Champions league Final between Manchester United and Chelsea, a game that promised to be a cracker, a special night in English football history. The reality was an apparently tedious game I had no real interest in and would leave every ten minutes or so to check up on Anne. I would look at the screen of the tiny portable but not really see anything, I just couldn't engage my emotions with something so unimportant.

The game over I sat next to the bed with the others, Martin rested his laptop on Anne and we watched the last two episodes of the second series of Gavin and Stacey. Anne and I had watched the very last episode several times together, the finest 30 minutes of British TV comedy ever. It might have looked rather irreverent to onlookers seeing us laughing away over Anne's declining body. But it was right, we needed to share that feeling of laughter over the Essex people's unwitting humour and potential for distraction in urgent situations one more time with Anne. I saw things in that last episode I had never noticed before, found more subtleties, all the while feeling Anne was sharing them with me. That far corner of the ward was full of the kind of feelings we always had together and when Smithy saw the baby and Nessa gave him that deep, loving look I cried and squeezed Anne's hand even tighter.

Gradually the others went off to settle down for another night. I spoke with the nurses and they believed that if Anne had any consciousness at this point she appeared to be suffering. her breathing was changing and we could hear labouring in her chest movement. A doctor came along and we decided we should give her morphine to prevent her from suffering, over the next hour they administered more in the full knowledge that this would ease her on her way.

The breathing turned into a regular noise that could only be described as sounding like a goose, Adam always called her Goose after Mother Goose, this was one last thing to laugh with Anne about. The noise got stronger, it was upsetting to hear, more morphine was administered, the nurse with me knew there wasn't much longer to go which I had already sensed. Just after 1am she would stop breathing for a few seconds, then start again. I would try and hold her without preventing her from breathing, keeping my head close to hers all the while the goose noise rising and fading. At 1.22am on the 22nd May 2009 there were a few softer breaths then it stopped. I held her spread across, told her one more time how much I loved her and felt the last warmth from her body. Then over a minute later she let out one last, loud breath which shocked me, then made me laugh at how she had fooled me. Anne had made me laugh one last time in her final ever breath.

Trying To Bring Hope From Despair

I returned to Derriford with 3 dachshunds tucked up in the back of my car, found a spot out of the sun, paid my parking and went back inside to the High Dependancy Unit (HDU). It was 7 or 8 am and everybody else was still about, sat in the tiny waiting room waiting for some news, any news. Anne was still off in a different ward undergoing tests for signs of life, responses, any indication that she was more than just a fatally damaged body fading away.

Eventually a very well spoken gentleman with crisp chinos and a smart blue shirt came in and laid it on the line. There was little if any chance of recovery based upon the extent of the brain injury they had seen. However she had been given a great deal of medication and they would wait until this was no longer clouding the situation and they would have a much clearer idea the following morning. If there were any developments before then they would let us know immediately and we were welcome to ask any questions. But what do you ask? We made a few attempts, mainly based around finding some scope for hope, but they weren't going to lie to be kind. I had thought about the brain damage of which they spoke, had tried to imagine an Anne sat there with far away eyes, not sharing in this world, just surviving. That would be even more painful than what appeared inevitable. In the worst of all possible worlds this was probably the best outcome. But I didn't want to lose her, it was all so sudden, the only slow realisation was the night before as the surgeons faces looked ever more grave.

So it was just a matter of time, wait until the next morning and see if there was even the slightest hope. Meanwhile the news was getting around and people deserved to have their questions answered. I sat for a long time on the bank outside the main entrance talking to Anne's friends and family on the phone, sending and replying to text messages and emails, trying to make sense of what had happened for them as well as me. Every time I was asked if I minded talking about it but to do so helped me focus on reality, definite things, not the unknowns ahead. I didn't want other people getting Chinese whispers, all the more so because Anne was so loyal to and close with her friends, I knew how hard it must be for them to take it all in so gave as much information as I could. The number one rule was "no pussyfooting", don't talk in hushed tones, you can make jokes, laugh about things, Anne always would and now is not the time to change that.

Having been reassured that we would be called immediately if anything happened, the family group decided to head up the road to a pub for a drink and a meal. There was one within easy walking distance so we sat outside in the sun away from the windowless HDU and talked and laughed and cried and laughed. Any talk of Anne always turned to laughter, you couldn't talk about her without ending up how she did every hour of every day, laughing about something. From the side people would have thought it was a family celebration, these people all chatting away, bursting out into laughter repeatedly. Every now and than I would think about what we were doing, should we be laughing, was it just our nerves, but always knew it was just how it was and hopefully always would be, Anne and laughter.

The rest of that day is the least clear of that time. I walked the dogs, sometimes alone, sometimes with others. More phone conversations, texts and emails, occasional updates that told us no more from the medical staff. Eventually I bedded down in the back of the car, the dogs behind me, and slept for two or three hours, occasionally waking up and remembering why I was there.

Sunday morning we were all brought into a small waiting room with the door closed and a do not disturb sign placed on the door. The surgeon came in and told us there were no signs of any response even after the medication had cleared Anne's system. The only thing keeping her alive was the life support system and without that she would die fairly soon. Once that had sunken in and we cried and hugged we then had to make a decision. Anne had signed up as an organ donor but ultimately the decision was ours to respect her wishes or not. Would we be prepared to talk to the transplant coordinator, we were unanimous on that point. In some ways it felt like throwing in the towel but the surgeon inspired confidence in his diagnosis, we hadn't said yes at that point but all knew Anne's principles, her wish that everybody would give others the chance to live better lives if they lost their own one. As we waited for the coordinator to arrive we spoke about it and the decision made itself.

Chris Chalker the Derriford Transplant Coordinator arrived, dressed very smartly in a suit and sharp tie. He summarised Anne's situation, spoke of her wishes, reaffirmed our option to override them should we so wish...but we told him no, Anne would want it and so did we, whatever good can come out of our tragedy must be given a chance. Chris explained how Anne's remarkable fitness and the nature of her injuries meant that all of her major organs would be very suitable. The process was not simple however. He and his team would effectively speak to the "market" giving details of Anne and have to persuade them of her suitability, they wouldn't come rushing, they would need convincing. Once convinced each recipient medical team would fly into Derriford where there is an airport right behind the hospital, remove the organ within minutes of death and fly it to the person that needed it, multiple teams working on the same body. We would have a few minutes to say our goodbyes but after that they would have to get down to work very quickly. This would take a few hours to arrange, the organs would need to be allocated, organ recipients would need to be made ready, aircraft would need to be hired and the various teams would have to be assembled simultaneously. We were looking at approximately 5 hours. At this time Anne's life support would be removed. If she died within the hour her heart and lungs could be used, beyond that they would be damaged and unsuitable. Two hours was the cut off time for the other major organs, beyond that time was less of the essence, the transplant teams would depart and heart valves and cornea could be removed and stored for the longer term. It all sounds very businesslike the way I write it but Chris was very reassuring, sincere and comforting. Whatever the outcome he and his team would be there to do whatever they could for us both in the short and the long term. So again we confirmed we would like Anne's wished to be carried out and off he went to start the highly complex process.

At some point around this time Anne was brought into the HDU main ward and I got to see her for the first time since I got out of the helicopter with her around 36 hours before. She lay there in the bed attached to wires on her skin, in her skin wearing a standard gown. Her face was swollen from the medication, just breathing steadily and regularly but no sign of her usual scrunched up face I had seen on the pillow beside me so many times before. There were grazes on her face and hands and bruises I had not been aware of at the time of the accident, all I had seen was a slight cut on her face and the blood coming from the back of her head. Some of the bruising had been caused by medical procedures but the extent of the grazes shocked me. There had been some surgical work in the back of her skull so I had to hold her very carefully so as not to move her head or the wires and tubes. As we all gathered round and held her the same words "you silly thing", "look what you did to yourself" came lovingly but sadly from several mouths. As I looked at her she was there but I didn't feel Anne was there any more, she was in my heart but this swollen, damaged body seemed strange, sad, helpless, lacking her essential being.

As the morning went on we took time to sit with her or sit in the waiting room talking about her. Nine people sat around a hospital bed is far too many in a very busy ward even though Anne was moved to the far end by the back wall to accommodate us all. The expected time at which the life support machine would be switched off went from 2pm to 4pm to early evening. There was the bizarre need to convince other medical teams of Anne's suitability as a donor and the procurement of executive jets, meanwhile I was sending more emails and texts, making occasional phone calls to keep people informed.

There were 3 stir crazy dachshunds in the back of my car and I proposed a walk with them for anybody interested. Most of the group decided they needed some fresh air, we were hungry and should raise a glass to Anne up at the previous day's pub. There was nothing we could do in the hospital and we would soon be back at her bedside. Unfortunately all of the dogs' leads were back in Woolacombe, they needed a walk but there was a busy car park and busy road to negotiate. Putting grace to one side we got 3 sturdy lengths of strong string from the hospital shop as, oddly, they didn't sell dog leads. As we walked up the hill with dogs on string my heart wanted Anne to drive by in her mini, open the window and shout "oi, you bloody pikeys, you're not taking my dogs out on string!"

Another surreal hour or two passed with more laughter, more sadness, much mutual encouragement and support as well as many moments of despair. In the outside world the sun was shining and it would have been a glorious weekend for us all in Woolacombe. My biggest feelings of sadness came from thinking back how much Anne was looking forward to sharing this week with her boys. They were certainly bonding in Plymouth, closer than they had been for a long time but it wasn't meant to be this way.

We returned to more delays in assembling the teams. It was the day of the Monaco Grand Prix and it seemed every private jet in Europe was taking fat cats and corporate freeloaders there and back rather than doing something to make the world a better place, bastards. As the evening drew on the time was 8pm, 8pm came and went and finally at 9.40 pm we got to hug Anne and say our farewells before all means of physical support were removed. I held her, tried to summarise what I felt about her in a few words in the hope she might still be in there and could hear but equally knowing that if there is an after-life then she would hear me anyway.

We had to go away while they removed the wires and tubes to avoid distress to us and to give them room to work. Once this had been done we all gathered around the bed holding whatever part of her was available as we waited for her to stop breathing. There was a clock up on the wall and occasional visits from the nurses. But as the first hour passed it was becoming clear Anne's condition wasn't changing. On the one hand it was sad to think her heart and lungs wouldn't live on in somebody else but secretly I was very proud of her, then less secretly when we all confessed to the same feeling. We had also realised earlier that this was the first anniversary of Anne's mum passing away and although there could be some kind of celestial powers behind this the thought of a double death on the same date seemed wrong, too neat, too tragic. The nurses kept coming by measuring pulse and blood pressure but they reassured us this wasn't a race against time and whatever time it took was OK by them. We moved into the second hour where the other organs would still be viable but there was no sign of Anne changing. occasionally her body wriggled a bit or she would partially turn but there was no Anne in her face, just bodily reflexes moving her legs. At the end of the second hour Chris came along and spoke with us, no outward signs of disappointment, thanked us so much for agreeing to the donation again and outlining what was still possible. He assured us that while the operating theatre would not now be used he and his team were still there for any needs or questions we had as long as we were there with Anne and beyond.

The jets left empty-organed with their teams, we had to start thinking about where we would spend the night. But I didn't want to go, I didn't want Anne to die alone nor did anybody else. That night I was allowed to lie in the bed beside Anne.

Doing What Had To Be Done

It's 2am Saturday morning. I've just been told the woman I love is unlikely to survive the weekend following a fall from a bicycle that seemed so inconsequential. But there are three dachshunds two hours away on the other side of Dartmoor left unattended in a strange house and they have been in there for 8 hours. My car is there as well.

There's nothing I can do at the hospital, Anne is somewhere behind the scenes and I know what she would do in the same situation. Adam's world is shattered but he gets antsy so he volunteers to drive me back to Woolacombe along with Hollie who is dazed and confused realising that the woman she called Mum through love, despite the unquestioning love of her own Mum, might no longer be there for her.

We crossed Dartmoor and surrounding villages at high speed, rain lashing down like an episode of Scooby Doo, unable to reassure each other because we knew the reality. The road went on forever, the quaint villages with their traffic calming were just an annoyance, there was nothing to enjoy about the journey. At last we arrived in Woolacombe, me returning to a place Anne and I loved over several visits, Adam and Hollie seeing it for the first time.

The Quest is a beautiful house. Not in the LA spectacular sense, it's somewhere you walk into and feel right at home. Despite all that had happened Adam immediately knew why Anne and I loved the place, even in the dark and rain when his Mum was miles away on a life support machine with little hope. We walked around for a bit and agreed a time to return to Plymouth so they could sleep for a while, it had been a very long bad Friday. I didn't sleep. I saw to the dogs' immediate needs, made a lame effort at telling them what had happened in the way you do with trusting animals then walked around trying to take it all in. I saw things I hadn't noticed when I knew we had a holiday week with the boys and their girls ahead of us, a long life together, a future.

In the lounge there was a leather armchair by the bay window. Set around it on the window sill were Anne's books for the week, her photography magazines full of tips bought from Chelmsford Market well past their issue date bought just the week before. Anne had set out her spots for enjoying the beautiful view over Woolacombe Bay during the week she would not spend there. I went up to our bedroom and saw here case laying open on the floor, crushables hung up from the wardrobe handles, her toiletries laid out in the bathroom, nothing obvious but all contributing to that scent that was unmistakeably Anne. She was all geared up for that week she intended to share with me and her boys and their girls, it broke my heart. I sat outside in the garden as the sun rose invisibly behind the hill but lighting up the sky over a world that didn't appreciate, apparently didn't care what had happened to Anne. Nothing was certain so I didn't raise the alarm on my Blackberry, those that urgently needed to know knew.

6am arrived, I woke up Adam and Hollie and said I would head back to Plymouth as I wanted to be there for the consultants' rounds when they would prognosticate and report back. I offered them the chance to stay but, like me, they wanted to get back. I had a theory the route back could have been much shorter so I set the destination in my SatNav and they followed behind in their car, the dogs luxurious in my car. The route  started well, different, fast, straight country roads with no traffic calming. Then what appeared to be a side road was very much one degenerating into a track with grass in the middle and the sides closing in. It was like a nightmare in a cheap film but this was a major irritation in a real life nightmare as I appeared to be driving down a stream. I really don't need this just now.

Eventually the road let me out and I found myself back on conventionally accepted thoroughfares and onto Dartmoor, Plymouth ahead. As the sun rose and I saw the moor in the cold morning light either side of me I shook and sobbed and my mind and body accepted what had happened and knew the consequences.

What Are You Doing?

The title is the classic Twitter prompt. The popular answer is said to be "I am eating a sandwich" from those who don't use Twitter. Many Twitter users are far more creative, unfortunately many are less creative.

Twitter really took off in the UK when enough celebrities signed up and tweeted regularly to make Johnny Britisher realise they could sign up and actually know somebody on there, even if not in the biblical or down the pub sense. The famous celebrity tweeters provided insights into their day to day lives, often far more candid than anything they ever revealed through the usual celebrity publicity and self-glorification channels.

Then along came those who felt they had to establish a presence without actually having anything interesting to say. Their answer to the question "What are you doing?" would be something along the lines of "Good morning everybody!". Legendary cricket commentator Richie Benaud could get away with this at the beginning of every live broadcast as he would follow up with a series of insightful remarks on the forthcoming day's play. But not unimaginative UK celebrity tweeter (UUKCT). UUKCT would receive a flood of interesting replies and have a basis for the rest of their Twitter session. They wouldn't have to read anybody else's tweets and interact on subjects other than their wonderful celebrity self, just monitor their replies when not monitoring their group of favourite other UK celebrity tweeters. No imagination required and those who were favoured with a reply would say how great UUKCT was to all the non-UUKCTs they followed, job done, new book/CD/DVD/exercise DVD bought.

Now it seems the non-UUKCTs do exactly the same thing in ever increasing numbers. If anybody says "Good morning" and ends at that it makes me think of assembly at school when the headmaster would say "Good morning boys and girls" and we would all reply "Good morning Mr Lander" in unison, apart from the slower ones who created a slightly later "Lander" echo effect. So I don't reply, I leave their need for a response while not giving any information to their other hundreds of followers.

Similarly, if somebody says "How are you all?" there is no way I am going to give them something for nothing. If I told them how I was it would likely depress most days as I have felt pretty shit (excuse my French) for several months now and I'm not "all" anyway, I'm me. I may be British but I rarely talk about the weather for something to talk about, consider it rude to complain about my health from the off and don't believe in saying "I'm fine" when I'm actually pretty crap. If they already know about my gammy leg or rampant swine flu then they should ask me personally if they are interested, a general "How are you all?" does nothing to elicit a response from me.

So often I see a topic all over Twitter when I log in, but the punters who only ever read their personal replies don't have a clue and ask stuff like "How come I've lost 100 followers overnight?" even though it has been the hot topic for the last couple of hours and discussed in great detail.

Tell me what you are doing and it's an entirely different matter, capture my imagination and I'm in there with the best of them. I will tell an anecdote related to what you are doing, ask pertinent questions, advise how to improve the experience or even warn against if appropriate. I get to know you, you get to know me, we are no longer strangers who just happen to tweet at each other.

"What are you doing?" is the key to keeping Twitter interesting, tell everybody and it can fascinate, live life through others and they may just clam up and do the same. Interact, read other people's tweets even if they aren't in response to one of yours. Twitter are rumoured to be about to change this prompt very soon but however trite or generic it may seem responding in a creative or imaginative way to this simple question keeps it fresh.

Things I Love/Hate About Twitter

Things I Love

1. You can follow anybody you like, unless they block you, bastards, didn't want to follow them anyway.


2. Your Twitter experience is the sum of the people you follow, slightly spoiled by your own input and the occasional violent reaction you get to something that seemed quite reasonable after 5 pints of cider.


3. People have to express themselves in 140 characters or less, apart from Gyles Brandreth or the dearly departed Stan Collymore who just send multiple tweets one after the other.


4. It's free, on the web or on your mobile, a choice of fully functioning clients to suit your Twitter experience. Bloody liberty if it goes down for a while of course, to think I pay for this shoddy service, ah, sorry, as you were.


5. Superb for news and opportunities, would never have got those Coldplay/Killers concert tickets without it. OK so a couple of my friends haven't spoken to me since because I could only get two tickets in the pre-sale and didn't ask them aong but hey, rock and roll eh?


6. Good way to get to know people from all sorts of backgrounds in a way you never would otherwise. You regret it later but shiny new things are new...and shiny!


7. Celebrities often reveal their true colours and it is surprising how many you thought would be arseholes are actually decent, caring, insecure people, others confirm that they are, indeed, arseholes, oftentimes even more so than you originally thought.

Things I Hate

1. #followfriday with a long list of names but absolutely no reasons whatsoever why you should follow this list of people the sender probably just compiled out of a sense of duty in the first place. This is then compounded by them asking people who they missed out of their #followfriday to let them know and they will recommend them. By their very nature they are obviously so boring and tedious that they got forgotten about in the first  place so why you would recommend them to anybody is beyond me.


2. Celebrity tarts. Along comes celebrity saying "good morning, how are you all?" i.e. I have nothing of interest to say whatsoever. Hordes of people respond in the vain hope that they will receive a reply and have their very existence validated.


3. People who constantly retweet the same people. If you're interested in what they have to say you would follow them anyway, if you're not interested you don't want to hear more and more of their tedium.


4. Chocolate. There are only so many times you can publicly weigh up the pros and cons of having a bar of chocolate.


5. I'm not watching it so don't spoil it! The Apprentice is a national institution yet people plead "please don't say who got fired, I'm on a gap year in Ulan Bator and won't see it until next January". Oh right, sorry, everybody on Twitter keep quiet while Giles puts off earning a proper living for several months more at Mummy and Daddy's expense, rolling up the interest on their student loan.


6. Mr/Mrs Obvious-Comment. Somebody tweets, you just know Mr/Mrs O-C will reply in a certain, predictable way, they do.


7. Flu. If you had the flu you wouldn't be well enough to tweet all day long about it. It's a cold, live with it.


8. Agendas. This is what I tweet about. I have no other reason for being on here. I might chip in the odd thing about something else for form's sake and so I come across as a well-rounded human being but as sure as night follows day I'll be back tweeting on message. If it's a charity I will try and make people feel guilty about unfollowing me.


9. Johnny Come Latelies. "OMG The Corn Laws have been repealed!" Yeh, that's like so 1846, where have you been all day, people have been tweeting about it endlessly for the last 163 years and you think you have breaking news and we're all going to be so impressed?


10. Misstra Know-It-All. Life is afflicted with the self-proclaimed expert, with the right followers they are pigs in shit, spouting on about an obscure topic sounding very wise. But I'm a clever sod, I can find you out, I can smell bullshit, one whiff and I Google it, play along for a while then progressively introduce a sense of unease as it becomes apparent Mr KIA has been exposed. Actually this should really come under things I love about Twitter!


11. If somebody follows you, follow them back. Why? 70% are automated bots with a picture of an attractive looking person the spammer found on a website about healthy Scandinavian living. You follow them back, they send you a DM telling you how you can get a free Space Shuttle at a site hidden by a URL shortener so you don't know when you click it is actually http://www.clickonmeandsatangetsyoursoul.com. Of the other 30% many have no updates, following People's Republic Of China, followers San Marino Blind French Cricket Society B Team. There may be a good one there so you follow only to discover their first tweet of the day is "Hi, how are you all today, would you like to see my puppies?"

This is just half an hour's bile and invective, more will follow as atrocities develop and I cultivate personal vendettas against people.

Alistair Burns, News At Ten, Twittersville Arizona.

16th May 2008 Part 2

The ambulance took us from Woolacombe to Barnstaple. Even outside of the holiday season this would normally take a long time, especially in the early evening. Anne had various instruments and breathing aids connected to her. I held her hand hoping for a response but she seemed fast asleep. It almost felt peaceful after the frantic activity of the last half hour but we were rattling along bumpy roads with a siren sounding. I was hoping Anne would wake up along the way and she could experience some of the excitement of the ambulance, however groggy, she would enjoy that kind of thing. I was thinking this might spoil the beginning of the holiday, she wasn't the sort to take things easy all day long as I suspected she would have to. 7pm lying on the couch until bed o'clock maybe. Then suddenly we arrived at Barnstable hospital, a mere 20 minutes after we left Woolacombe, that was quick.

Anne was rushed through a pair of well bashed doors on a trolley and I went in with her to protect er, be thre for her. Then an administrator came along and took me outside to get some personal details. I reeled off the details not knowing who her GP was but having some ide of where the surgery was but no problem with the rest. I returned to the emergency room but they said she had to be taken off for an MRI scan, I could sit in the waiting room. I went outside, telling the lady on reception where I was going and knew I had to alert her boys.

Much of what follows is possibly a bit generalised, time had no meaning.

I spoke with Richard, told him Mum had fallen off the bike and knocked herself out, he laughed in that "typical Mum" way. I wasn't sure if she would be kept in but asked him if he could head for Woolacombe, still 4 hours away where I had secreted a key so he could feed the dogs and let them do what they almost certainly had to do.

A while later a tall, serious-faced Asian looking man asked if he could have a word. He told me Anne had a bleed, I said I had seen this already, I had seen the blood on the road and had some of it about my clothes and hands. He said there was a bleed inside her skull, this didn't sound so minor. I asked him if the boys should carry on for Woolacombe or head for the hospital, he stiffened and said no, they should DEFINITELY head for the hospital. It went right through me, this sounded bad. I immediately thought of longer term damage, how would Anne cope, somebody who loved an active life, with a potentially long period of recovery. I was told about the Derriford brain injuries unit in Plymouth. They would send the scan over electronically, they would look at it and advise the next course of action, it was possible they would send her over there, it was two hours away even in an ambulance with flashing lights, the other side of Dartmoor.

I began to get seriously worried, felt very alone, worried Anne was alone too. I made some phone calls and updated her sons and best friend, still trying to sound positive but I feared Anne might not be quite the same person after this, the same superstar amongst her friends. But I shouldn't jump to conclusions. I told them they might have to head for Plymouth rather than Barnstaple but either way get here quickly if you can, even though a Friday evening on the M4 and M5 was hardly the time and place for mercy dashes.

Around half an hour later, having been told I could sit in a special room which I didn't use, the serious man said Anne would have to be transferred to Derriford and it would have to be by helicopter as her life was in danger, again I was shocked, this doesn't happen to us. I was told there wouldn't be room for me in the air ambulance so could I make my own way there. I explained my car was in Woolacombe, spoke with the receptionist about local taxi services but either way I wasn't leaving Anne's side until the last minute. More time passed then I was told I would be able to travel in the air ambulance, I was so relieved,  wanted to be there with Anne all the way, not leave her with strangers who kept calling her Anne-Marie because that was the name she was registered as, written on her wristband and the board attached to the bed.

I made more phone calls, got the post code of Derriford for the boys' Sat Navs, tried to think through the dog arrangements, how to get back from Plymouth to Woolacombe for them, tried to reason with what happened and what was happening now. All of a sudden a helicopter was arriving and we were on stand by.

We went out to a field at the back of the hospital. I was expecting something small but it was an enormous Royal Navy Sea King. I knew from previous pleasure flights, once with Anne, what to do, keep your head down, head for the entrance. I remember us being inside, me at the back, Anne on a bed in the middle with an anaesthetist sat next to her getting on with his job. A man in a helmet with enormous earphones on and a cable attached from his helmet to the body of the interior shouted instructions to me and kept raising two thunbs. It was like M*A*S*H. All inside was in semi-dark, military green everywhere, it wasn't the visually sterile environment of the hospital, I thought of The Falklands, Vietnam. As levels were constantly adjusted to Anne's gas supplies I was thinking how jealous she would be at having slept through this, something she would love, I couldn't wait to tell her about it afterwards when she was better. After a while of getting used to the surroundings, and having the two thumbs man constantly checking on me and reassuring, the oddness of seeing Anne in front of me but asleep on the bed surrounded by dark green, without me by her side holding her hand, I looked out of the window at the peaceful Devon countryside, mainly dark, the occasional light here and there, oblivious to what was passing overhead. I was very cold, dressed for a wam may day, in a cold helicopter in the twilight of the day, a very different day to what it was supposed to be.

After half and hour or so we arrived at Derriford. I assumed we would come down and get out but it was an airfield at the back of the civil/military hospital. We seemed to taxi for a very long time along the runway. An ambulance was waiting to take us the 100 yards or so from the airfield to the hospital.

The next hour or so is a blank.

Towards midnight the boys arrived, I ran through what had happened, we held each other, laughed at Anne having such a silly accident on a bicycle then waited. Just after midnight a man with the air of somebody who looked as if he knew what he was on about came into the waiting room we had previously shared with a family deeply concerned about one of their members. He ran through their findings, again described the bleed , all the while looking calm but serious. Then he told us there was a high level of risk to Anne's life, the bleed had put pressure on the brain stem and there was currently a lack of response to tests. We sat there stoically, very British, but knew this was not just a case of being knocked out.

16th May 2008 Part 1

[caption id="attachment_6" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="April 2008 at The Giant's Causeway"][/caption]

Friday 16th May 2008 was supposed to be a great day, a day Anne had been looking forward to for several weeks, her first holiday with her boys since the family unit had broken up and they had gone their separate ways.

We headed off that morning with a car full of music, dachshunds and food bound for Woolacombe, somewhere we had grown to love over the last 4 years. But this time we would be joined by her 3 sons and 2 girlfriends, a chance to bring the boys back together like they always used to be. We stopped off at Chieveley services on the way where Anne opted for a pastie and a can of diet coke, I wanted to get good, local, Devon food into my system so was having none of that nonsense, a strong black coffee would suffice.

We arrived at The Quest just after 1pm, sorted out the dogs, unpacked the car and made ourselves at home. For Anne that involved placing the books and magazines she intended to read next to her favourite spots indoors with the best sea views. That done we had a mission in town, suss out who was doing surfing lessons (for us and the boys), which pubs would be showing the play-offs and Champions League Final and grab a bite to eat and some finest cider.

Mission accomplished, we headed back to the cottage in good time for 6pm which was the start of the Tesco food delivery slot, there were mouths to feed and Anne was always a great planner. So we pottered around, Anne got text updates from the boys who were just heading off from Essex and I decided it was time to see about that bike. Just before I started Anne said to me "Burns, if I don't retire here there will be trouble!"

A few days before I had picked up a new folding bicycle bought under the government's Ride To Work scheme. Anne had laughed at me but I thought Woolacombe would be the ideal place to try it out, using it instead of the car for short trips. She reckoned it was far too hilly there and I would soon give up on the idea but then I'm a Bristol boy and a few hills are all part of the fun. So I got out the manual and put the bike together as Anne looked on, intrigued. After a few minutes it was ready so I tucked my trouser leg into my sock, got on the bike and cycled up the road for 50 yards or so, turned round and cycled back to the house and up the drive. Never one to be outdone Anne asked me to adjust the saddle for her, got on the bike and headed up the same way as I had done and like me she didn't think to put on a helmet for such a short ride.

I stood at the end of the drive, then in the middle of the quiet road watching as she cycled at a leisurely pace up the gentle hill, looking forward to her big grin and witty comment on her return. Then suddenly she was down. I waited for a few seconds all the while expecting her to get up, dust off her knee and get back on again but she remained down. I walked then ran up the road to where she was, but she wasn't cursing the bike, she was on her back some feet away from the bike with her head on the road making a really deep snoring noise. She wasn't conscious as I bent down to talk to her, she wouldn't respond in any way whatsoever. Then suddenly Dolly the dachshund appeared, she had escaped from the garden. I swept her up, to take her back and get my phone and call for help but immediately saw a couple reversing down their drive, I ran over and asked them to call an ambulance, locked up Dolly and the other dogs then returned to Anne. I was concerned she had knocked herself out and might swallow her tongue so I put my fingers in her mouth and cleaned the grit from her face waiting for help to arrive then noticed a trickle of blood on the road coming from the back of her head.

Within minutes the Woolacombe Fire Brigade arrived in a full-sized tender and took over allowing me to kneel beside her not knowing how she fell and thinking she was going to have a very sore head when she woke up and might not be very good for the first couple of days of the holiday. They put her in the recovery position and looked at her pupils while being instructed over the phone. Then it began to rain and they got a tarpaulin and asked some bystanders to hold it over us. This wasn't real.

A few minutes later an ambulance arrived and all manner of measurements were taken, eyes observed again and details of Anne were asked of me. It was clear this wasn't just a simple matter of being knocked unconscious, she would have to go to Barnstable in the ambulance and in view of her condition they would put her on a board just in case there were spinal injuries. This took a very long time, some 10-15 minutes involving 4 firemen and the 2 paramedics. They asked me if I had transport and could drive to Barnstaple but I had enjoyed a couple of pints earlier in town so they said I could travel with them to A&E just this once. Eventually Anne was moved into the ambulance, I went back to the house taking the bicycle, put the dogs in the conservatory so they couldn't mess on the carpet, locked the doors, grabbed some cigarettes and ran back to the ambulance. Somebody gave me Anne's broken glasses and some jewellery that had come off and the firemen gave me the ring they had cut off in a clear plastic bag. But it would all be OK, really bad things don't happen to Anne and me, not us.

Anne's Eulogy

Before I say a few words about Anne could I just make a small request. After the service would all attendees from Anglia Ruskin University kindly refrain from tossing floral tributes in the air in order to avoid injury to fellow attendees.

Immediately the story broke nationally about the mortarboards last week I felt an immediate sense of loss. Were Anne to have been there at her busy Inbox I would have sent her a similar message, she would have immediately got into gear and there would have been a dozen or so messages flying back and forth ultimately labouring the point but wringing out every last drip of humour. That was what she was like and I am equally guilty of this character flaw, as many see it.

Back in May 2004 I was pottering around on the Friends Reunited website looking for kindred spirits to share the empty hours with. I came across a profile without the usual 10 year old picture at a wedding with the ex-husband removed, just the location Chelmsford and the message “you will have to contact me to see what I have to offer”. It was quite intriguing, I had a few other irons in the fire at the time so held off to avoid complexity, then a couple of days letter I got a message from Annie2004, her, to Tarquin The Otter, me saying hello. So I replied with the usual sleepless in Great Totham, odd sense of humour, own teeth looking for somebody who isn’t bland, or something along those lines. Oh, and I have two daschshunds.

Back came the reply “You are never going to believe this - not in a million years - hold onto your bootstraps! I live in Chelmsford with my two daschunds - miniture wire haired!!! Hence Dolly and Basil! Honest - I'm not lying! - just to prove it a piccy of me with Basil”

I must admit to having been concerned that she didn’t spell miniature or dachshunds correctly but equally I knew that dachshunds are very fussy about who owns them so there must be some good in this woman and the picture of her in the now legendary orange T shirt showed a woman with a lot of love in her face, towards Basil at least.

In response to another message querying her position on heredity versus environment, the use of fog lights in broad daylight and other aspects of the human condition Anne wrote “as for bland - it's not a word usually used to describe me! - although I know what you mean, the profiles are all similar - we're all young for our age, kind, sensitive etc........”

Despite a pathological hatred of phoning strangers I did the dirty deed and had a lovely, long conversation with Anne where we discovered we had a great number of common interests and attitudes, despite her tendency to interrupt me mid-anecdote on a frequent basis. She sounded, on first hearing, very like Hyacinth Bucket heightened greatly by her calling out to Richard over some misdemeanour involving use of the garden hose, however notwithstanding we arranged a hot first date walking our respective braces of dachshunds in Danbury Lakes from the secret, free parking spot at the lower end, a lady after my own heart. And so began 4 years that changed my life.

As you approach 50 you are expected to settle down, buy a Nissan Micra, develop a love for Werther’s original and leave all of the living to the youngsters. This didn’t happen. There were places to go, things to do and meticulous organisation to be done in advance.

Anne had a great passion for modern music, discovering new acts, going to see them and enthusing over them to her friends. The rear stalls were never an option at a concert, it had to be down the front, standing to the side of the basketball players that always turned up whoever we went to see. When Coldplay were playing at Glastonbury in 2005 on the Pyramid stage we got in position for Hayseed Dixie at noon to ensure we were still there for Coldplay’s entrance at 10.15pm by which time Anne was best friends with everybody around us and had organised relays to the cider tent a quarter of a mile away through a peacetime version of The Somme. She would have print outs of spreadsheets at festivals showing who clashed with who over every single stage with highlighting of people she wanted to see and optimum times for leaving if somebody else was on another stage a mile away, factoring in how far from the front they merited and if this was achievable taking into consideration the band on before and would that band’s fans be likely to leave for another act on another stage. The rain and risk of mud-related diseases common only in third world countries and Somerset were the last of her worries.

I can honestly say there was never such a thing as a bad holiday with Anne. You only need to look at the hundreds of photographs from each expedition to see the joy of discovering new places quite obvious in her permanent smile. Rome, Venice, Krakow, Sicily, Northern Ireland – everywhere we went she would pack as much as possible in while still enjoying simple, good food and always finding dachshunds to stroke. Then she would go home and tell everybody about it and insist they went there as soon as possible offering to give them all the required details of accommodation, places to go, type of pizza to eat, when best to catch the Pope, best place to stand to see him – if she loved a place then she wanted everybody else to experience what she experienced.

In between European expeditions Anne loved to see the coast. A weekend without the coast was a weekend wasted. A trip to Walton, Southwold, Mersea or the River Orwell taking dachshunds up impossible inclines for a better view or through belly deep sand dunes would give her back that spark needed to face the week ahead. Above all she loved Woolacombe. The combination of a dog-friendly house, a 3-mile long perfect beach and the beautiful hills behind were something she would never tire of. Anne had a rule to not go back to the same place when there was a whole world out there to see. But this didn’t apply in the case of Woolacombe. A few hours before her accident she said to me “Burns, if I don’t retire here there will be trouble”.

Anne never had boring jobs. She was a hairdresser, went round pubs emptying fruit machines and re-stocking juke boxes, managed High Chelmer and ultimately settled at Anglia Ruskin University. Throughout the day I would get updates on controversial internal emails, new events to plan and how many courses of food somebody on a neighbouring desk had got outside of that morning. On evenings we would discuss her problems with getting brochures proof read, printed and delivered to Cambridge only to discover that a key course had been cancelled. But all work and no play might have made even Anne a dull girl and I would hear just as much about how excited so and so was because they had got front row tickets for Madonna for all 23 nights or what a tosser somebody else was. She loved her work and those she worked with and the mix of personalities always made it fun as well as paying for pigs ears and Caesar salads.

Most of us here probably have a handful of people we could call close friends, the sort of people you share triumphs and failures with, send birthday cards to, ring up to check up on if you haven’t heard from them for a while and so on. But for Anne her friends meant the world to her and her to them. Not just her friends but her friends’ partners and their children, all of whom she would know and love and be loved. On a regular basis I would get phone calls that sounded as if they were a radio report of a civil disturbance in a country plagued by laughing sickness. But it would be Anne round with the Broomfield girls making moustaches out of anything that came to hand, intoxicated on one glass of wine and far too many pints of love, laughter and the shared experience. It wasn’t just merriment for the sake of annoying the neighbours, it came from that much deeper relationship born in the mutual support through marital troubles, illness, bereavement, depression and Arsenal’s failure to improve on third place in the league. She probably didn’t tell many of you she loved you but it was so obvious in her subsequent retelling of the evening that she loved every one of you and probably had an unhealthy interest in your sons as well.

Anne’s family and their partners are a very complicated subject. Despite her organisational skills my requests for a family tree went unanswered so forgive me if somebody who I thought was a cousin turns out to be the milkman from their ex’s previous house.

She was always very proud to be looked upon as the cool aunt, the one who was subversive at family events and made funerals far more fun than they had a right to be. Her brothers Michael and Derek gave her much amusement in the time I knew her. There were difficult times when Dolly, Anne’s mum, went into a rapid decline and she would call them names when not laughing at how her Mum had just told her she had driven into town despite not having had a car for six months. But they all stuck together and shared a love for their mum. Despite Dolly’s death exactly a year ago to the day Anne’s ventilator was switched off the bonds between them grew stronger even in the absence of the mother that unified them in a common purpose.

Anne’s greatest pleasure was seeing her sons grow from spotty youths into caring men taking so many good characteristics from their mother and father Mick. It didn’t stop her from referring to them as dickheads or lazy gits on many occasions, but the relationship was always one where they were allowed to live their own lives and make their own mistakes. But they always got as much advice and encouragement as they wanted. There was never a stiff parent-child barrier, Anne knew how to have fun with her boys and they with her on a regular basis. They would love the same music, have their latest addition to the wheels on their car admired and critiqued and their friends knew that if they timed it right they would be warmly invited to share the best fry up in Essex.

In the dark days of the Derriford High Dependancy Unit, waiting for the inevitable, the battle hardened nurses were genuinely amazed at the astonishing level of acceptance shown by the family and the love being shown towards their mother. At the end of the day, a few hours before she died they sat by Anne’s bed with Martin’s fancy Mac laptop perched on the pillow next to Anne’s right ear watching two last episodes of Gavin and Stacey together, laughing all the more passionately, knowing it was something Anne loved and they shared.

To say Anne’s life was a life less ordinary wouldn’t do it justice, her life was brilliant, her love was pure to put it bluntly.

In order to give you some moments to reflect on the pictures of Anne showing on the screen we would like to play a song by The Magic Numbers she included on her Anne’s Sunday Slop playlist, but first I would like to read a short extract from a poem by Michael Stock that meant a great deal to Anne.

In my imagination

There is no complication

I dream about you all the time

In my mind a celebration

The sweetest of sensation

Thinking you could be mine

In my imagination

There is no hesitation

We walk together hand in hand

I'm dreaming

You fell in love with me

Like I'm in love with you

But dreaming's all I do

If only they'd come true

I should be so lucky

Lucky lucky lucky

I should be so lucky in love

I read this out to a packed Chelmsford Cathedral on Friday 6th June 2008 at a celebration of the life of Anne-Marie Plummer.

Before I say a few words about Anne could I just make a small request. After the service would all attendees from Anglia Ruskin University kindly refrain from tossing floral tributes in the air in order to avoid injury to fellow attendees.

Immediately the story broke nationally about the mortarboards last week I felt an immediate sense of loss. Were Anne to have been there at her busy Inbox I would have sent her a similar message, she would have immediately got into gear and there would have been a dozen or so messages flying back and forth ultimately labouring the point but wringing out every last drip of humour. That was what she was like and I am equally guilty of this character flaw, as many see it.

Back in May 2004 I was pottering around on the Friends Reunited website looking for kindred spirits to share the empty hours with. I came across a profile without the usual 10 year old picture at a wedding with the ex-husband removed, just the location Chelmsford and the message “you will have to contact me to see what I have to offer”. It was quite intriguing, I had a few other irons in the fire at the time so held off to avoid complexity, then a couple of days later I got a message from Annie2004, her, to Tarquin The Otter, me saying hello. So I replied with the usual sleepless in Great Totham, odd sense of humour, own teeth looking for somebody who isn’t bland, or something along those lines. Oh, and I have two daschshunds.

Back came the reply “You are never going to believe this - not in a million years - hold onto your bootstraps! I live in Chelmsford with my two daschunds - miniture wire haired!!! Hence Dolly and Basil! Honest - I'm not lying! - just to prove it a piccy of me with Basil”

I must admit to having been concerned that she didn’t spell miniature or dachshunds correctly but equally I knew that dachshunds are very fussy about who owns them so there must be some good in this woman and the picture of her in the now legendary orange T shirt showed a woman with a lot of love in her face, towards Basil at least.

In response to another message querying her position on heredity versus environment, the use of fog lights in broad daylight and other aspects of the human condition Anne wrote “as for bland - it's not a word usually used to describe me! - although I know what you mean, the profiles are all similar - we're all young for our age, kind, sensitive etc........”

Despite a pathological hatred of phoning strangers I did the dirty deed and had a lovely, long conversation with Anne where we discovered we had a great number of common interests and attitudes, despite her tendency to interrupt me mid-anecdote on a frequent basis. She sounded, on first hearing, very like Hyacinth Bucket heightened greatly by her calling out to Richard over some misdemeanour involving use of the garden hose, however notwithstanding we arranged a hot first date walking our respective braces of dachshunds at Danbury Lakes from the secret, free parking spot at the lower end, a lady after my own heart. And so began 4 years that changed my life.

As you approach 50 you are expected to settle down, buy a Nissan Micra, develop a love for Werther’s original and leave all of the living to the youngsters. This didn’t happen. There were places to go, things to do and meticulous organisation to be done in advance.

Anne had a great passion for modern music, discovering new acts, going to see them and enthusing over them to her friends. The rear stalls were never an option at a concert, it had to be down the front, standing to the side of the basketball players that always turned up whoever we went to see. When Coldplay were playing at Glastonbury in 2005 on the Pyramid stage we got in position for Hayseed Dixie at noon to ensure we were still there for Coldplay’s entrance at 11.15pm by which time Anne was best friends with everybody around us and had organised relays to the cider tent a quarter of a mile away through a peacetime version of The Somme. She would have print outs of spreadsheets at festivals showing who clashed with who over every single stage with highlighting of people she wanted to see and optimum times for leaving if somebody else was on another stage a mile away, factoring in how far from the front they merited and if this was achievable taking into consideration the band on before and would that band’s fans be likely to leave for another act on another stage. The rain and risk of mud-related diseases common only in third world countries and Somerset were the last of her worries.

I can honestly say there was never such a thing as a bad holiday with Anne. You only need to look at the hundreds of photographs from each expedition to see the joy of discovering new places quite obvious in her permanent smile. Rome, Venice, Krakow, Sicily, Northern Ireland – everywhere we went she would pack as much as possible in while still enjoying simple, good food and always finding dachshunds to stroke. Then she would go home and tell everybody about it and insist they went there as soon as possible offering to give them all the required details of accommodation, places to go, type of pizza to eat, when best to catch the Pope, best place to stand to see him – if she loved a place then she wanted everybody else to experience what she experienced.

In between European expeditions Anne loved to see the coast. A weekend without the coast was a weekend wasted. A trip to Walton, Southwold, Mersea or the River Orwell taking dachshunds up impossible inclines for a better view or through belly deep sand dunes would give her back that spark needed to face the week ahead. Above all she loved Woolacombe. The combination of a dog-friendly house, a 3-mile long perfect beach and the beautiful hills behind were something she would never tire of. Anne had a rule to not go back to the same place when there was a whole world out there to see. But this didn’t apply in the case of Woolacombe. A few hours before her accident she said to me “Burns, if I don’t retire here there will be trouble”.

Anne never had boring jobs. She was a hairdresser, went round pubs emptying fruit machines and re-stocking juke boxes, managed High Chelmer and ultimately settled at Anglia Ruskin University. Throughout the day I would get updates on controversial internal emails, new events to plan and how many courses of food somebody on a neighbouring desk had got outside of that morning. On evenings we would discuss her problems with getting brochures proof read, printed and delivered to Cambridge only to discover that a key course had been cancelled. But all work and no play might have made even Anne a dull girl and I would hear just as much about how excited so and so was because they had got front row tickets for Madonna for all 23 nights or what a tosser somebody else was. She loved her work and those she worked with and the mix of personalities always made it fun as well as paying for pigs' ears and Caesar salads.

Most of us here probably have a handful of people we could call close friends, the sort of people you share triumphs and failures with, send birthday cards to, ring up to check up on if you haven’t heard from them for a while and so on. But for Anne her friends meant the world to her and her to them. Not just her friends but her friends’ partners and their children, all of whom she would know and love and be loved. On a regular basis I would get phone calls that sounded as if they were a radio report of a civil disturbance in a country plagued by laughing sickness. But it would be Anne round with the Broomfield girls making moustaches out of anything that came to hand, intoxicated on one glass of wine and far too many pints of love, laughter and the shared experience. It wasn’t just merriment for the sake of annoying the neighbours, it came from that much deeper relationship born in the mutual support through marital troubles, illness, bereavement, depression and Arsenal’s failure to improve on third place in the league. She probably didn’t tell many of you she loved you but it was so obvious in her subsequent retelling of the evening that she loved every one of you and probably had an unhealthy interest in your sons as well.

Anne’s family and their partners are a very complicated subject. Despite her organisational skills my requests for a family tree went unanswered so forgive me if somebody who I thought was a cousin turns out to be the milkman from their ex’s previous house.

She was always very proud to be looked upon as the cool aunt, the one who was subversive at family events and made funerals far more fun than they had a right to be. Her brothers Michael and Derek gave her much amusement in the time I knew her. There were difficult times when Dolly, Anne’s mum, went into a rapid decline and she would call them names when not laughing at how her Mum had just told her she had driven into town despite not having had a car for six months. But they all stuck together and shared a love for their mum. Despite Dolly’s death exactly a year ago to the day Anne’s ventilator was switched off the bonds between them grew stronger even in the absence of the mother that unified them in a common purpose.

Anne’s greatest pleasure was seeing her sons grow from spotty youths into caring men taking so many good characteristics from their mother and father Mick. It didn’t stop her from referring to them as dickheads or lazy gits on many occasions, but the relationship was always one where they were allowed to live their own lives and make their own mistakes. But they always got as much advice and encouragement as they wanted. There was never a stiff parent-child barrier, Anne knew how to have fun with her boys and they with her on a regular basis. They would love the same music, have their latest addition to the wheels on their car admired and critiqued and their friends knew that if they timed it right they would be warmly invited to share the best fry up in Essex.

In the dark days of the Derriford High Dependancy Unit, waiting for the inevitable, the battle hardened nurses were genuinely amazed at the astonishing level of acceptance shown by the family and the love being shown towards their mother. At the end of the day, a few hours before she died they sat by Anne’s bed with Martin’s fancy Mac laptop perched on the pillow next to Anne’s right ear watching two last episodes of Gavin and Stacey together, laughing all the more passionately, knowing it was something Anne loved and they shared.

To say Anne’s life was a life less ordinary wouldn’t do it justice, her life was brilliant, her love was pure to put it bluntly.

In order to give you some moments to reflect on the pictures of Anne showing on the screen we would like to play a song by The Magic Numbers she included on her Anne’s Sunday Slop playlist, but first I would like to read a short extract from a poem by Michael Stock that meant a great deal to Anne.

In my imagination

There is no complication

I dream about you all the time

In my mind a celebration

The sweetest of sensation

Thinking you could be mine

In my imagination

There is no hesitation

We walk together hand in hand

I'm dreaming

You fell in love with me

Like I'm in love with you

But dreaming's all I do

If only they'd come true

I should be so lucky

Lucky lucky lucky

I should be so lucky in love