Au revior Annie

Even though I have already posted today, I felt a need to write something this afternoon. An hour ago, I heard that my friend, Annie, had died. We were not sure when to expect it, but were expecting it all the same. She had been ill since the last day she and I had worked together last year and had found out at that time that she had terminal cancer. You may remember me going to her house in London and helping two other mates with the decorating of her room. Or you may remember the yellow bear I sewed for her, which she called Archimedes.

I only knew Annie for about a year and a half. We worked together on a handful of projects pretty intensely. That's her in the photo, standing next to some of the puppets she'd made with the kids in a special needs school. We had an excellent time together there, and with another practitioner to make up the trio, I'd say it is probably one of the jobs I've enjoyed the most in my life. It was a joy to go in and be creative; putting our heads together and bringing life to ideas. Anything was possible with Annie. There was never any time for limitations. She didn't care how far she'd have to drive in her little silver sports car (which she'd named Tiara) to get materials or that she would need to get up at 4am to sew before she left for work; if it made a positive difference to the students, she did it. She would pick me up from the station every Friday and we'd go and have a cup of tea and discuss our ideas before turning up at the schools for who we were working. I am not always sure that people knew how to take Annie at first. She'd breeze into reception with a massive Cheshire cat grin, showing the women behind the desk all of the new fabrics and materials we had bought for the project, whether they wanted to see them or not.

I feel a real loss today. Even though I can now smile about how Annie's intensity and enthusiasm could sometimes wear me out (emotionally and physically), it was also the one thing which kept all of us who worked with her inspired and excited. Even up to her facing more operations and no longer being mobile, she was still laughing and her spirit stayed as alive as ever. I don't know if she felt scared, since she knew she was dying, but if she did, she never let on.

Annie was one of those people I always expected to be there. She had sent me a message on Christmas Day, suggesting that I go up to her house and put our heads together about networking. She always told me how much she hated not working. When confined to her wheelchair, she still ran a one-off project by the sea with the help of an assistant. She loved the sea as much as she loved working, she often said. It is hard to believe that we won't get together to work on our networking and publicity. We'd been saying we'd find a date to do that as long as I have known her.

I stood in the supermarket this afternoon; I was feeling tired and felt a little sick. I wanted to buy something, but wasn't sure what. When I attended Conrad's funeral up North some years ago, I bought a pendulum in a shop to remember him by. For today, I bought two bunches of daffodils, which I have stood in a vase on my window sill. I have read that a single daffodil means misfortune. I can get that. But I have also heard that a bunch is a symbol of joy. This seemed appropriate, since Annie was a personality of great joy and brightness. Even on a day like this, it is difficult to not smile when I think of her.