Kimberley deep in thought at Tilt in 2021.Photo taken by Craig Spivey.

Picture not so perfect

I’ve been looking so long at these pictures of you

That I almost believe that they’re real 

I’ve been living so long with my pictures of you

That I almost believe that the pictures are all I can feel. 

  • The Cure, Pictures of you

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I feel that. Every word. 

Scrolling and scrolling. I’m stuck in an all consuming loop. This time though, I’m not sure it can be labelled as ‘doom scrolling’ because I was trawling through thousands upon thousands of photos on my phone. 

Or could it? 

Many people hate having their photo taken and as someone who in the past felt that way too, I truly get it. But as the person sitting here, phone in hand, looking at a photo of my late husband in one of our favourite pubs, I feel very, very different. The photo in question documenting that moment in full technicolour fills me with equal parts gratitude and pain. I’m glad I captured it, even though it may have been a tad annoying at the time for all involved. I also feel upset that my memory is hazy as hell due to that thing called grief.

Grief does that. It makes you question what was real and what was not. Not in a dissociative sense, but sometimes when I look at those photos I try so, so hard to remember every element of that moment. I want everything my senses were engaging in at the time to come flooding back so vividly when I stare at the photo. It hurts when it doesn’t – I feel so desperate, begging my memory and brain to give me more. In spite of this, any photos of the good times have been so important throughout my grieving process. Especially when all my brain wants to latch onto was anything but good in a grief hole. They provide me with a visual representation to help prove it wrong. 

These feelings were further compounded by visiting Tilt for my last beers and games of pinball before the shutters closed on Sunday evening (06.07.25). This was one of my favourite places – one that Craig, Flossie and I loved. The vibe was melancholy when I arrived, with the words “gutted” uttered multiple times. I peered around trying to frantically take as many mental photos of the remaining floor of Tilt that remained. Grief crept in as we raised a glass of strong stout to honour all the previous ones we’d sipped in that glorious place. After a few hours I finally managed to cadge a pound to give the Mandalorian pinball machine a last whirl. It’s what Craig would have wanted. 

So now Tilt takes its place in my camera roll, on the cloud forever but ceasing to exist in the real world. I am resigned to scanning and digesting the photos and videos I have left of Tilt. I hardly have any of me, Craig and Flossie there and I am desperately wishing that I now had more. My memory and brain can only do so much of the heavy mental lifting. Those visuals help remind me that those good times were really real. On the painful grief days I can’t overestimate how important that is. 

Some vintage 2021 photos from Tilt

Everywhere I look around our favourite venues, there’s a memory to be revisited, no matter how hazy. Sometimes it’s the songs they play, the people that work there (or hang out there), our favourite drinks or the delicious familiar foodie smells that evokes so many core memories or just really helps them to add more much needed colour inside the stark black lines of the picture. 

These bars, pubs and restaurants and the people who run them – they deserve more than being a memory,  or just a photo or video in our camera rolls. 

They aren’t just bricks and mortar, ripe spots for redevelopment for the highest bidder. They are the beating heart of our community. Not just that, sometimes they help so many people to keep their actual hearts beating. They provide a safe space, a warm hug, a friendly face and somewhere warm and welcoming when you’d rather be anywhere but “home”. I’ve been in that place a lot these last few years. I’m sure you or someone you know has too. 

I don’t want to have to grieve for another place we loved.

Do you? 

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As with all my posts here, I invite you to shout out venues (and the people in them) they you love. Come on, hospitality is a shi*t show right now and they need you more than ever. 

X 

I took my grief for a drink

Perched on a bar stool at a wooden table with a drink in my hand. For the first time in eons, I feel ok. 

When you read that sentence, you would be forgiven for visualising that it was a pint in my hand. This time though, it’s an oat flat white. For months, it wasn’t a pint of beer in my hand. It was coffee and if it wasn’t that, it was alcohol free beer at one of my favourite local pubs. 

My late husband said he didn’t want to be “that internet cancer guy” and I really didn’t want to be the woman that drowned her grief in alcohol. My support network had reduced somewhat under the weight of being a carer and because my husband wanted to keep his diagnoses a secret outside our agreed ‘circle of trust’ and I respected his decision. For fear of my circle shrinking further to the size of a beer mat while I was deep in the trenches of grief, I pushed myself to get out in the big wide world to get a drink with my dark glasses on. 

My poodle Flossie, is a sociable pup who loves a ‘walk with purpose’, so I persuaded myself to get out into the wild, in the spirit of giving her an opportunity to indulge in one of her favourite past-times, flirting with the locals. 

When you’re in a dark place, even the familiar places are a little daunting, it all felt a bit alien. To say I was in my dissociative grief era when I first ventured out the house, is somewhat of an understatement.  I went out for a coffee and I really wasn’t expecting to do the whole thing again and return to the same place. I didn’t want to leave some kind of stormy rain cloud behind in that very place I’d visited. As an empath I didn’t enjoy this thought. I reasoned that at least if I frequented different venues that somehow it would be better for everyone involved. 

In my college days when I frequented ‘Spoons’ I’d always looked over at those men propping up the bar early doors with an “oh dear” feeling a tad sorry for them glance. Now I was one of them. Seeking some sort of connection – even if it was for just a few manageable minutes sipping a beverage. 

Warwick Street Kitchen in Leamington Spa was one of the first places I braved. Honestly, I’m not sure I could have made it through those first months grieving the death of my husband without going in there. It was more than just coffee. It was a few friendly faces and someone actually giving a shit about my day for a few minutes at a time when I wanted to bury my head for the foreseeable future. Meg and Soph at Warwick Street Kitchen gave me a free croissant after a few visits and I questioned if it was a ‘feel sorry for me’ pastry but I actually realised no, they were actually just really bloody nice! 

“The croissant of kindness” as I now call it,  was significant for me. I’d lost my appetite during the first waves of intense grief and croissants were one of the things I could actually pick at throughout the day when I couldn’t stomach anything else. Croissants were also what the kind nurse, Danielle at Myton Hospice gave me and Flossie (who stole a few crumbs) during my stay there with Craig.

One of the many WSK croissant photos from my phone.
Flossie at Warwick Street Kitchen making herself at home.

In the weeks prior to my husband slipping away, every time I walked around the town where we lived, a nauseous feeling overwhelmed me. I actually felt a slight hate for it all. And by it all, I mean everything about the town. Every time I walked past our favourite food & drink places we’d make great memories in, I felt sick. It all felt too painful and in those moments. I couldn’t even fathom visiting any of “our places” again. 

That all changed the day I said “goodbye” to Craig for the last time. When I left the hospice, shell shocked about to get into Craig’s best friend’s car I said: “shall we go to the pub?” 

Darren drove me to The Drawing Board which is most definitely one of “our places.” Subconsciously, I guess I needed to be somewhere we both loved to feel closer to Craig. That’s what my brain and heart wanted. 

When we arrived, we got seated at a table we’d sat at previously for my 40th birthday celebration. I think i was actually seated in the exact same chair. We were asked what we wanted to drink and we ordered. It felt just well, normal. The team there knew Craig and I’m not sure what I’d have done if they’d have asked where he was. Thankfully no-one did. We sat there for a good while, equal parts shock and numb sipping our drinks. After a few sips we strategised what my next step would be which included avoiding staying at home that night. 

That’s the thing, these places become home for us in some way, shape or form. 

At that moment; one of our favourite pubs, The Drawing Board, was the safe space I craved. 

The echoes of the memories we’d made there over the years bounced around the four walls there and enveloped me like a warm hug I so needed in one of the worst moments in my life. Sam and Frankie from The Drawing Board, this is probably the first time you’ve heard all this and i wanted to say “thank you” to you and your team. 

One of the many shots of the Drawing Board from my phone.


So why am I telling you all this? 

Because I wanted to spotlight both these places and highlight why these third spaces are so important. 

And I know I’m not alone. I invite you to drop a comment underneath sharing your experiences. Name checking the venues that feel like home for you. The ones that are integral to your community. Those that you’d be crushed if they closed their doors tomorrow. 

Don’t stop there: leave them a public review, share and like their social media posts, buy a gift card, spread the word – they need you now as much as you once needed them. 

Cheers and much love to all the hospitality venues and their teams that make the world a tiny bit better when someone needs it most. 

Kimberley  x