Since working in the Library I've taken to wearing my jewellery to finish off my outfit. Presenting a public face needs that little more finessing I feel. I've amassed a collection of necklaces which have been mainly bought in charity shops (no surprises there then), and I choose them as suits my mood and my outfit.
This morning I chose a necklace I'd been given as a gift many years ago by Loutfy Boulos. And of course it reminded me of him, and because I've been thinking about him all day I thought I'd collect my thoughts here.
When I worked at the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew, there was a constant stream of visiting botanists studying the collections of plant specimens which were held, where I worked, in the Herbarium. Each year in the summer we'd be visited by Dr Loutfy Boulos, a retired botanist from Egypt.
As with many of the botanists, retirement was simply a box ticked, it was in fact irrelevant to their life's work, their passion, their study of whatever speciality it was they were interested in. This was the case with Loutfy, and over the years I came to know him a little. He was a tall, large, gentle man, with a shuffling gait as he walked the corridors of the Herbarium, always smiling, stopping here and there to chat, happy to be involved and to be visiting his beloved Kew. He said coming to the UK in the summer was an escape because Egypt was so hot at that time of the year. He also seemed to enjoy escaping his family, but perhaps that was just an excuse, an excuse to be totally immersed in what he loved - plants.
And because he was so genial, and I knew he stayed in a bedsit during his visits to the UK, and because it was our tradition to hold a BBQ each summer, we invited him to come along, and he accepted. We'd recently moved house and had acquired a large overgrown garden in the move. I have a lovely photograph of Loutfy, shoulder high in the bramble, garden shears in hand with a beaming smile on his face. A botanist in the jungle. A man in his element. He was happy.
The following year we invited him to the BBQ again, and enjoyed his company and conversation, and he gave me a gift, a small silver pill-box with hieroglyphics enscribed, something to remember him by he said. The following year he attended again, and this time gave me the necklace. It's a 10p sized polished brown stone, set in silver, with a shortish chain. Probably not something I'd have chosen myself, but when I wear it it sits well, it works and I'm reminded of him again.
Not every man would have gone to the trouble of bringing a gift from their homeland, and that's what was so impressive, that care and attention, that effort to think and then to execute the act, that you knew this was a good man. It was my honour and my pleasure to have known him. He enriched my life.... I have no idea what happened to him. It's eight years since I left Kew, and I rarely have contact there anymore.
So when I put on my necklace this morning I thought of Loutfy and I thought of the troubles besetting Egypt at the moment, and although I'm not religious, I believe my thoughts were some kind of prayer. For Loutfy. For Egypt. For Everyone. Because we are all connected, and that should be all that matters and that should be enough.
Kat.
This morning I chose a necklace I'd been given as a gift many years ago by Loutfy Boulos. And of course it reminded me of him, and because I've been thinking about him all day I thought I'd collect my thoughts here.
When I worked at the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew, there was a constant stream of visiting botanists studying the collections of plant specimens which were held, where I worked, in the Herbarium. Each year in the summer we'd be visited by Dr Loutfy Boulos, a retired botanist from Egypt.
As with many of the botanists, retirement was simply a box ticked, it was in fact irrelevant to their life's work, their passion, their study of whatever speciality it was they were interested in. This was the case with Loutfy, and over the years I came to know him a little. He was a tall, large, gentle man, with a shuffling gait as he walked the corridors of the Herbarium, always smiling, stopping here and there to chat, happy to be involved and to be visiting his beloved Kew. He said coming to the UK in the summer was an escape because Egypt was so hot at that time of the year. He also seemed to enjoy escaping his family, but perhaps that was just an excuse, an excuse to be totally immersed in what he loved - plants.
And because he was so genial, and I knew he stayed in a bedsit during his visits to the UK, and because it was our tradition to hold a BBQ each summer, we invited him to come along, and he accepted. We'd recently moved house and had acquired a large overgrown garden in the move. I have a lovely photograph of Loutfy, shoulder high in the bramble, garden shears in hand with a beaming smile on his face. A botanist in the jungle. A man in his element. He was happy.
The following year we invited him to the BBQ again, and enjoyed his company and conversation, and he gave me a gift, a small silver pill-box with hieroglyphics enscribed, something to remember him by he said. The following year he attended again, and this time gave me the necklace. It's a 10p sized polished brown stone, set in silver, with a shortish chain. Probably not something I'd have chosen myself, but when I wear it it sits well, it works and I'm reminded of him again.
Not every man would have gone to the trouble of bringing a gift from their homeland, and that's what was so impressive, that care and attention, that effort to think and then to execute the act, that you knew this was a good man. It was my honour and my pleasure to have known him. He enriched my life.... I have no idea what happened to him. It's eight years since I left Kew, and I rarely have contact there anymore.
So when I put on my necklace this morning I thought of Loutfy and I thought of the troubles besetting Egypt at the moment, and although I'm not religious, I believe my thoughts were some kind of prayer. For Loutfy. For Egypt. For Everyone. Because we are all connected, and that should be all that matters and that should be enough.
Kat.
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