I’ve known Marga for twelve years. But if I were to bump into her in the street, I wouldn’t recognise her.
We’ve been playing Wordfeud for twelve years now. She’s nearly eighty now. She still lives independently, with her third husband. At the moment, she’s waiting for her new tricycle, as she can no longer cycle properly after falling off twice.
I know about her children. About the divorce. I know about her granddaughter who unexpectedly became a teenage mother. I know about her hospital stays, her cancer, her husband’s cancer, all the medical tests, all the little and big things that make up a life.
And yet I wouldn’t know what she looks like.
My mum and Marga have also been playing Wordfeud together for years now. So when Marga goes quiet for a moment, we talk about it here at home too.
‘Is something wrong?’
A while back, she was offline for longer than usual. No new moves and no replies in the chat either. Whereas she normally replies within a few minutes. That’s when I really started to worry. Fortunately, she came back. She’d been in hospital.
After that, I asked her if her children would let us know if anything ever happened to her.
Because that’s the strange thing. The special thing. The beautiful thing. I know Marga. And she’s very dear to me. Even though we’ve never had a coffee together. And even though I’ve no idea what she looks like.
Some connections are very obvious.
And some connections are almost invisible.
But that doesn’t make them any less real.
In my new job Strings Attached That’s exactly what it’s about. About visible and invisible connections. About attraction without a visible thread. About how something or someone can hold your attention without you being able to explain exactly why.