I turned on the TV this evening, to see Hunter Davies chatting to Richard and Judy about Gazza and his present predicament. I missed most of the discussion, but gathered that Hunter Davies has a lot of time for him (he "ghost" wrote, or co-wrote, Gazza's Autobiography). So do Richard and Judy (they are texting-friends, apparently). So do I. I remember him as a genius young player for the Spurs - what a partnership he and Gary Lineker made! He has had a difficult life though - he came from a very ordinary background with a completely extra-ordinary talent, and was obviously unable to cope with the pressures of fame and fortune. There has been a coming together of support for him in the last couple of days, which I think is great. The Footballing Fraternity is keen to help and support him in his hour of need. Hunter Davies said that he doesn't cope well without structure and discipline, and that he is very lonely. Richard and Judy sent their love. And Judy said "God Bless". I'm there with the good wishes too.
Earlier today I freaked out again when I logged on to Facebook to see how friends and family were doing. With hindsight, it was very silly of me, but I have been on the edge with regard to Son and his lack of communication lately. There, on his page, was a picture of Kurt Cobain, whom Son idolized from an early age, and who of course, killed himself. Even as I type this, I can see how wrong it is. I very soon snapped out of it - after a sensible and reassuring conversation with Daughter, who was able to step back and take a reasonable point of view - but it's yet another reason why I have to get out more. Literally. I can't go on like this.
This morning over breakfast my Foreign Student took me back probably 50 years when we were talking about gardens. He said that he and his Father have a rather wild garden, just outside Zurich, in which they grow dandelions so that they can pick and eat the leaves in salads. He went on to say that they leave the grasses and flowers to grow tall, and then cut them down with scythes! (They dry the hay and give it to his Sister to feed her rabbit!) I was completely gobsmacked. This is apparently the norm in Switzerland, where there are rocks and stones everywhere, and very few level areas of grass. It brought a vivid memory of watching my Grandfather, whom we called Uncle Gus, moving across the Village Green with the other men in the village, cutting the grass with their scythes. It was a marvellous sight, which I can see quite clearly in my mind, but which you just wouldn't see any more. Unless, of course, you took a trip to Switzerland. I might just do that!