“Especially at Christmas I remember my best school friend Tammy, who left this earth in 2022, too soon at just 56.

I met Tammy at age 11, so we enjoyed 45 years of friendship, totally understanding each other and knowing how each other would think.

Tam’s parents took her out of boarding school at 11 and let her loose in the local comprehensive school I attended. We soon hooked up due to a mutual love of music, fashion, art, design and photography. Tam was my partner in crime through all the stuff we got up to at school. We even went off to college together at the age of 17, attending the same arts course at Leeds Poly, lodging in digs together for the most wonderful, happy two years ever.

The next 30 years saw many ups and downs as life ticked along for us both in different parts of the country, but our friendship stood the test of time. Tam was a true one-off: creative, fun and thoughtful. She could be a bit of a rascal but was generous to the last, even during tough financial times.

She enjoyed nothing better than showering those dear to her with beautiful, thoughtful gifts during the festive season. It was always plain to see that she got as much pleasure in sourcing the gifts and wrapping them in such a sophisticated manner that you were reluctant to spoil the package by opening it. It all gave her such joy.

The latter years of Tam’s life were dogged with health issues and some mental demons, both of which prevented her from leaving the house. This didn’t stop her surfing the net to keep finding the best gifts and wrapping paper you could imagine.

Every year she would buy me a few new trimmings for my tree, often handmade from other craft folk. She was always keen to support other makers and small businesses, as she was a fiercely independent woman. I treasure these exquisite little things, and now Tam is no longer in this world they mean even more to me as I carefully unwrap them from the tissue paper every year and bring Tam’s spirit into the house.

I’m not a religious person, so Christmas is generally little more than eating different food. I do however feel a spirituality around the Winter Solstice; the thinning of the veil, seeing into other worlds and remembering those I’ve lost. They’re out there in otherworldly places, and yet still all around me. Every year I celebrate and embrace the return of the light and all the hope and optimism that the New Year may bring.

I suppose the most treasured festive decorations are the two space mice, the last ones Tam bought me before she died. It’s quite spooky: she was very into sci-fi, and I do like to think of her flying high up in the universe as a space mouse.

I only discovered Penfriend in the last two or three years, so Laura’s music was not something I’d managed to share with Tam. She would’ve loved it I’m sure. She would have thought the artwork was awesome, and the spirit of knuckling down and creating the whole package yourself was something my pal would have been so impressed with.”

Sally Roydhouse

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“In the early days of your incarnation as Penfriend, when COVID was still “a thing”, I used my time to have the dullest midlife crisis ever.

I painted small Subbuteo teams. I baked cakes. And, apparently, I ordered a “build your own ukelele” kit online. A drunken late night purchase from somewhere in China.

It arrived with no instructions at all.

Eventually, with nothing else to do, I decided that it would be a nice lockdown project for me and my then three-year old daughter. We used our daily allocated outside time to sit in the downstairs car park and we sanded, and glued, and painted the rickety bits of wood.

It was decided early on (by my daughter) that the ukulele would be pink. So we made it bright pink. And over the course of a few weeks it came together, and we had our own, imperfectly formed uke. We spent 400% more than the original purchase price to complete it, adding new strings, new tuning heads and more paint than was required.

The ukulele barely stays in tune. Even now, neither of us can play it with anything approaching competence. But it’s a nice reminder of a grim time for everyone. We made it together.

Every so often, Niamh will go and get it from her room and bash away at it. Part-covered in stickers from bands of various vintages – including Penfriend, obviously – it won’t ever provide perfect sound.

But it is ours, which more than makes up for the imperfections.”

Paul and Niamh McGreal

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“Simply put, it’s something I made in school. But to me it comes bundled with a whole host of emotions and reflections on my personality, for better or worse.

The main thing that tickles me about this odd wooden column is it wasn’t supposed to be that. At all.

In woodwork class we were tasked with making an object with the lathe. The “super fast” and “super dangerous-looking” huge mechanical lathe, I might add. I’ll never forget nervously holding on to a chisel and slowly guiding it towards a rapidly spinning piece of wood, visions of losing limbs imprinted on my eyelids.

What was I trying to make? Well, in a move very indicative of my life at school, by shrinking back from my peers and living within my own head I had vastly overestimated what was possible.

I had a habit of rather ignoring the task set in class, instead doing something that interested me more, usually overreaching and failing in the process. I had morphed “use the lathe to carve a candle holder” within my brain to “I’m going to make a sphere”.

A…sphere.

I was reading the Red Dwarf book “Infinity Welcomes Careful Drivers” at the time, and felt the burning desire to make a planet with a sign poking out saying “Slow Down”. If you look closely you can still see the remnants of a broken stick poking out of the top.

Turns out making a perfectly smooth sphere using a lathe and chisel was somewhat beyond the ability of a 14- year-old not very inclined to follow instructions. Looking back I’m quite astonished we were allowed unsupervised use of this machine…

On first attempt the chisel was wrenched from my hand by the lathe and went clattering about the room. On my second and third attempts I simply held on for dear life, and the end result is the weirdly flanged thing you can see.

The fact I still possess this object at all is pretty remarkable. My Dad was in the RAF which meant frequent moves from house to house. I attended five schools in total and never found any way of coping with a whole new bunch of people each time.

All in all I had a miserable time at school, and don’t hold on to much from those grey years. Yet something about this wooden wotsit keeps me clinging on to it.

When I look at it now I think about how something meaningful can be crafted if you at least try. I think that everything has to start from something. My ignorance of what was possible led to the creation of something tangible. When I look to my utmost proudest achievements now I can trace them back to pushing myself to try.

My desire to express myself through writing meant that, long after I left university, I reached out to a student-based website that published unpaid work to help you build a portfolio. It was time-consuming, but emboldened me enough to be cheeky and approach Ginger Wildheart’s manager for an interview. And I got it!

This experience later got me paid work writing for online blogs, which ultimately led to publication in a print magazine: something that makes me dizzy with pride whenever I think about it.

My odd wooden column reminds me that unhappy schooling helped shape the person I am now, the person who has achieved the things I take pride in. It reminds me that first tries are invariably scrappy, but are better than not trying at all. It reminds me that overreaching can bring more enduring results than playing safe.

This item has never sat in a box. Even with frequent house moves it has never gotten packed away and forgotten. I always keep it within view as a reminder of all these things: if you hold on tightly and press ahead, the shape that needs to be carved will bloom forth within your hands.”

Michael Record

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“My cat, Steven, is a large (but not fat) 10 year old Palomino tabby.

In August 2021 my 17 year old cat, Paddy, died suddenly. He was the last of six cats my late wife Suzy and I had lived with, who came to us as rescues over the years between 1997 and 2008 – the year of Suzy’s passing.

I was devastated. For months I did not know if I wanted to live with another cat.

In November 2021 my friend Bettina Solas noticed a local Facebook post about a cat who needed a new home. His human, Julie, was in hospital and headed to extended rehab, possibly never returning home. Sadly that turned out to be the case.

Friends of Julie’s had been caring for Steven at her flat but he was lonesome; he’d been living there by himself for nearly two months, and they realised they had to plan for his possible rehoming.

Bettina, a good friend of me and my cats for several years, contacted me. She knew I wasn’t ready, but she also knew it was probably time. I tentatively agreed, and arranged to meet Steven. We got along nicely after a couple of visits; he was in decent health but needed a bit of love and care.

Julie’s future was still uncertain, so I proposed that I foster him until everyone knew whether she was coming home. Her friend, Pam, gratefully agreed, and I brought him home on 12th November. He had a nervous first five days, then something actually rather spooky happened.

There was a pillow on my couch that Paddy had habitually called his own, and while Steven gradually began to sit on the couch beside me, he resolutely refused to approach this pillow.

One afternoon he was sleeping next to me, when he suddenly awoke – alert as if he’d heard some sound I had not. He turned to look at a large photo of Paddy that hangs on my wall. He stared at it for a moment, got up and stepped over and onto Paddy’s pillow.

Steven looked at the photo again, and at me, then settled down and went back to sleep. It was genuinely unnerving.

Ever since that day he has acted completely at home here, and we have been close trusting friends and family for the past three years.”

Robert Marcum

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“All of your music reminds me of my wife.

I always watch the support acts at gigs. You never know when you will discover something awesome. I first heard your aamusic when you were on tour with Ginger Wildheart in 2018. My mind was blown and I became an instant fan. I plundered the merch stand for CDs and listened to them constantly.

Sarah very quickly noticed that I wasn’t listening to progressive death metal for a change, and she immediately fell in love with your music too. She knew all the lyrics and would sing along to all your tunes. We got married that year.

In 2019 we made it along to one of the last She Makes War gigs in Totton, and we chatted with you briefly afterwards. Sarah went all fangirl and soppy and it was super cute.

Then lockdown happened. But Penfriend happened too. Whenever there was an online gig we would make it a proper date night. We are fans of pretty different artists and bands, but we both totally connected with your music.

Two years ago, the world lost Sarah. “Paper Thin” played for her when we said goodbye.

There is no doubt your music is a major part of the soundtrack of our time together. And I feel the connection with Sarah especially deeply when I listen to your music.

We never managed to have children, and the cats are our babies. Hence Oliver the giant orange Pusskin.

I hope our story resonates with you enough to make it into the artwork. It would mean so much to us and I am sat here with tears in my eyes imagining her face if you said yes to this.”

Matt Gregory

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“In June 2021 my cancer decided it was fed up with waiting.

I’d been living with a diagnosis of an incurable Lymphoma since 2015, and it abruptly jumped to stage 4. I was due to start Chemotherapy on the 30th June, where I was to have a PET-CT scan in the morning and begin Chemo in the afternoon.

Whilst waiting for the injection of tracer chemicals to whizz around my body prior to the scan, I received a loud knocking on the door from a nurse, who waved to me to come to the door.

This was in a mobile scanner in the car park of the hospital – stylish! – but the real problem was that the tracer fluid has a half life of 60 minutes. During that time you have to sit completely still: no phone scrolling, no talking and definitely no moving. I could only sit there like a mannequin. I certainly couldn’t go to the door.

Eventually one of the scanner technicians came into the waiting area and passed me a note, which simply said “Dear Mr Page, the director of the Montefiore Hospital (Hove) has banned you from re-entering the hospital due to the fact that you will be radioactive for 6 hours, therefore your treatment has been cancelled, kind regards The Chemo Ward Team”.

After the scan was completed, I was effectively booted out onto the street. I rang my Oncologist to enquire “what the hell is going on?”

It was 12pm. My partner wasn’t due to pick me up til 5.15pm. I had no coat – why would I need one? I thought I was going to be in a hospital all day.

I sat in the local park across from the hospital, thinking my life surely couldn’t get any worse. The phone rang. My Oncologist confirmed I had been banned from the hospital and my treatment was rearranged for the next day.

It started raining. I couldn’t enter the hospital to seek shelter, so I clung to a big tree with a dense enough canopy to keep me semi-dry. I prayed that there wouldn’t be any lightning!

I opened Spotify on my phone and clicked on my curated “Pandora’s Box” playlist. I heard the words “Hello Darkness, my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again”. I thought to myself “Well, the Devil obviously doesn’t have anything else to do today other than f**k me off!”.

D:REAM once sang about how “Things Can Only Get Better”. Yeah right – dream on! That night around 9pm, while I was getting my stuff ready for the next day’s treatment, my phone pinged with a sound I’d never heard before. It was a message from the NHS Track and Trace app, notifying me that I’d been in contact with someone who had tested positive for Covid, and that I was instructed to isolate for nine days.

“How did the Devil have my number?” I wondered. Then, “Why, when I was having my bloods taken, did the receptionist suddenly get up and walk out of the hospital without saying a word?”. Then, “What the hell does isolate mean, and will it affect my treatment tomorrow?!”.

I rang my Oncologist again. He confirmed I would be on the hospital’s banned list and wouldn’t be allowed to enter.

I could hear Simon & Garfunkel tuning up.

The next morning, my Oncologist escalated my case to the medical board. They reviewed my blood results and PET-CT scan, and told the hospital that I would not survive another nine days. They said Chemotherapy treatment MUST and WILL start today. The hospital was instructed to make a RED ROUTE available upon my arrival: a route through the hospital where I wouldn’t come into contact with anyone in case I had Covid.

I was told to meet someone at the rear entrance door of the hospital. I wondered how I would know who it was when I got there, but when I arrived a young girl from

the Pharmacy dept was waiting by the back door in a bright yellow Hazmat suit. I walked and she awkwardly waddled through tiny corridors and small rooms

until we got to the ward, which was located in the basement of the hospital – probably closer to the mortuary! After completing my Covid test (which was negative) I was finally assigned to my cubicle.

Now to the relevance of how Penfriend entered my life.

Being located in the basement, the Oncology ward is unable to get a mobile phone signal, but they did have a guest wifi system I could join. I was told it was a bit hit and miss as to whether it worked or not.

It was July 2021, and Covid was still very problematic, so the hospital had a strict policy that you weren’t allowed any friends or family to sit with you during the treatment. I had to go through the entire process on my own. To be frank, I was bricking it, and you couldn’t even get a reassuring smile from a nurse because they were all wearing masks.

I had my pre-meds and then was fitted with a cannula in my arm, so that the Chemotherapy Infusion Pump machine could be connected. It’s at times like that the concept of mortality really sinks in.

“Try and relax”, they said, so I thought I’d try and connect to the wifi. Obviously the Devil was on his tea break, as I managed to connect. I thought I’d listen to some music on Spotify, so I clicked on my “Pandora’s Box” playlist and prayed that Simon & Garfunkel were on tour in someone else’s nightmare. Thankfully they were.

The music started. The first random song to play was Morrissey’s “First of the Gang to Die”. A bit menacing, but nevertheless a good tune. That was followed by AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell”. At this point, I was convinced I was starring in the next Final Destination movie. Music wasn’t having the calming influence I’d hoped for.

I turned it off and opened the Facebook app. Scrolling mindlessly (as you do), I saw an advert for something called “Exotic Monsters” which, if I remember correctly, had a beady monster eye looking out from below some guitar strings. It was by an artist called Penfriend.

“Who? Never heard of them.” BUT I was intrigued. Was it on Spotify? I did a search – there it was. When I come across an unknown album I normally pick a song at random to see if it resonates with me, and then either move on or
jump down the rabbit hole.

The song I picked – completely randomly – was “Black Car”.

“Remember the summer when everyone stayed at home” … WTF? Yes I do remember, being in the “Extremely Critically Vulnerable Persons” group, not only did I have to stay at home but I was told by the Government that I wasn’t allowed to leave my flat, not even for exercise.

As the song played out, I got to the verse regarding “the worst of days” and “machines taking over our minds”. WOW !!! The worst of Days [tick] Being connected to a machine [tick].

Literally, as the song ended the nurse walked in with the first of the Chemo drugs. Now I’m not into astrology, but was it fate or coincidence that led me to that song, on that album, at that exact point in time in the universe? Who knows, but one thing I do know is that my life has been enriched by it.

There was only one thing to do, and that was to jump into the rabbit hole. “Exotic Monsters” and several of the She Makes War albums got me through Chemotherapy that day – a debt that I cannot repay.

Keep your loved ones close xx”

Dean Page

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“My object is a glass paperweight; a clear glass sphere about 2 inches high and round, encasing a blown-glass flower of long slender petals, alternating shades of light and dark blue, with a clear bubble at the centre (as if the flower bud) and a halo of much smaller glass bubbles (as if the floating pollen drifting up and away).

This is the very first gift and love token that I bought Bev, my then girlfriend, now wife of 30 years.

This paperweight has travelled with us to all the flats, houses – and a canal boat – that we have shared, rented, owned and lived in, in the west and east of England, accompanying us throughout the lives of our two sons, now in their early twenties.

It has been displayed in all those homes on shelves, mantels and sideboards, and now resides on a shelf in a heart-shaped unit on our lounge wall, among many other meaningful objects and photos we have gathered along those years.

My bid matches for each of us the number of years this has been in our lives, this object spied in a small art and gift shop in Bishopston, Bristol, in the summer of 1991 by a young man very much in love with a young woman.”

Matt Ilett

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“I decided early on in my cancer journey not to have reconstructive surgery.

I knew that my goal was to be in hospital for as little time as possible, and for recovery to be straightforward. My priority was to be at home, as carer and home- educating Mum to Ramona.

I did my research and found that there are many women who “go flat” after bilateral and unilateral mastectomies; I even found an online support group called “Flat Friends”. I also discovered that many women get tattoos over the area to reclaim their body from cancer.

Yes, I thought – that’s me.

It didn’t take me long to figure out that I probably didn’t want to wear a prosthesis either, or a “foob” as it’s known in the breast cancer world. I had been automatically booked in for an appointment to get fitted for a prosthesis, so I decided to go anyway and, quite literally, try it on for size.

The prosthetic technician eyed me up and guessed my bra size instantly – very impressive! She found the correct size prosthesis and I tried it on.

I cannot recall this next moment without a shiver running through my whole body: I looked in the mirror and saw that I looked just like me. Well, “before” me.

“There you go, you look great – you’ve got a cleavage again” said the technician.

In this moment I felt a wave of dysphoria unlike anything I have ever felt before. She meant well, I’m sure, but I was hearing that a woman is only a woman when she has two lumps of flesh pushed together pleasingly for all to observe.

“What kind of patriarchal bullshit is this?!” I thought. I reached down, pulled out the foob and lobbed it across the room.

I took a moment to compose myself.

“No, no I don’t have a cleavage. I have one breast. I won’t be needing this – thank you” I said calmly.

The technician said she was sorry to offend me, but not everyone was as “okay about it” as I am.

As I explained it to her, it’s not that going through this has been a breeze – far from it. My body has been through hell, but it felt that by wearing the prosthesis I would be expressing that my previous body shape was superior. That felt shameful. I knew I wanted to embody my body and love it fiercely, not hide it away.

This is not everyone’s decision, and it’s a highly personal one to make. My Mum Vina had a mastectomy in later life, and she doesn’t feel complete until she puts her squishy foob in every day. In fact, Mum was at the appointment with me and I was allowed to give the gift of a brand new foob to her instead.

My other Mum Jo (my Mum in-law) got me a t-shirt with a right mastectomy print to wear with pride. It shows a scar on one side, and a boob on the other. When I wear it, I get knowing looks (mainly from women), massive smiles, hugs (!) and, a couple of times, tears.”

SJ

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“The object we’re offering for your basement is a small plastic elephant. We both have one, and they’re just over 3cm from trunk to tail.

These elephants came into our lives on Friday 3rd April 2010. We were queueing for a gig at Bush Hall in London when a man dressed in 18th century costume walked up and offered each of us an elephant from a metal box. He told us there were a few elephant-elephants in there, and if we were lucky we might get one. We found this comment utterly baffling, but he seemed friendly – and harmless. So, like many others in the queue, we both took an elephant.

Part-way through the gig, we discovered what an elephant-elephant actually was, and realised that neither of us had got one. For a complete understanding, you really need to listen to the album “Evelyn Evelyn” by Evelyn Evelyn.

The album is wonderful, pretty dark and completely bonkers but we hadn’t heard any of it before the gig. “Evelyn Evelyn” were actually Amanda Palmer and Jason Webley wearing one large dress, playing the part of conjoined twin sisters. The album tells their extraordinary (fictional) life story. At one point the twin sisters ended up in a circus with Bimba and Kimba, the world’s only known conjoined twin elephants, sitting on their backs and playing their ukulele to the adoring crowds. Bimba and Kimba were affectionately referred to as Elephant Elephant. So, at last, that mystery was solved!

It turned out that the “giver of elephants”, Robin, was involved in the performance, helping to tell the story of Evelyn Evelyn between songs.

A few days before the gig, an Icelandic volcano called Eyjafjallajökull had erupted, disrupting flights all over Europe. As a result, Evelyn Evelyn’s support band were stranded with no hope of reaching London, so an enterprising duo named Bitter Ruin offered their services as a replacement. We were so impressed by their performance that we decided we definitely wanted to see them again.

We started going to see Bitter Ruin whenever we could, and they completely transformed our gig-going habits. Up until that point we’d tended to go to medium or large venues, and didn’t go to gigs very often. Bitter Ruin played a lot of small venues, in fact sometimes they weren’t really venues at all. We even saw one gig on a rooftop in Hackney! We got used to seeing them every few weeks – once on two consecutive nights.

Through their clever use of social media, they built their fanbase into more of a community and kept us engaged. When they decided to crowdfund their next album, we decided to contribute. As part of the crowdfunder they decided to do a house gig. We weren’t in a

position to host it, but fortunately the couple who did were within easy travelling distance, so we were able to go.

It was a magical gig, wonderfully hosted by Mike and Sue. Bitter Ruin clearly wanted to do something a bit special for us, so they came up with a novel approach for deciding which songs to play and in what order. It was called “Pin the tail on the Setlist”.

They’d written the names of their songs on a large sheet of paper, and before each song was played, it had to be chosen. A member of the audience was blindfolded and had to select the song by pinning a marker to it, guided by the audience shouting “left a bit”, “down a bit” and so on. Then, after all the music, we had the joy of Sue’s amazing cooking.

It turned out that Mike and Sue hosted regular house gigs, and we started to go to them. We began to make friends with them and the regular attendees (including Robin, giver of elephants) – and there was always Sue’s cooking to look forward to. Through these house gigs we discovered some wonderful performers, including Gabby Young, Eliza Rickman and, of course, She Makes War.

A month after we saw Gabby Young’s band at Mike and Sue’s, we went to see them at one of the Royal Albert Hall’s smaller performance spaces. As we were going in we passed Gabby’s violinist, Millie, who recognised us and said hello. We reckoned that would be the only occasion in our lives when we would walk into the Royal Albert Hall and be recognised by one of the performers we were about to see. So far, we’ve been right!

A few years ago we went to one of Robin’s birthday parties. At one point the conversation turned to the topic of how people met Robin. Quite a few people answered “I was queuing for Evelyn Evelyn and he gave me an elephant”.

Through following musicians we discovered at Mike and Sue’s, we’ve discovered other bands that we now love. We’ve been to various gigs where if it hadn’t been for the eruption of an Icelandic volcano, enabling Bitter Ruin to support Evelyn Evelyn, we wouldn’t have been there.

Things moved on: Bitter Ruin split up in 2014. Covid came. We stopped going to gigs. However, the music continued. We started going to online gigs instead, including Laura’s Penfriend gigs. Now it feels as if we’re at the start of a new chapter. We’ve gently started going to real life gigs again, and Bitter Ruin have reunited and recorded a new album which we’re eagerly waiting to hear.

And of course, there’s the excitement of the new Penfriend album, “House of Stories”.

Through all this, our little elephant has stood beside our computer (the other little elephant is “somewhere safe” – i.e. we’re not sure where). It stands there as a reminder of music, musical exploration and discovery, and making new friends.”

Chris and Fiona

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“Throughout most of my life, two things have been consistent: music and sport. They can both be traced back to a transistor radio on a windowsill.

In the mid-1960’s we lived in the west of Ireland. We had no TV but we did have a radio. Although a lot of Irish music was played (i.e. The Dubliners), I have a distinct memory of hearing Tom Jones’ “The Green, Green Grass of Home” and Englebert Humperdink’s “Please Release Me”.

The radio was how I listened to music in the late 60’s and early 70’s, particularly enjoying the weekly Top 20 chart countdown. Highlights were Bowie, T Rex, Slade, and Motown – how different and colourful those worlds seemed compared to the drab East Midlands.

Music has remained in my life ever since, dubious choices and all.

My other lifelong love is sport. I didn’t come from a sporty family, but I started to take an interest in football in 1968. We’d had been in England for over a year.

One day I came home from school and turned on the TV to watch Blue Peter, but all I could see was people running in a stadium. I had no idea what was going on! I turned the TV off and went away disappointed.

Later I realised I had switched off the Olympics in Mexico City, but at the time I just didn’t understand why Blue Peter and the Magic Roundabout weren’t on telly.

Soon after, I was listening to the radio alone on a Sunday afternoon. The signal was very poor, but I could tell something was going on in Mexico City. A lot of fellas with names I’d never heard before were running in the streets. Even though I didn’t know what was happening, something stirred within me.

It turns out I was hearing Mamo Wolde winning the Olympic marathon. I was barely aware of his country, Ethiopia, at the time, but the radio opened the door to another world. I’ll never forget the feeling of listening to all that noise and excitement from so far away.

18 months later I went to secondary school, and that memory stuck with me. I must have been the only kid looking forward to cross country! I wasn’t particularly good but I did run throughout school, started orienteering and then fell running, and kept it up until my mid 30’s when injuries stopped me in my tracks. I turned to cycling after that, and have ridden across many countries including the USA and New Zealand plus others closer to home – including Ireland.

Running, cycling and music have given me so much joy in my life, all inspired by the grainy sound from a transistor radio on a windowsill in late 1968.”

KC

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