1984 - The Year That Was...
June 2, 2026
When we speak of 1984, we normally do so as a reference to George Orwellโs masterpiece of the same name. For me, 1984 was a tumultuous year of unexpected change. Change which set my life on a course correct or a soul detour or just a trip down a road leading to somewhere else.
A box of old photographs from that year, have shaken up some memories and cast me back to 1984, when I wore Laura Ashley sprig dresses finished off with a Puffa jacket - as was the Sloane Ranger dress code. Working in the West End of London, at a prestigious Mayfair address, I spent my days valuing and managing commercial property for pension funds and private clients. I was one of the few women in the industry, so surviving well the patriarchal hierarchy was a test of determination and bucket loads of humour. Being a good sport was my saving grace. I knew football teams and motor statistics. I was adept at climbing ladders in a skirt without showing my knickers. All in all - it was great experience for managing tricky situations with grace. And learning to laugh at ridiculous codes of conduct and attire.
I was fortunate enough to have an open minded boss, who thought it entertaining to be teaching a lass rather than a lad, to read commercial leases with a keen eye and chase jobbing builders like a retired headmistress. He was called Lance Aston, and a mentor extraordinaire. He spoke French with a flourish, read poetry like it was going out of fashion, and dressed like a 17th century gentleman of extended means. We clicked immediately, and his mission was to ensure I made partner in the company.
Part of his cunning plan to progress my career, was a trip to our New York office on a project assignment. I flew from Heathrow to JFK. My colleague took me to the airport. That colleague is still a dear friend.
Several weeks into my New York sojourn, I received a call to say that Lance Aston my boss had died, and that I must take the next flight back to London. He was 42 years old.
He left behind a book of poetry by Cecil Day-Lewis, and a set of pearl earrings. Both were wrapped up with my name on the label. You see, he had received a diagnosis of advanced cancer just before I went to New York. He knew his life was in peril and that he would not see me again.
At his funeral at Highgate cemetery in London, my youthful innocence of what I expected life to be, was transformed over night, into a mature reality of how quickly we can lose precious people.
He is still in my heart. All these years later. When I mentor my own young ones, I think of him and his legacy. For he lives on still, in the poetry I now write and the pearl earrings I still wear. And of course that I am a traveller on the fabric of the road, settling like a feather on times flow.
โ๐ง๐ฟ๐ฎ๐๐ฒ๐น๐น๐ฒ๐ฟ๐ ๐๐ฒ ๐ฎ๐ฟ๐ฒ ๐ณ๐ฎ๐ฏ๐ฟ๐ถ๐ฐ ๐ผ๐ณ ๐๐ต๐ฒ ๐ฟ๐ผ๐ฎ๐ฑ ๐๐ฒ ๐ด๐ผ.
๐ช๐ฒ ๐๐ฒ๐๐๐น๐ฒ, ๐ฏ๐๐ ๐น๐ถ๐ธ๐ฒ ๐ณ๐ฒ๐ฎ๐๐ต๐ฒ๐ฟ๐ ๐ผ๐ป ๐๐ถ๐บ๐ฒ๐ ๐ณ๐น๐ผ๐,โ
๐๐ฆ๐ค๐ช๐ญ ๐๐ข๐บ-๐๐ฆ๐ธ๐ช๐ด.
๐ ๐๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ฎ๐ด. ๐ ๐๐ฆ๐ด๐ต๐ช๐ฏ๐ข๐ต๐ช๐ฐ๐ฏ๐ด.
Julia - a pilgrim in Portugal.