Totino gently warbled his last quiet song as he rested in my son's cupped hand. Half an hour later he would close his eyes to drift away from being that soft, warm, beautiful blue and yellow featherball, into the start of a memory. A final stretch of his wings, one last attempt at flight, a wriggle and then silence.

"I think he's dead dad"

Stillness followed where only seconds before the gentlest rise and fall of breath had been moving.

"They're just animals", "just pets", "it's only a bird". We hear these things.

He wasn't my bird, he wasn't the first pet of our family to die. I'd grown up as a child on a farm, seeing death everywhere, becoming used to it in a realistic way. Nature includes death. He wasn't mine and yet here as a late 50's adult I wept with my son. I wept for his pain and loss. I wept because I could only help him navigate bereavement. I wept because even after all these years, the shock of seeing a beloved animal move in seconds from being a little personality to an inanimate body, still shocked me. I wept because I couldn't hold it together in the same way that my son and I couldn't hold this tiny featherweight body and do anything to stop the inevitable.

Totino arrived in our lives together with Phillipe about six years ago. Toto, handsome blue and yellow little fellow. Peep, a creamino white and yellow with pale pink eyes. They joined our family as small scared puffballs, only a few weeks old. We were terrified we would damage them, that they would escape and never find their way back to their cage. They were my son's first pets of his own, living in a massive cage in his room.

For a few weeks we did not dare to let them out. All we could do was gingerly put our hands in the cage to allow them to get used to us. At first this resulted in squawks and hops and an angry blur of small feathers. Then things calmed down.

A piece of millet, offered gently in their direction, would bring them cautiously forward to stretch and peck at the seeds. Soon the same millet offering would bring more attention. Combined with a soft "step up" we soon had a bird perched on our fingers. Their warm feet clinging tightly.

I'll never forget the first time, with an open cage door, Toto saw my son holding up the millet, heard the "step up" and flew across the room to land and eat. Magic was tied up in the buzz, the feathers, the feet and the feeding. When he did the same to me I felt nothing short of childlike wonder. This little bird trusted me enough to answer my call and find me. Then to rest on my finger.

Peep didn't quite manage this though. As a condition of his near albinism his eyesight was not so good. And his flight skills would compare slightly less favourably than a Dodo. He of course didn't know any different. So he would boldly launch himself into the beyond, flapping furiously and then either crash into the side of the cage or make an impromptu thud on the floor. Pretty soon though even this became a routine, as he would patiently wait for a hand to scoop down next to him, where he would casually walk onto it, ready to be lifted to the heights again.

We placed a branch behind the cage, which the birds loved to perch in and bicker. We connected a string of fairy lights between the branch and curtain rail which then became a budgie highway. Side walking up to the top of the curtains to roost. One day we noticed them hanging oddly. Both birds had, over the course of about a year, pecked and unpicked the stitching holding them all together.

Every morning, on removing the cage cover, we were greeted with our own dawn chorus. When the birds wanted attention, these cheeps became ear splittingly loud. When the cover returned at night, the noise subsided and all we heard were gentle burbles and the occasional crash when one of them fell off their perch.

We invented the game of Budgie Ball. A small rolled up ball of tissue paper dropped on the top of the cage would signal the start of a match. Both birds vying with each other to pick up the ball, hop to the edge, drop or throw it off and then with a cocked head watch it fall to the ground.

Whilst my son did his school homework, Toto would join him. Hopping around the desk, pecking at the LED lights on the mouse mat.

At sad moments we all went in to talk to the budgies. At happy moments we smiled with them and shared seeds and Romaine lettuce leaves.

On occasions we ducked as Toto nosily buzzed around our heads, flying tight circles in the air with wings a blur .

If we needed a listening ear they were there, together with a piercing inquisitive understanding eye.

A few weeks ago, we lost Peep. It was heartbreaking to see Toto looking for him. After this Toto stopped singing. He became more affectionate to all of us. He needed us as much as we needed him. He became even more of a companion to my son.

Days ago, as slightly balding Toto perched on my finger, I went to stroke him under the cheek. For the first time in six years he lent in and pushed against my finger. His eyes closed and he just enjoyed the grooming. He had never let me do this before and it was a moment I never wanted to end. The trust shown to me by this little creature left a lump in my throat.

This morning, Toto quietly slept in my son's cupped hand. Totally trusting, just wanting to be held at the end. And we just wanted to hold him too. I knew where this was heading. It was the most beautiful, yet the most terrible moment.

The room is silent now. An empty cage.

And their is the rawness of a second bird shaped hole in our family's heart.

RIP little Toto and Peep. You brought joy.

The tarmac had been covered in a slick of aviation oil. Sitting on top of this was a thin sheen of water. My car had illegal tyres, worn down to slick smoothness. This was not going to end well.

As I entered the corner too fast, the laws of physics began to play out. Momentum, mass, all of the stuff I had mostly forgotten since taking my 'O' levels. I was going too fast. I saw the wall and felt the back of the car begin to slide away.

"Don't touch the brakes!" shouted my passenger.

My foot hesitated over the pedal.

"Remember what I said. Where is your head going?"

I forced my gaze to the left. To the clear road ahead. I steeled myself to deliberately not look at the looming obstacle. I tensed myself against a certain collision. But as I continued to make sure my head was facing where I wanted to go, now though to the right due to the overseer and skid, my hands instinctively turn the wheel clockwise. The car levelled, straightened up and I exited the bend safely. The tyre wall receded in the rear view mirror.

"Excellent" grinned my companion. "You remembered. Always look where you want to go, not where the car is heading. Well done. Now let's do it again, only faster."

There is a phrase in the book The Lion Trackers Guide to Life that I've been thinking a lot about recently. It's this, "Make sure you're not tracking the wrong Lion." I've been applying it to thinking about plans and goals, things I want to do. It serves as a reminder to focus on where you want to go, but also as a reminder for where you spend your attention.

My attention has been hijacked for a while. Watching events across the pond. The hateful rhetoric, the nasty threats, the lack of compassion and humility. I watched as the tech bro's abandoned standards, threw away their backbones and bent the knee whilst offering sacks of cash. I sighed and got angry. I talked to friends about each latest presidential proclamation, with a sense of incredulity. I found it hard to believe that this was actually happening. I gave more and more mental energy to trying to work it out, trying to see how things could come to this. It was devouring my attention and therefore my life.

But when working on building my Zettlekasten (something for another post) I found my 'Wrong Lion' quote. And as it linked to my skid pan memory something made sense.

Trump is the wrong lion. By giving him my attention I was tracking him. I was noticing him and he was affecting me. And I don't want that. So what if instead, I tracked the lion I was most interested in? What if instead I tracked "how to live a better life" What if I tracked a lion made up of doing the good small things?

If I track lions like these, lions within my control, things will improve. If I force my head to focus my attention on the things I can do to support, create, help and love, then there will be hope. If I remind myself to regularly to make sure I'm tracking the right lion, then progress will slowly happen. Isn't that really all we can do?

Attached to my door was a black and white picture of a blonde woman in full song. The ragged edge down the long side betrayed the fact that it had been torn out of a book. Next to my room, on my best friend's door was an equally cool looking David Bowie.

I was 18 years old. And staring me back in the face, on my study door was Stevie Nicks.

Three years earlier I was about to meet my younger brother in London and head back down with him to Sussex on the train. I had a little time to kill, so took a stroll to one of the big HMV stores that were commonplace. Stacked with all of the good stuff a teenager in the 80’s could desire. The important stuff like posters, T-shirts, VHS movies and music.

As I wandered the record and cassette aisles I listened to the music playing over the PA system. The track playing was a mix of rock and synth, filled with wild vocals. "Talk to Me". The singer hit hard. I stopped and began to smile. This was new to me but I definitely liked it. I had no idea who this was, but on a whim told myself that if the next song was good, I’d buy the album.

And then the echoey “I Can’t Wait” began to repeat as a melody grew ahead of the tidal wave of drum machine and percussion that started the second song. That was enough. I asked at the till and walked out with a cassette of my first Stevie Nicks Album. I would later sit in my room listening through without skipping, time and time again to dig deeply into this piece of music, whilst flicking through the cover artwork and song lyrics printed on the red white and black cassette inlay.

So I’d been a fan since 15. At 18 I now owned a fair number of her albums and in recognition of my musical obsession, when my teenage mates had nicked a book from the school library and torn out the pages of the artist that corresponded with each of us to stick on the door of our room, Stevie was mine.

This was the first gig I have been to where I did not have any alcohol to drink. Not even one small beer. I was clutching my £2.50 can of still water, standing as far forward as I could, waiting 3 hours before Stevie was due to come on stage at BST Hyde Park. Beer would have resulted in trips to the toilets. Trips to the toilets would have resulted in me losing my place near the front. So no beer, no toilet trips, place secure for the performance. My only concession to this had been to walk to the merchandise stand beforehand to bag a tour t-shirt. Steep at £40, but it had to be done.

It’s amazing how some music and artists accompany you through life. Their songs and albums mark out special events. Crushes, falling in love, split ups and heartbreak. Teenage feelings of isolation and no one understanding you. Stevie understood. Her off world lyrics, full of melancholy hit that nerve full on.

Bella Donna was my companion aged 17, quickly followed by The Wild Heart.

Listening to “Has Anyone Ever Written Anything for You?” with tears in my eyes and a heavy soul, after my first real heartbreak was a comfort and also vessel to help get the sadness out. A purge. Every time I hear that melody I’m dragged back to those high emotion years of teendom.

The Other Side of the Mirror played out over CD in a college friend's Vauxhall as three of us took a trip from Salisbury in Wiltshire to Le Touquet in France to photograph motorcycle races in the sand dunes. That album sat next to me as I honed my skills as an aspiring photographer and film maker.

Trouble in Shangri-La sang to me through early adulthood. More calm, more measured but still melodic and big.

My last album to be bought slipped through the cracks of a grown up work life with family and responsibilities that made it harder to grab time to stop, sit and listen to an album, rather than pick random Spotify selected songs. But when I noticed In Your Dreams I was again compelled to buy it, stop, sit and listen to let the art wash over me.

Weirdly, I only really came to love Fleetwood Mac, via Stevie Nicks. An unusual timeline, but one that fitted me. Suddenly there was this whole other world of high value, crafted lyrics and massive melodies to dive into. And again, my love for the cool, stick thin, twanging accent of Tom Petty has Stevie Nicks to thank for the initial introduction. All the more poignant when the guitar riff of “Running Down a Dream” blasted out over the expectant Hyde Park crowd as the show began.

I’d almost been here before. Twice. Years ago I waited on a website, constantly clicking page refresh until I managed to get onto the ticket portal. Fleetwood Mac were coming to the UK. The whole of the group, even Christie McVie. A big tour with gigs near to me up North. I battled through the captcha’s and anxiety inducing timers telling me I could only hold the potential ticket for another 3 or 4 minutes. Success. Booked. I was off to the races.

Until something happened, illness, injury or similar. Two gigs on the tour cancelled last minute. Birmingham would be rescheduled. The fans would be OK. Manchester? Just cancelled. Guess which one I had booked? Refund. I was gutted.

That was the last chance I could have seen the complete band. Christie McVie sadly died a few years later.

Back in Hyde Park, after the encore, Harry Styles and Stevie Nicks sang Landslide. That beautiful Mac track. As the music flowed, behind them were images of Stevie and Christie projected on the stage. A slide-show of a life spent together. At the end, Stevie explained how this day would have been her friend’s birthday. That she dealt with grief by running back to the stage. How performing and feeling the love of the crowd carried her through this still very real sadness and loss.

I had never been to a concert where the artist left most of the audience crying, myself included.

Despite missing the opportunity to catch Fleetwood Mac and see Stevie live, I kept waiting and looking. A few years later I’d again sat tapping refresh on the laptop and succeeded in buying new tickets. And this time I had a different tack. See two musical heroes, a kind of buy one get one free opportunity. Stevie Nicks and Tom Petty. Could not be better.

Life got in the way. In the end, I couldn’t make the gig. Begrudgingly I sold my opportunity to another fan. I didn’t make a profit as ticket gouging is the lowest of the low. I was sad, but stoical. It would be OK. They’d tour again and that time would be different.

Except Tom Petty died.

The last time Stevie had played Hyde Park had been with Tom. As this evening continued her band paid their respects with "Free Fallin’". At the end, once again with Harry Styles taking on Tom’s part in “Stop Dragging My Heart Around” I paused to notice. To fully take it all in. Here I was with thousands and thousands of other fans immersing myself in a tune that has been with me nearly my whole life.

I had failed twice, but now, 40 years later I was submerged in so many emotions watching one of my musical heroes enchant an audience. She sang. She stopped to tell little stories and anecdotes. Rock Goddess Stevie turned into a charming, slightly cookie neighbour. Being smaller, more human. Reminding us of the power of friendship. Wanting to let us in, make us feel special. She disappeared backstage to return holding signature Stevie attire. The lacy, coloured shawls she often made her look.

“And this one is the actual shawl from the video of Rhiannon. It’s the first time I’ve worn it since.” she smiled. The crown erupted.

Wrapped around these small moments, was the music. Those songs that got into my head and stuck in my heart. As powerful as before. Delivered as perfectly as before. Sure the voice had aged, changed slightly but powered by the experience and stage craft of such an icon, the overall effect was still pure magic.

I went to Hyde Park to see Stevie Nicks this last Friday. It’s Monday now and I am still buzzing. I’m still finding tunes resurface, bringing with them more memories and moments from my life.

"So apart from gushing about finally meeting an idol, what is the point of this post Alastair? " you may well be asking.

Sometimes in life you have to be bold, slightly reckless. You have to jump before you’re ready. Hesitate too much and you can miss the final opportunity to experience amazing things in life. There will be a time when it’s too late.

Sometimes you just have to keep trying. I blew it twice. I wasn’t sure whether there would be another opportunity to see her live in concert. But I made it. And I feel lucky and grateful.

Sometimes you need to spurge on important things. I paid extra money to gain stage side "Gold" tickets. My natural sensible head made me doubt whether to do this. But in the end I was so glad I did. Why do something this anticipated halfheartedly?

See things live. If you love an artist, musician, actor, comedian, go and see them in real life. Get off the screens. Go and show up. Be there with other people. Be human, and organic and alive. Spend the money to do this. They will feel this as much as you. The energy goes both ways.

When you do this, experience it. Really experience it. Take it all in. Listen, smell, feel the air. By all means take a picture or short clip or two (as I did), but then put down the phone and just let it hit you in your eyes, ears and heart. Those memories will be far more valuable than a share on social media. They’ll be part of you. They’ll weave around the older ones, the times when the songs made you laugh or cry. They’ll keep good company. And your life will be better because of them.

And finally... I have to conclude, Stevie Nicks still rocks.