Humour and a sane plane

Yesterday I heard a radio discussion about 'selfish capitalism' and the unhappiness this legacy of Thatcherism has caused. It took me back to conversations with Al, sitting on our terrace in Greece and reflecting on life in the country we still cared about, even though we'd left it in pursuit of a simpler existence.

I particularly thought of what he said in his Jazz Journey: 

"Jazz and its influence have accompanied me though life. Moulding my attitudes and sense of humour and refusing to allow me to become old mentally. Jazz has this effect on its performers as well. They've retained and honed a sometimes child like but always surreal humour well into the twilight zone of their lives and being attuned to this attitude has kept my mind... fending off the years. It has kept me on a sane plane when all around have been back stabbing and glory seeking in the everyday task of survival."

Al kept that humour and stayed on that sane plane. Five days before he died, he and I engineered a brief hospital breakout; I was driving the wheelchair but he, in his pyjamas, was in charge. He had me take him past outcast smokers along a pathway, stopping to look at flowers, then up and down a suburban road in the sunshine, surveying the gardens as we passed. After that, he was happy to go back to bed.

At his woodland burial we celebrated his life. Nobody talked about his material wealth or achievements; instead they remembered the love he gave us, his sense of fun and artistic talents; the powerful stand he took for better prostate cancer treatments; his kind voice and serene, quiet smile. The things that truly measure a human being.