The life in a coaster...
...and the butterfly effect
An unexpected butterfly
Last night I received news of the passing of a former work colleague. It’s not the first such message I have received, and it won’t be the last, yet the world is a delicately changed place today.
Work relationships in themselves are extraordinary things. In the period B.C. (before Covid), our work places were our everything. Before I left that world, I spent more time with my work colleagues than I did my family. In the five years I spent at the Civil Aviation Authority, the people I came in and sat next to every day were my family. Likewise as a shift worker prior to that.
It was my work colleagues with whom I would excitedly discuss the latest episode of whatever TV drama was doing the rounds, or share dismay at the latest ‘Strictly’ exit. My work colleagues I would bake cakes and make tea for. My work colleagues I would be aghast alongside during world events such as 9/11, wars, Brexit... My work colleagues who saw me at my best and my worst - whether owning a room or crying at my desk. Those who understood the ins and outs of my day in a way that those ‘outside’ would never be able to. I had work husbands (although I was slightly bigamous) and work best friends - incredibly intense relationships; but then the minute one of you leaves, it’s quite likely you’ll never see each other again. Someone else breezes into that seat and a new dynamic begins.
It blows my mind.
During my own complex career trajectory, there was one man who I worked with in various different phases. We were both operational air traffic controllers for a while, and then we both lost our medical licences. We worked together on airspace design projects - exciting and ambitious plans to reconstruct the invisible infrastructure that threads through our skies. Poring over aeronautical charts, running simulations, canvassing opinions, negotiating with the regulator...A man who was utterly passionate about planes (unlike me), although we did share a love for photography, and a good cup of tea.
A man who had a gentle butterfly effect on the world.
A new flight path
Inevitably, we both ended up working for the aviation regulator, and sat next to each other for two years until he retired. Whilst my desk was an absolute car crash - papers everywhere, phones and tablets splayed, shoes higgledey-piggledy underneath (I would commute in trainers and then become 4 inches taller when I got indoors), his desk was a place of calm delight. Clean, tidy, neat, ordered - a way of being that I craved. It was also utterly beautiful because there on his desk, at all times, lay the most gorgeous glass coaster.
The coaster had a delicate silver frame embedded in the glass, surrounding a photograph of an orange ‘painted lady’ butterfly atop a vivid pink thistle flower; the background a soft, yet vibrant green. A splash of warmth, colour and soul - embodying the man upon whose desk it lay. It made me so happy, and I commented on it every day (and intimated that I would steal it several times).
Whilst our paths had previously crossed so many times, I didn’t really get to know the kind, gentle, wise and hilarious man he was until those two years we sat next to each other, and what a privilege it was. A man who broke the mould in so many ways. The antithesis of the ‘white, male, macho, ex-military’ air traffic control stereotype (you’ve seen ‘Pushing Tin’ right?).
The man who had that coaster on his desk.
The secret biscuit drawer
As in every job I’ve ever had, the tea run was always a major event. There’d be a full round two or three times a day - often up to fifteen cups to be made - with everyone’s specificity - my decaf, so and so’s oat milk, a hot water, 3 sugars here, half a stir there. You know the drill. The rituals that kept office life ticking over, in the times when office life was a thing.
In between times, my next desk neighbour and I would sneak in the odd ‘tea run for two’. Furtively holding our cups way below eyeline, casually sitting back down, where he would place his cup on the delightful coaster, and I would have coaster envy whilst using some vital memo to soak up my spills. Sometimes he would open his secret biscuit drawer, and we’d have a little snack, just the two of us.
He was such a diligent and proud worker, but with a glorious streak of naughtiness. Integrity was coded into his DNA. He made me a better worker - but oh there was a glint of mischief in those eyes. Gentle mischief - the kind you’d expect from someone with a secret biscuit drawer - and at times we would laugh until our sides hurt. Proper stifled guffawing like kids at a Catholic Mass when Grandad has popped out a fart.
I asked him about the coaster, as it was so striking. It had been given to him, and held special meaning. It became a thing - me wanting to steal it, him firmly stating that was never going to happen. Not a day went by without a mention. When he announced his retirement, I was so desperately sad to lose my best desk buddy, but I figured he’d leave his coaster behind, right?
Not a chance.
As he packed up his desk (and his coaster), my heart felt so full of joy for him. A man who had truly earned his retirement, who had recently found members of his family he had never known, who had plans to travel, to reunite with new found kin, to photograph the world, to be with his beloved partner. It was his time to fly. I couldn’t wait to see where life would take him next.
A surprise package
A couple of weeks later, when his desk hadn’t quite been repopulated, and there was still an air of emptiness, a package arrived in my little pigeon-hole.
Yep. You guessed it.
The coaster with just a post it note, his name, and a kiss.
Reader, I cried.
That coaster has been on my desk ever since - throughout subsequent jobs, and now into my home. It is on my writing desk, and I think of the lovely man who gave it to me for a fleeting moment every single day. A gift that makes me smile and lifts my heart.
One less star in the sky
Hearing of his passing last night touched me so very deeply (the connectivity and complexity of grief being a book in itself). Although I haven’t seen him for six years, the fact that he still makes a difference to my every day, without even having the faintest clue, is a marker of the humble, kind and gentle man he was.
My heart goes out to his loved ones, as there is one less star in the sky tonight.
My friend - this cup’s for you.
Thank you for reading, as always.
Love & lemons 🍋
Em x
Thank you Martin, a special man indeed. We’ve had some wonderful colleagues over the years 💕
These are such beautiful memories to have of your colleague. Everyday and mundane to some, perhaps, but in my eyes these kinds of human connections are some of the richest we experience. You’ve written a wonderful tribute; having that coaster means you will continue to remember that part of your life fondly. I love the fact that he even teased you with giving the coaster as a gift. That made me smile ✨