Aoife O'Higgins: terribly missed
This piece by Aoife was originally read at the LDSG rememberance evening on Wednesday the 11 October two weeks after Ester died.
Dear Ester,
I remember you as if our lunch Tuesday two weeks ago was today. I can visualise you walking through the unit 3R door, and walking towards your desk, sinking into that big chair. I have so many memories of you at LDSG, few are worth telling, but all are worth keeping. I hope you will forgive me for sharing part of you with so many people.
I remember our first day at work together, on November 25th.
I remember when we went to the IAS immigration training in February, and we shocked people (including the trainer) by declaring that everyone should be let in the country because it would boost the economy. And I remember you telling me about meeting Ryan that day.
I remember every lunch we had together. How you would pile on salad, chick peas, butter beans, salsa, soya sauce, the Sri Lankan fruity thing topped off with Japanese seeds. You made the most fantastic mixes. I remember the last lunch you made us. You told us that you had been up since 6am cooking for us and we doubly appreciated it for that. And I remember how we would endlessly debate what the point was of washing Sainsbury’s fruits…
I remember how every time I came into the office with my multi-colour stripy dress, I would walk up to your desk; You would turn around and break into a huge smile and tell me how much you loved it. I used to tell you I had bought in Rome and worried that I looked like a cleaning lady in it. And all you could say was “but….it’s so beautiful”. It was a little ritual of ours…
I remember when you stood up in front of 200 or more people at the Refugee Council conference and confronted Tony McNulty (the immigration minister at the time) to tell him that his immigration policies made no sense from the start because he kept referring to immigrants and asylum seekers as “illegals”.
I remember when I arrived at work on my birthday back in March, it was just you and me in the office that Friday. You had bought me a beautiful plant with beautiful flowers, but hadn’t signed your name, only “happy birthday with lots love”. You let me believe for a whole morning that it was from a secret admirer.
I remember when one of our volunteers was crying on the phone to you because the client she had been visiting was suddenly removed, and you spent a whole afternoon on the phone consoling her.
I remember how excited you were when you told us about seeing the giant elephant and the girl in central London with Ryan and Louie. It was all you talked about for days.
I remember everything you taught me. I remember how you listened to clients, and how you said “darling” to everyone, even the most prolific offenders and other difficult and challenging clients in detention. And how you used to try and stop and correct yourself, but how much I loved it. I remember the way you called me “darling” and “love” and how gentle and affectionate it sounded.
I remember how fondly you spoke of your friends, Alistair, Natalie and your friend in A&E in Cornwall. I knew you cared so much about them because you talked about their lives with such passion. I learnt all about how much A&E was going to change in the future (and remember how people used refer to us as A&E: Aoife and Ester – was I accident, you emergency?). I remember how you talked of Alistair’s wedding and what a fantastic time you had had in Canada. We grew to be so fond of your friends even though we didn’t know them.
I remember when we went to the volunteer management training in April. You invited the trainer (who was in London only for the 2 training days) to come up to Kilburn for some live music and a few drinks. He turned up on the second day, late and haggard looking, clearly he had had a good time…is it true that he got up and sang in front of everyone, drunk at the end of the night…?
I remember your efforts to speak and write French, and how you could only speak it with a big grin. And you made so much effort to pronounce things well.
K in detention referred to you as the girl with the big shoes. You’re the only LDSG staff he remembers. J referred to you as Queen Ester. And you connected with all of them, regardless of age, background, nationality. And you made such fantastic impressions of all of them, without ever a hint of mockery in your voice.
You touched everyone you spoke to: clients, volunteers and other professionals. I am positive that every trainer and trainee you worked with remembers you.
You are terribly missed in the office. We miss you at lunch time. And I miss how you answered the phone. I miss you in your corner. I miss you, Ester.
Dear Ester,
I remember you as if our lunch Tuesday two weeks ago was today. I can visualise you walking through the unit 3R door, and walking towards your desk, sinking into that big chair. I have so many memories of you at LDSG, few are worth telling, but all are worth keeping. I hope you will forgive me for sharing part of you with so many people.
I remember our first day at work together, on November 25th.
I remember when we went to the IAS immigration training in February, and we shocked people (including the trainer) by declaring that everyone should be let in the country because it would boost the economy. And I remember you telling me about meeting Ryan that day.
I remember every lunch we had together. How you would pile on salad, chick peas, butter beans, salsa, soya sauce, the Sri Lankan fruity thing topped off with Japanese seeds. You made the most fantastic mixes. I remember the last lunch you made us. You told us that you had been up since 6am cooking for us and we doubly appreciated it for that. And I remember how we would endlessly debate what the point was of washing Sainsbury’s fruits…
I remember how every time I came into the office with my multi-colour stripy dress, I would walk up to your desk; You would turn around and break into a huge smile and tell me how much you loved it. I used to tell you I had bought in Rome and worried that I looked like a cleaning lady in it. And all you could say was “but….it’s so beautiful”. It was a little ritual of ours…
I remember when you stood up in front of 200 or more people at the Refugee Council conference and confronted Tony McNulty (the immigration minister at the time) to tell him that his immigration policies made no sense from the start because he kept referring to immigrants and asylum seekers as “illegals”.
I remember when I arrived at work on my birthday back in March, it was just you and me in the office that Friday. You had bought me a beautiful plant with beautiful flowers, but hadn’t signed your name, only “happy birthday with lots love”. You let me believe for a whole morning that it was from a secret admirer.
I remember when one of our volunteers was crying on the phone to you because the client she had been visiting was suddenly removed, and you spent a whole afternoon on the phone consoling her.
I remember how excited you were when you told us about seeing the giant elephant and the girl in central London with Ryan and Louie. It was all you talked about for days.
I remember everything you taught me. I remember how you listened to clients, and how you said “darling” to everyone, even the most prolific offenders and other difficult and challenging clients in detention. And how you used to try and stop and correct yourself, but how much I loved it. I remember the way you called me “darling” and “love” and how gentle and affectionate it sounded.
I remember how fondly you spoke of your friends, Alistair, Natalie and your friend in A&E in Cornwall. I knew you cared so much about them because you talked about their lives with such passion. I learnt all about how much A&E was going to change in the future (and remember how people used refer to us as A&E: Aoife and Ester – was I accident, you emergency?). I remember how you talked of Alistair’s wedding and what a fantastic time you had had in Canada. We grew to be so fond of your friends even though we didn’t know them.
I remember when we went to the volunteer management training in April. You invited the trainer (who was in London only for the 2 training days) to come up to Kilburn for some live music and a few drinks. He turned up on the second day, late and haggard looking, clearly he had had a good time…is it true that he got up and sang in front of everyone, drunk at the end of the night…?
I remember your efforts to speak and write French, and how you could only speak it with a big grin. And you made so much effort to pronounce things well.
K in detention referred to you as the girl with the big shoes. You’re the only LDSG staff he remembers. J referred to you as Queen Ester. And you connected with all of them, regardless of age, background, nationality. And you made such fantastic impressions of all of them, without ever a hint of mockery in your voice.
You touched everyone you spoke to: clients, volunteers and other professionals. I am positive that every trainer and trainee you worked with remembers you.
You are terribly missed in the office. We miss you at lunch time. And I miss how you answered the phone. I miss you in your corner. I miss you, Ester.
posted by Ester memories at 3:49 pm
