Do you know why civil engineers are so called? Well the Romans invented the profession and they had two types of construction engineer 1) military and 2) civil. Although we are fascinated by the history and archaeology of Roman Britain, it's actually the tale and remains of a foreign army of occupation. St Alban's is one of my favourite places though, and I love walking through the grounds of the amphitheatre and up to the awesomely beautiful cathedral, the quiet contemplation and peace in the tomb of St Alban is definitely mystical. Went there with H, C and friends on my birthday and cherish the photos of such a happy day.
Wonder if in fifteen hundred year's time the people of Afghanistan will treasure NATO's legacy.
My father was a civil engineer and it is a huge sadness for me that he only saw H,C and R as infants - he died when they were so very young. He never even knew my brother would go on to have two gorgeous boys. The irony is he adored his grandchildren and was much more openly affectionate with them than he ever was with my brother and I, he was always rather formal with us as if he was papa from a by-gone age.
At the moment have got the most enormous craving to go back to my roots. I grew up in a mining village on the border between Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire and as a child, in a circle of five miles around, there were at least fifteen coal mines and an iron foundry. They've all gone now, grassed over or converted into retail parks - that's an oxymoron if ever there was one. I remember once in an English lesson looking out the classroom window at the aptly named slag-heap and watching transfixed as a bulldozer over turned and rolled all the way down the side. The area was quite bleak and hard and it still is unusual for people to move away or 'escape' as my mother would put it. Our village dated back to the Domesday Book but most of the ancient buildings were gone and the style of architecture was predominantly Victorian industrial red-brick. My brother left home for university when I was ten and so I guess most of my childhood was spent as an only child.
I used to regularly go up to see my mother with my children, and they used to love to go off to Lincoln and the east coast or over the border into Derbyshire and the Peak District - Matlock was one of their favourite places. My mother loved to see her grandchildren and also, like my father, she was much more openly warm with them and would always side with them if I had a gripe about something. H was for several years a very angry young man and that manifested itself in monstrous, challenging behaviour and my mother was one of the few people he would listen and respond positively to. And if ever I would complain about R she would simply turn to me and say 'you were a nightmare - she's just growing up'. C never seemed to present any problems or concerns as a child - made up for it now though!
My mother died two weeks after C went to Sandhurst and thankfully he was allowed special leave to attend her funeral. H and C took the readings during the solemn service and R was so plucky and read the Eulogy. Everyone gasped at her grave side as at the exact moment her coffin was lowered into the ground, a huge rainbow lit up the previously grey sky.
Still as my Aunt said to me it's not the same anymore.
Please God all safe and well.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
Saturday 31 October 2009
Friday 30 October 2009
Day 27 Week 4
Karma. Reciprocity. What goes around comes around. Whatever thoughts, words or deeds you transmit will come back to haunt you. But does that really hold true? Being Christian I have a strong sense that you should strive to do unto others as you'd have them do unto you (not to say the halo hasn't slipped a few times), but is it really true that life will balance the great scales of existence? Would like to think so, but am not sure - if people really did learn from their errors then surely they wouldn't be so continually repeated.
Saw that the MoD was slated yesterday because of the Nimrod crash in Kandahar in September 2006, killing all fourteen people on board. The Independent reported "One of the worst disasters in recent British military history was the result of "incompetence, complacency and cynicism" by senior military figures which broke the covenant the country has with its soldiers, a devastating official report has concluded. " Backed up by the comments of a former senior RAF officer who reported to the inquiry into the accident that "There was no doubt that the culture of the time had switched. In the days of the RAF chief engineer in the 1990s, you had to be on top of airworthiness. By 2004 you had to be on top of your budget if you wanted to get ahead."
The 'Soldier's Covenant' is a term bandied about quiet a bit at the moment. Essentially it means that if we, as a nation, ask someone to do their duty and fight on our behalf and be prepared to pay the ultimate price - then we, in return, have an equitable responsibility to care and protect them (and their families) to the best of our ability. Quid pro quo. Karma. Not sure if that sits square with the results of the above investigation.
Hope all loved ones are safe and not jeopardised by a culture of corner-cutting-costing.
C has the most adorable girlfriend. She's bright, and kind, and funny, and gentle (also very intelligent - beauty and brains) and everythng a boy could wish for. It's a pleasure to see them together, laughing and enjoying each other's company, I really hope and pray she manages to cope with the stress and worry of the status quo at such a young age. Prior to this he had been embroilled in a fairly disasterous relationship, and the pain in watching as a parent was actually harder than being in a toxic relationship yourself. I'd walk into the house and there'd just be silence and then I'd find the two of them in the sitting room, girl contorted by misery and recrimination and C looking at me like a rabbit in the headlights, with 'I don't know what to do to make it better Mum' written across his face. There was never any joy - just mistrust, demands and allegation - it was as if they were locked in a battle for mutual destruction. Twisted psychological blackmail. Anyway hopefully C's ex will find happiness too - sometimes it's just the case that you bring out the worst in each other.
Anyway I'm a fine one to talk about relationships - as my dear friend said to me 'if you walked into a room stuffed with nice men you'd manage to find the plonker tucked away at the back, feel sorry for him and end up with another completely unsuitable guy'. Alas true.
Popped into church and said a few prayers. No news from H - Lusty obviously at sea. R home and yet more internet fashion purchased.
Maybe some day my prince will come.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
Saw that the MoD was slated yesterday because of the Nimrod crash in Kandahar in September 2006, killing all fourteen people on board. The Independent reported "One of the worst disasters in recent British military history was the result of "incompetence, complacency and cynicism" by senior military figures which broke the covenant the country has with its soldiers, a devastating official report has concluded. " Backed up by the comments of a former senior RAF officer who reported to the inquiry into the accident that "There was no doubt that the culture of the time had switched. In the days of the RAF chief engineer in the 1990s, you had to be on top of airworthiness. By 2004 you had to be on top of your budget if you wanted to get ahead."
The 'Soldier's Covenant' is a term bandied about quiet a bit at the moment. Essentially it means that if we, as a nation, ask someone to do their duty and fight on our behalf and be prepared to pay the ultimate price - then we, in return, have an equitable responsibility to care and protect them (and their families) to the best of our ability. Quid pro quo. Karma. Not sure if that sits square with the results of the above investigation.
Hope all loved ones are safe and not jeopardised by a culture of corner-cutting-costing.
C has the most adorable girlfriend. She's bright, and kind, and funny, and gentle (also very intelligent - beauty and brains) and everythng a boy could wish for. It's a pleasure to see them together, laughing and enjoying each other's company, I really hope and pray she manages to cope with the stress and worry of the status quo at such a young age. Prior to this he had been embroilled in a fairly disasterous relationship, and the pain in watching as a parent was actually harder than being in a toxic relationship yourself. I'd walk into the house and there'd just be silence and then I'd find the two of them in the sitting room, girl contorted by misery and recrimination and C looking at me like a rabbit in the headlights, with 'I don't know what to do to make it better Mum' written across his face. There was never any joy - just mistrust, demands and allegation - it was as if they were locked in a battle for mutual destruction. Twisted psychological blackmail. Anyway hopefully C's ex will find happiness too - sometimes it's just the case that you bring out the worst in each other.
Anyway I'm a fine one to talk about relationships - as my dear friend said to me 'if you walked into a room stuffed with nice men you'd manage to find the plonker tucked away at the back, feel sorry for him and end up with another completely unsuitable guy'. Alas true.
Popped into church and said a few prayers. No news from H - Lusty obviously at sea. R home and yet more internet fashion purchased.
Maybe some day my prince will come.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
Thursday 29 October 2009
Day 26 Week 4
Definitey feel yukey - blame the lady in the supermarket who replaced the guy at the checkout. She plonked herself down, let out a huge obviously virally infected gasp, and said 'I feel really ill - all hot and achey and sick'. I just looked at her in utter bewilderment and thought 'you stupid woman, why are you here spreading your disease', and sure enough five days later here I am feeling hot, achey and sick.
The phone rang and it was R. "Mum how do you, like, work out percentages?". Somewhat stunned by this opening gambit, even from R, I replied "in what sense darling?". The conversation went as follows
R : "If you've got, like, a hundred and thirty three and that's, like, a hundred percent, then what's a hundred and twenty three?"
Me : "Do you mean what proportion in a percentage, is a hundred and twenty three of the whole?"
R : "Mum (exasperated pause), please don't, like, always complicate things"
Me : "Sorry darling (brain scrambling as most intellectually challenging activity at the moment is reading daily horoscope), just wasn't sure what you meant exactly. Remember you always find one percent by moving the decimal point two places to the left" (trying to sound jovial - about percentages for God's sake. It's wonderful that I'm being asked anything positive so don't want to blow it by simply being me)
R : "Mum, I'm like, in a hurry, can you just tell me what to do?"
Me : "Then you divide a hundred and twenty three by one point three three and that will give you the answer"
R : "Oh yeh, love you, bye".
Gone. No explanation as to why percentages were being considered and heaven forbid I should ask. It wasn't always like this. Even though we've always loved each other, can't put hand on heart and say that over the last three years each has necessarily liked the other party. R was the sweetest, cuddliest, gentlest little girl and then she hit puberty. Gone were shared nights under the duvet on the sofa watching Pride and Prejudice, and instead there'd be screaming and tantrums and loathing. It was as if my gorgeous little flower was possessed by demons overnight. Thumb sucking and smiling were replaced with growling and snapping, and you know you irritate someone when they say 'stop looking at me', when all you've done is smile at them because you're pleased to see them. People at work were always very supportive and would ask 'how're things at home?', and I would either reply 'OK - not too bad' or 'she's up for adoption again'. Still, love her to bits.
Posted chocolate out to Afghanistan yesterday. The postmaster told me you must never say which country is the destination of the parcels marked with the BFPO number, for fear of interference from terrorists. Find it all so sad really.
Hopefully all will have a good, safe day.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
The phone rang and it was R. "Mum how do you, like, work out percentages?". Somewhat stunned by this opening gambit, even from R, I replied "in what sense darling?". The conversation went as follows
R : "If you've got, like, a hundred and thirty three and that's, like, a hundred percent, then what's a hundred and twenty three?"
Me : "Do you mean what proportion in a percentage, is a hundred and twenty three of the whole?"
R : "Mum (exasperated pause), please don't, like, always complicate things"
Me : "Sorry darling (brain scrambling as most intellectually challenging activity at the moment is reading daily horoscope), just wasn't sure what you meant exactly. Remember you always find one percent by moving the decimal point two places to the left" (trying to sound jovial - about percentages for God's sake. It's wonderful that I'm being asked anything positive so don't want to blow it by simply being me)
R : "Mum, I'm like, in a hurry, can you just tell me what to do?"
Me : "Then you divide a hundred and twenty three by one point three three and that will give you the answer"
R : "Oh yeh, love you, bye".
Gone. No explanation as to why percentages were being considered and heaven forbid I should ask. It wasn't always like this. Even though we've always loved each other, can't put hand on heart and say that over the last three years each has necessarily liked the other party. R was the sweetest, cuddliest, gentlest little girl and then she hit puberty. Gone were shared nights under the duvet on the sofa watching Pride and Prejudice, and instead there'd be screaming and tantrums and loathing. It was as if my gorgeous little flower was possessed by demons overnight. Thumb sucking and smiling were replaced with growling and snapping, and you know you irritate someone when they say 'stop looking at me', when all you've done is smile at them because you're pleased to see them. People at work were always very supportive and would ask 'how're things at home?', and I would either reply 'OK - not too bad' or 'she's up for adoption again'. Still, love her to bits.
Posted chocolate out to Afghanistan yesterday. The postmaster told me you must never say which country is the destination of the parcels marked with the BFPO number, for fear of interference from terrorists. Find it all so sad really.
Hopefully all will have a good, safe day.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
Wednesday 28 October 2009
Day 25 Week 4
Woken up by my mobile this morning which I had chosen to inexplicably leave downstairs. So frantic almost-dash in my restricted hobble to grab the phone from the chest of drawers in the hall - near lethal stagger worth it though because it was C calling from Afghanistan.
He was very sober and serious. Of course he can't really say anything. Afghanistan getting cold. Been 'out and about'. Living in a house on a compound with his platoon - good to know there's none of that me officer, you the men crap. Wants some galaxy chocolate - said I'd send him some today. Got my card yesterday - posted it on the 3rd so I guess 3 weeks is expected travelling time. Was going to ring his dad after me. They (between them all) get the use of the satellite phone for half an hour each day. Good to speak to H on Saturday. Told me he reads the blog and it's nice to know what's going on at home. It was half-one in the afternoon so found out there's a five hour time difference. Then he was gone. He sounded so old.
Lots of prayers to St Therese
A lovely colleague of mine from work has sent me a book of soldier's cartoons and I've just flicked through it as a kind of way of connecting with the Army. The humour is invariably irreverent and the images constantly ridicule pomposity. A thread which runs through the whole collection though, which begins with the first Gulf war in 1990 and finishes in 2000, is how the government expects more and more from those serving and yet is prepared to provide less and less by way of equipment. Two men sitting in a trench with one of them holding a shell saying "are you sure this is state of the art - it's got 'stuff the Kaiser' down the side".
Thank you so much for all your support - it's overwhelming.
Feel a bit sick today, don't know why.
Lots of positivity!
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
He was very sober and serious. Of course he can't really say anything. Afghanistan getting cold. Been 'out and about'. Living in a house on a compound with his platoon - good to know there's none of that me officer, you the men crap. Wants some galaxy chocolate - said I'd send him some today. Got my card yesterday - posted it on the 3rd so I guess 3 weeks is expected travelling time. Was going to ring his dad after me. They (between them all) get the use of the satellite phone for half an hour each day. Good to speak to H on Saturday. Told me he reads the blog and it's nice to know what's going on at home. It was half-one in the afternoon so found out there's a five hour time difference. Then he was gone. He sounded so old.
Lots of prayers to St Therese
A lovely colleague of mine from work has sent me a book of soldier's cartoons and I've just flicked through it as a kind of way of connecting with the Army. The humour is invariably irreverent and the images constantly ridicule pomposity. A thread which runs through the whole collection though, which begins with the first Gulf war in 1990 and finishes in 2000, is how the government expects more and more from those serving and yet is prepared to provide less and less by way of equipment. Two men sitting in a trench with one of them holding a shell saying "are you sure this is state of the art - it's got 'stuff the Kaiser' down the side".
Thank you so much for all your support - it's overwhelming.
Feel a bit sick today, don't know why.
Lots of positivity!
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
Tuesday 27 October 2009
Day 24 Week 4
The less you do the less you want to do. Normally I spend my life in a maelstrom of duties - there are never enough hours in the day and the 'to do' list always grows and never shrinks. But at the moment I'm in a sort of enforced seclusion with the day revolving around injections, pottering about and thinking. Actually think it's far healthier to be over occupied than under occupied - if you need a favour ask a busy person.
Spoke to H last night and he was delighted. So far he had not been able to contact C and vice versa but C had phoned his father when he was standing next to H in Liverpool, and so the two had managed to speak. He said he felt really emotional but when I asked him what they spoke about, and if C had seen any action, he went very mumbly and said he couldn't remember what C had said. My kids always were crap liars.
It's strange to think that I was once married to H, C and R's father. It's so long ago now that I have to work really hard to remember when I was a 'Mrs' instead of a 'Miss'. We actually got on really well (but truth to tell there was never that fire of passion in the relationship) and when it all went belly-up he did say to me 'you'll always be my best friend' - to which I replied 'no I won't - best friends don't do this to each other'. I married in haste and ricochet, and doesn't that always end in disaster? The truth is we should never have legalised the union - the only reason I can't trully deny the whole thing is that I wouldn't want one hair on the kid's head to be in anyway different. We were young, naive, I was an emotional car-crash and actually I'm really happy for him that he's so contented and settled in his current marriage. We invested so much time and energy firstly into being a family and secondly into trying to damage and destroy each other - and now we can joke and exchange conversation over a G & T as if we were mere acquaintances. Blood will always be thicker than water though and in some wierd, obscure way we shall always be linked by the DNA of our children. Karma.
My brother is sorting out the devastion in his home. They took only small valuable pieces including my mother's ring and - perish the thought - her St Christopher. My cousin reckons they'll be dead by the weekend. My dear Aunt and Uncle have sent their first parcel out to C - much confusion over kilograms but the kindly person in the Post Office let it go through. And I'm going to have my bath as the nurse has just left.
Is life settling down? Please God keep everyone safe.
Speak Soon. A soldier's Mum x
Spoke to H last night and he was delighted. So far he had not been able to contact C and vice versa but C had phoned his father when he was standing next to H in Liverpool, and so the two had managed to speak. He said he felt really emotional but when I asked him what they spoke about, and if C had seen any action, he went very mumbly and said he couldn't remember what C had said. My kids always were crap liars.
It's strange to think that I was once married to H, C and R's father. It's so long ago now that I have to work really hard to remember when I was a 'Mrs' instead of a 'Miss'. We actually got on really well (but truth to tell there was never that fire of passion in the relationship) and when it all went belly-up he did say to me 'you'll always be my best friend' - to which I replied 'no I won't - best friends don't do this to each other'. I married in haste and ricochet, and doesn't that always end in disaster? The truth is we should never have legalised the union - the only reason I can't trully deny the whole thing is that I wouldn't want one hair on the kid's head to be in anyway different. We were young, naive, I was an emotional car-crash and actually I'm really happy for him that he's so contented and settled in his current marriage. We invested so much time and energy firstly into being a family and secondly into trying to damage and destroy each other - and now we can joke and exchange conversation over a G & T as if we were mere acquaintances. Blood will always be thicker than water though and in some wierd, obscure way we shall always be linked by the DNA of our children. Karma.
My brother is sorting out the devastion in his home. They took only small valuable pieces including my mother's ring and - perish the thought - her St Christopher. My cousin reckons they'll be dead by the weekend. My dear Aunt and Uncle have sent their first parcel out to C - much confusion over kilograms but the kindly person in the Post Office let it go through. And I'm going to have my bath as the nurse has just left.
Is life settling down? Please God keep everyone safe.
Speak Soon. A soldier's Mum x
Monday 26 October 2009
Day 23 Week 4
Freud said for everyone to be healthy they need - something to do; something to look forward to and someone to love. He also thought that dreams were a pathway to understanding the human condition, women tended towards hysteria and most subconscious desires related to illicit sex and mothers. I guess on the Freudian Richter scale of life I am teetering on the danger zone.
Saw the most gorgeous singing group on Songs of Praise last night, they're called 'the Soldiers' and they've released an album to raise money for the Poppy appeal and it's a real tear-jerker. The title track - 'Coming Home' - is guaranteed to leave not an eye dry in the house. When you listen to them talking about the network of fellowship that is within the soldier's world it almost starts to make sense.
There is the most enormous sense of camaraderie and brotherhood amongst the ranks and I know it's a cliche but they really do regard the Army as a family. Prior to C going away I had a call from him on a particularly hectic day when he'd been doing all sorts of things, including appearing in Court to speak of the good character of one of his men, and when I asked him if he still enjoyed his chosen career he said 'Ma, it's the best job in the world'. That struck me and I tried to fathom out whether it's better to do a job you hate or can barely tolerate for forty years, or risk dying young but having done something you adore? Oscar Wilde said 'do something you love and you'll never do a day's work in your life'.
H enjoying the delights of Liverpool, last night was spent on the razzle in an Irish bar. Rang and said the trip was fantastic and that he's working really hard because he's coming to the end of his time aboard ship. They have to spend a week working in every department from catering to engine-room therefore familiarising them with every aspect of a mariner's life. Then they have a vivat exam lasting forever where they have to show they've learnt everything - seems like a good idea - in order to be able to run anything efficiently a sound knowledge of grassroots helps. R hopefully back safely at uni - am I really being unreasonable if I ask her to text and say she's arrived OK? Seemingly so.
Just had a call from my brother who is staying at his partner's parent's farm in Germany, and he has to fly home immediately because not only has he been burgled but they've also trashed the house.
Today would have been my mother's birthday and I have a spooky feeling that the jewellery of her's they've just stolen will bring them nothing but trouble.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
Saw the most gorgeous singing group on Songs of Praise last night, they're called 'the Soldiers' and they've released an album to raise money for the Poppy appeal and it's a real tear-jerker. The title track - 'Coming Home' - is guaranteed to leave not an eye dry in the house. When you listen to them talking about the network of fellowship that is within the soldier's world it almost starts to make sense.
There is the most enormous sense of camaraderie and brotherhood amongst the ranks and I know it's a cliche but they really do regard the Army as a family. Prior to C going away I had a call from him on a particularly hectic day when he'd been doing all sorts of things, including appearing in Court to speak of the good character of one of his men, and when I asked him if he still enjoyed his chosen career he said 'Ma, it's the best job in the world'. That struck me and I tried to fathom out whether it's better to do a job you hate or can barely tolerate for forty years, or risk dying young but having done something you adore? Oscar Wilde said 'do something you love and you'll never do a day's work in your life'.
H enjoying the delights of Liverpool, last night was spent on the razzle in an Irish bar. Rang and said the trip was fantastic and that he's working really hard because he's coming to the end of his time aboard ship. They have to spend a week working in every department from catering to engine-room therefore familiarising them with every aspect of a mariner's life. Then they have a vivat exam lasting forever where they have to show they've learnt everything - seems like a good idea - in order to be able to run anything efficiently a sound knowledge of grassroots helps. R hopefully back safely at uni - am I really being unreasonable if I ask her to text and say she's arrived OK? Seemingly so.
Just had a call from my brother who is staying at his partner's parent's farm in Germany, and he has to fly home immediately because not only has he been burgled but they've also trashed the house.
Today would have been my mother's birthday and I have a spooky feeling that the jewellery of her's they've just stolen will bring them nothing but trouble.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
Sunday 25 October 2009
Day 22 Week 4
Week four - phew. Am obviously delighted that hopefully no news is good news but am really struggling with it just now.
Saw Channel 4 news last night and was moved by the attendance on the peace march by a serving soldier who has refused to return to Afghanistan and will face at least one court martial for that, and possibly another for addressing a rally so bravely and forcibly against the war. All he actually said was that the troops on the ground do not understand why they are there and doesn't that speak volumes? If we really could follow the cause with clarity then there would be justification.
Then saw a battalion from my son's regiment returning home, and the Colonel spoke to the camera equally as eloquently, but this time about the tour of duty completed and the huge sadness that so many families were not able to enjoy a homecoming. What a mess.
The thing about standing on the edge of a precipice is that there are actually only two directions you can travel - over the edge and into oblivion or stepping away, slowly to safety. Realise I do not want to fall over the edge at all but feel as if I was hijacked and transported to the cliff face against my wishes, so not sure how to reverse from a situation that I have no control over. Was talking to a friend about this the other day and they said acceptance is a useful tool. Acceptance of where we are and acceptance that you can do nothing to influence the situation at all, so railing against it is a) futile, b) exhausting and c) a complete waste of time.
Must work on acceptance.
The thing about being fifty is it sounds so grown up. There is absolutely no tangible difference in the human condition between 11.59 on the day before and midnight at the commencement of the birthday itself. But it has just has a resonance of sobriety to it. Not that I don't thank the Lord that I am fortunate to have lived for half a century and with good health and developments in science may have a good few more years left to come, it's just if the truth be told, between the ears, I'm still a teenager - and it all seems to have got so serious. Don't actually know what I want to be when I grow up.
Also it's true that the years do seem to fly-by more quickly. Apparently a psychologist told me that's because a year is a benchmark for time measurement and as we gather more of them they become, symbolically a smaller unit. So at five years a year is 20% of your life and at 50 it's 2%. And I can't believe we are now well and trully in wintertime.
Waiting for the nurse to arrive and am extremely uncomfortable as foot not behaving itself at all. Am hobbling around with a very sore, swollen, purple extremity. Ho-hum at least am hobbling around at all.
More prayers to St Therese
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
Saw Channel 4 news last night and was moved by the attendance on the peace march by a serving soldier who has refused to return to Afghanistan and will face at least one court martial for that, and possibly another for addressing a rally so bravely and forcibly against the war. All he actually said was that the troops on the ground do not understand why they are there and doesn't that speak volumes? If we really could follow the cause with clarity then there would be justification.
Then saw a battalion from my son's regiment returning home, and the Colonel spoke to the camera equally as eloquently, but this time about the tour of duty completed and the huge sadness that so many families were not able to enjoy a homecoming. What a mess.
The thing about standing on the edge of a precipice is that there are actually only two directions you can travel - over the edge and into oblivion or stepping away, slowly to safety. Realise I do not want to fall over the edge at all but feel as if I was hijacked and transported to the cliff face against my wishes, so not sure how to reverse from a situation that I have no control over. Was talking to a friend about this the other day and they said acceptance is a useful tool. Acceptance of where we are and acceptance that you can do nothing to influence the situation at all, so railing against it is a) futile, b) exhausting and c) a complete waste of time.
Must work on acceptance.
The thing about being fifty is it sounds so grown up. There is absolutely no tangible difference in the human condition between 11.59 on the day before and midnight at the commencement of the birthday itself. But it has just has a resonance of sobriety to it. Not that I don't thank the Lord that I am fortunate to have lived for half a century and with good health and developments in science may have a good few more years left to come, it's just if the truth be told, between the ears, I'm still a teenager - and it all seems to have got so serious. Don't actually know what I want to be when I grow up.
Also it's true that the years do seem to fly-by more quickly. Apparently a psychologist told me that's because a year is a benchmark for time measurement and as we gather more of them they become, symbolically a smaller unit. So at five years a year is 20% of your life and at 50 it's 2%. And I can't believe we are now well and trully in wintertime.
Waiting for the nurse to arrive and am extremely uncomfortable as foot not behaving itself at all. Am hobbling around with a very sore, swollen, purple extremity. Ho-hum at least am hobbling around at all.
More prayers to St Therese
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
Saturday 24 October 2009
Day 21 Week 3
Dreadful night's sleep last night. Tortured, disturbed, fragmented dreams and when a friend rang me this morning I just jumped (well limped) straight out of bed and into the bath, as if that might wash it all away. Lay in the water with my hair swirling around wondering why my emotions vere so dramatically. Sometimes am utterly positive and confident all will be well and then crash, bang out of the blue am paralysed with anxiety. I suppose that's what it must be like being a soldier - long periods of boredom interrupted with frenzied action and then back to boredom again. At least the bleak damp weather suites the mood.
It is so strange that H, C and R have no sense of danger because I am one of the most cautious people on God's earth. From when they were very small I could always see hazards and possible catastrophes that were pitfalls just waiting to happen. I was forever telling them to get down off high and unstable structures, not to swim in unfamiliar waters, not to be blase with equipment; they must be the only children who at the age of five knew how to take up the prone position if they were in imminent danger of lightning strike. It's a miracle I wasn't investigated for Munchausen's syndrome because I was never away from Casualty with the boys - the list of broken bones and stitches was extensive. But what all that fear seemed to generate was exactly the opposite reaction - R was thirteen when she absailed down a 250ft cliff face.
By all accounts a grand day was had in Liverpool, haven't heard from H yet but the BBC website said the fly-past was magnificent.
My mother, who was an extremely complicated but wise lady always used to say 'laugh and the world laughs with you, weep and you weep alone'. Roughly translated I guess it means nobody likes a moaner and as am definitely more blue than pink today will keep my gloominess to myself and wish all around a happy safe day.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
It is so strange that H, C and R have no sense of danger because I am one of the most cautious people on God's earth. From when they were very small I could always see hazards and possible catastrophes that were pitfalls just waiting to happen. I was forever telling them to get down off high and unstable structures, not to swim in unfamiliar waters, not to be blase with equipment; they must be the only children who at the age of five knew how to take up the prone position if they were in imminent danger of lightning strike. It's a miracle I wasn't investigated for Munchausen's syndrome because I was never away from Casualty with the boys - the list of broken bones and stitches was extensive. But what all that fear seemed to generate was exactly the opposite reaction - R was thirteen when she absailed down a 250ft cliff face.
By all accounts a grand day was had in Liverpool, haven't heard from H yet but the BBC website said the fly-past was magnificent.
My mother, who was an extremely complicated but wise lady always used to say 'laugh and the world laughs with you, weep and you weep alone'. Roughly translated I guess it means nobody likes a moaner and as am definitely more blue than pink today will keep my gloominess to myself and wish all around a happy safe day.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
Friday 23 October 2009
Day 20 Week 3
H rang last night and Lusty safely alongside in Liverpool. There's a huge fly-past happening over the Mersey today as part of the celebrations relating to the Fleet Air Arm being one hundred years old. It felt really nostalgic thinking of H being at the Pier Head, by the stunning three Graces of the Cunard Building, Custom's House and Liver Building.
We lived in Liverpool for eight years and it was such a happy time - C and R are actually Scousers as they were born in Fazakerley, overlooking Aintree racecourse and just next to the prison. We lived in an area called Blundellsands and our house was only a few hundred yards from the beach so I would always have the children on the shoreline, taking in the bracing air and playing sandcastles or 'porkenbury' as they called it (not a clue why, children just invent these things). Liverpool was not without its problems though and H, as a little boy, did once come up to me saying 'mummy what's this?'. He was holding a hyperdermic syringe at the time.
I shall never forget the day we were the only people on the beach and an aircraft kept sweeping up and down overhead. The kids waved at it as it made its passes and then a policeman came up to us because the beach was actually closed because of a contaminated chemical spill, and so we ended up in A & E being tested for toxicity. Happy days. Anyway am quite envious because H, C and R's father is actually up there for the event and I'm confined to barracks.
Sent my first parcel out to Afghanistan, there are size restrictions and it must not weigh more than 2kg but provided it's within those limits it's free. Cigarrettes, sweets, cup a soup, photos, local newspaper and magazine on the life of our county are hopefully on their way to the front line. Apparently the soldiers love reading their local newspaper from home. As I packed it up I suddenly had a huge urge to give the box a hug and a kiss as if by doing so I was touching C himself. Showing parcels affection is a worrying sign.
The day here today is spectacular - golden sunshine and crisp autumnal freshness. A friend just e-mailed me Keats' Ode to Autumn, forgot how wonderful it is - here's the first verse
SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease;
For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.
England really is beautiful.
H thinks the blog should be called 'Diary of a Sailor whose sister is a student and brother is in the Army'.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
We lived in Liverpool for eight years and it was such a happy time - C and R are actually Scousers as they were born in Fazakerley, overlooking Aintree racecourse and just next to the prison. We lived in an area called Blundellsands and our house was only a few hundred yards from the beach so I would always have the children on the shoreline, taking in the bracing air and playing sandcastles or 'porkenbury' as they called it (not a clue why, children just invent these things). Liverpool was not without its problems though and H, as a little boy, did once come up to me saying 'mummy what's this?'. He was holding a hyperdermic syringe at the time.
I shall never forget the day we were the only people on the beach and an aircraft kept sweeping up and down overhead. The kids waved at it as it made its passes and then a policeman came up to us because the beach was actually closed because of a contaminated chemical spill, and so we ended up in A & E being tested for toxicity. Happy days. Anyway am quite envious because H, C and R's father is actually up there for the event and I'm confined to barracks.
Sent my first parcel out to Afghanistan, there are size restrictions and it must not weigh more than 2kg but provided it's within those limits it's free. Cigarrettes, sweets, cup a soup, photos, local newspaper and magazine on the life of our county are hopefully on their way to the front line. Apparently the soldiers love reading their local newspaper from home. As I packed it up I suddenly had a huge urge to give the box a hug and a kiss as if by doing so I was touching C himself. Showing parcels affection is a worrying sign.
The day here today is spectacular - golden sunshine and crisp autumnal freshness. A friend just e-mailed me Keats' Ode to Autumn, forgot how wonderful it is - here's the first verse
SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease;
For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.
England really is beautiful.
H thinks the blog should be called 'Diary of a Sailor whose sister is a student and brother is in the Army'.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
Thursday 22 October 2009
Day 19 Week 3
Just had an unexpected knock at the door and my heart leapt into my throat. Turns out it was yet another delivery of clothes for R . She seems to regard her student finance as a social/shopping/vodka fund - think we are going to have to talk about this. Apparently if you do have the 'visit' the poor souls delivering the message blurt it out really quickly because they're afraid that if it's death you might be hopeful of injury.
As I am at home during the day I have developed such a different perspective on my home domaine, being out from eight in the morning until six in the evening means you inhabit a different world from the day-time people.
I have a neighbour who is such an enigma. Local legend has it that she was a beauty from a fine family who got embroilled in sex and drugs and rock and roll in the 70s and is now our neighbourhood equivalent of Brian Wilson. She wanders around the countryside gliding over the ground like a ghost, or if you happen upon her unexpectedly sometimes she will just stare at you as if she has never seen another living person before. You can feel the pain she carries around because it's etched into every nook and cranny on her face - she's a sort of human Marie Celeste. I tried speaking to her yesterday but she just looked straight through me as if I didn't exist, it's quite terrifying to think how life's experiences can alter the consciousness. I wonder at what point her life changed so dramatically and then realise that we are all at the mercy of fate.
The dinner with friends was lovely. Lots of good food and witty banter. Another one of our gathering was a Sandhurst parent and we discussed, analysed and probed why it was that our children had chosen their course. It's still a bafflement to me why anyone would want to fight for a living, but like C my friend's son has a tremedous sense of social responsibility and so maybe they're the modern equivalent of the Knights of Old with their sense of Noblesse Oblige. I still find it bewildering that I could have two sons who are commissioned officers in the armed forces.
H stumbled upon the Royal Naval Reserve whilst at uni in Brighton (call sign Golf Alpha Alpha Yankee or GAAY) and did admittedly have the most wonderful exploits with them. Lots of bobbing around in their little ancient Archer class patrol vessel - they even paid him for the honour. So that was how he decided to turn his back on the Law and embrace a life on the ocean waves - or more precisely under them. When I asked him why on earth he would want to be sealed underwater in a huge tube for months at a time he replied that seemingly submariners are an elite. An elite corps of masochists to the earth-bound. The irony is that if all goes according to plan H will pass out on exactly the same day, but one year later than C - again on their father's birthday. Life is strange.
C's mobile phone bill has arrived - two hundred quid. I shall pay it of course.
Have to go for my daily stroll now.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
As I am at home during the day I have developed such a different perspective on my home domaine, being out from eight in the morning until six in the evening means you inhabit a different world from the day-time people.
I have a neighbour who is such an enigma. Local legend has it that she was a beauty from a fine family who got embroilled in sex and drugs and rock and roll in the 70s and is now our neighbourhood equivalent of Brian Wilson. She wanders around the countryside gliding over the ground like a ghost, or if you happen upon her unexpectedly sometimes she will just stare at you as if she has never seen another living person before. You can feel the pain she carries around because it's etched into every nook and cranny on her face - she's a sort of human Marie Celeste. I tried speaking to her yesterday but she just looked straight through me as if I didn't exist, it's quite terrifying to think how life's experiences can alter the consciousness. I wonder at what point her life changed so dramatically and then realise that we are all at the mercy of fate.
The dinner with friends was lovely. Lots of good food and witty banter. Another one of our gathering was a Sandhurst parent and we discussed, analysed and probed why it was that our children had chosen their course. It's still a bafflement to me why anyone would want to fight for a living, but like C my friend's son has a tremedous sense of social responsibility and so maybe they're the modern equivalent of the Knights of Old with their sense of Noblesse Oblige. I still find it bewildering that I could have two sons who are commissioned officers in the armed forces.
H stumbled upon the Royal Naval Reserve whilst at uni in Brighton (call sign Golf Alpha Alpha Yankee or GAAY) and did admittedly have the most wonderful exploits with them. Lots of bobbing around in their little ancient Archer class patrol vessel - they even paid him for the honour. So that was how he decided to turn his back on the Law and embrace a life on the ocean waves - or more precisely under them. When I asked him why on earth he would want to be sealed underwater in a huge tube for months at a time he replied that seemingly submariners are an elite. An elite corps of masochists to the earth-bound. The irony is that if all goes according to plan H will pass out on exactly the same day, but one year later than C - again on their father's birthday. Life is strange.
C's mobile phone bill has arrived - two hundred quid. I shall pay it of course.
Have to go for my daily stroll now.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
Wednesday 21 October 2009
Day 18 Week 3
Well have finally admitted defeat and got the winter duvet out. Held out for as long as possible in the hope that our Indian summer would continue but the reality is it's getting dark at half past five and it's blooming cold in the middle of the night. Wonder what the weather is like in Afghanistan.
Had a visit yesterday from a lovely colleague from work. When I joined the College she was my 'buddy' and helped me settle in and she was so kind, and true to form last night she arrived with a sweet collection of gifts and it was so good to chat and laugh and find out that everyone's OK. Really miss work but it's strange how things pan out - it's as if the Almighty said 'you're going to have a bit of time out because you need it', so my enforced solitude has allowed me to slowly adjust to the reality of being a soldier's mum. Truth to tell it's only now, in the third week, that I'm almost capable of concentrating on something for more that five seconds without my mind wandering off at a tangent.
Our work is challenging but at best utterly rewarding. Working with kids and adults who for one reason or another it didn't work out the first time around in education and helping them, in the most extreme cases learn to read, or pass their first exam, is a privilege beyond compare. They're invariably defensive at the start of the year because previous experiences have usually left feelings of inadequacey and in some cases deep scars, but by the end of the year you can see how their confidence has grown. When you are made aware of what has happened in the lives of some young people in Britain today you wouldn't think they inhabit the same planet as the rest of us. In many cases to return to learning is literally life changing.
Yesterday I had a peek at the Rifles' blog from the front and it's so sweet and idealistic - it's like one of those government broadcasts from the 1940s all stiff upper lip and job to be done. I wonder how realistic it really is though.
Being taken to a friend's house for dinner tonight. People are so kind.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
Had a visit yesterday from a lovely colleague from work. When I joined the College she was my 'buddy' and helped me settle in and she was so kind, and true to form last night she arrived with a sweet collection of gifts and it was so good to chat and laugh and find out that everyone's OK. Really miss work but it's strange how things pan out - it's as if the Almighty said 'you're going to have a bit of time out because you need it', so my enforced solitude has allowed me to slowly adjust to the reality of being a soldier's mum. Truth to tell it's only now, in the third week, that I'm almost capable of concentrating on something for more that five seconds without my mind wandering off at a tangent.
Our work is challenging but at best utterly rewarding. Working with kids and adults who for one reason or another it didn't work out the first time around in education and helping them, in the most extreme cases learn to read, or pass their first exam, is a privilege beyond compare. They're invariably defensive at the start of the year because previous experiences have usually left feelings of inadequacey and in some cases deep scars, but by the end of the year you can see how their confidence has grown. When you are made aware of what has happened in the lives of some young people in Britain today you wouldn't think they inhabit the same planet as the rest of us. In many cases to return to learning is literally life changing.
Yesterday I had a peek at the Rifles' blog from the front and it's so sweet and idealistic - it's like one of those government broadcasts from the 1940s all stiff upper lip and job to be done. I wonder how realistic it really is though.
Being taken to a friend's house for dinner tonight. People are so kind.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
Tuesday 20 October 2009
Day 17 Week 3
This is just so wierd. With the passage of time normality has started to set in but then suddenly something or nothing will trigger an absolute panic attack.
Went into my bedroom just now and on top of the pile of newspapers next to my bed is a magazine I hadn't read and on the cover it said it included a portfolio of photographs of sixties icons, so flicking through I was suddenly jolted by an article about three young women whose lost partners had done the Wootton Bassett procession. I was consumed by tears and terror. It was car-crash reading. I wanted to both read and look away. It felt insulting to ignore their honesty and grief but being a coward I just couldn't face it.
Sandhurst is an extraordinary place. Imbued with history in every brick it is both beautiful and terrifying. Apparently C did extremely well to be accepted at 19 and without a degree, but being his mother it just didn't feel like that. The day we dropped him off was unforgetable. His father and half his goods plus friends in one car and me with the other half in mine, we made the thirty-five mile journey in convoy down the M3 and then gathered in Tesco's car park spotting fellow travellers.
It wasn't hard to pick them out because the Army being the Army insisted that all cadets bring their own ironing board, so amongst the fleet of four-wheel drives and German estate cars (and my little old hatch-back) the three defining factors in picking out the new-guys were; a pale face taught with anxiety; clothes resembling a country squire or dame in the nineteen-thirties and a huge, brand new ironing board. The ironing boards were very pleased to meet each other and cheerful banter soon developed.
We were security checked, and as always I was singled out for the full search and then finally we drove around the beautiful grounds to park on the awesome parade square in front of Old College. As the father and I walked up the parade steps he said to me 'you can't help but feel the weight of history bearing down', and for the first time in a long time we were in complete agreement.
Many pleasant passtimes occurred in the twelve months he was there, will definitely never forget the polo and strawberries and champagne.
But perhaps the best was the Mess Dinner where my friend and I dressed up in glamourous gowns and were escorted through the gilded corridors to a beautiful candlelight dinner with all the cadets. The fact that we were the last to arrive, and as C put it 'people have come from Australia - you've come thirty miles, so how come you're late' (two women, make-up-applying and map reading), did not affect the evening at all. I shall never forget the twenty minute presentation by the Coldstream Guard's Drums complete with flourescent sticks (low ceilinged dining room, very loud), or our 'billet' which consisted of delapidated 1970's portacabins, or marching to Church the next morning with the other parents controlled by a very small, shrill, Scottish Sergeant Major. It was one of the most bizarrely wonderful events I have ever attended.
Anyway, on his father's fiftieth birthday, and in freezing cold weather, his family and step-family gathered to celebrate his passing-out parade. My son is now a Second Lieutenant in the Rifles'.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
Went into my bedroom just now and on top of the pile of newspapers next to my bed is a magazine I hadn't read and on the cover it said it included a portfolio of photographs of sixties icons, so flicking through I was suddenly jolted by an article about three young women whose lost partners had done the Wootton Bassett procession. I was consumed by tears and terror. It was car-crash reading. I wanted to both read and look away. It felt insulting to ignore their honesty and grief but being a coward I just couldn't face it.
Sandhurst is an extraordinary place. Imbued with history in every brick it is both beautiful and terrifying. Apparently C did extremely well to be accepted at 19 and without a degree, but being his mother it just didn't feel like that. The day we dropped him off was unforgetable. His father and half his goods plus friends in one car and me with the other half in mine, we made the thirty-five mile journey in convoy down the M3 and then gathered in Tesco's car park spotting fellow travellers.
It wasn't hard to pick them out because the Army being the Army insisted that all cadets bring their own ironing board, so amongst the fleet of four-wheel drives and German estate cars (and my little old hatch-back) the three defining factors in picking out the new-guys were; a pale face taught with anxiety; clothes resembling a country squire or dame in the nineteen-thirties and a huge, brand new ironing board. The ironing boards were very pleased to meet each other and cheerful banter soon developed.
We were security checked, and as always I was singled out for the full search and then finally we drove around the beautiful grounds to park on the awesome parade square in front of Old College. As the father and I walked up the parade steps he said to me 'you can't help but feel the weight of history bearing down', and for the first time in a long time we were in complete agreement.
Many pleasant passtimes occurred in the twelve months he was there, will definitely never forget the polo and strawberries and champagne.
But perhaps the best was the Mess Dinner where my friend and I dressed up in glamourous gowns and were escorted through the gilded corridors to a beautiful candlelight dinner with all the cadets. The fact that we were the last to arrive, and as C put it 'people have come from Australia - you've come thirty miles, so how come you're late' (two women, make-up-applying and map reading), did not affect the evening at all. I shall never forget the twenty minute presentation by the Coldstream Guard's Drums complete with flourescent sticks (low ceilinged dining room, very loud), or our 'billet' which consisted of delapidated 1970's portacabins, or marching to Church the next morning with the other parents controlled by a very small, shrill, Scottish Sergeant Major. It was one of the most bizarrely wonderful events I have ever attended.
Anyway, on his father's fiftieth birthday, and in freezing cold weather, his family and step-family gathered to celebrate his passing-out parade. My son is now a Second Lieutenant in the Rifles'.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
Monday 19 October 2009
Day 16 Week 3
Did you know you can be located anywhere in the world if you have a mobile phone on you - even if it's switched off? Also - and if I didn't have this from the source who imparted it I would not believe a word - it can pick up all conversation in close vacinity (whether switched on or off), and therefore you're dear little mobile phone is actually a sonic listening device. That's why the soldiers have to take their batteries out and render them useless.
Life is now all about juxtapositions. I am sort of re-entering my old life but there is a constant awareness that at any moment it could erupt into chaos, not that my life isn't prone to erupting into chaos anyway. Sent C off an ipod doc yesterday, his girlfriend sent him the Twilight books and a good friend is sending toilletries. My Aunt and Uncle are assembling a package of goodies to be sent from Nottighamshire and R has created a beautiful album of memories and messages she will send this week. My closest friend is looking into sending stuff out to C'c men because as she pointed out some people join the Army because they have no one else. It's so odd to think of such everyday, normal appliances being sent to a battle zone. It's as if by week 3 we've got used to it and almost acclimatised to it.
A colleague I work with said his favourite juxtaposition was a bird sitting on high tension power cables. All that might and power unaffecting something so delicate and beautiful. Please God and St Therese we haven't all been lulled into a false sense of security.
I've got an obsession at the moment with the apparent lack of morality and denuding of standards that now appears to be the norm. When did the 'f' word become an accepted adjective? When did spitting become something to do in the open? When did we begin to tolerate drivers screaming and shouting at each other? When did guns and knives become an accepted aspect of life in London? Everywhere we appear to be surrounded by violence and agression and yet we're not - or at least we shouldn't be in a civilised society. The people who are trained to work in an environment of application of physical force have codes and ethics drummed into them. When did we lose interest in responsibility and throw all the emphasis on personal rights regardles of how they impact on others?
Apparently all the MPs who should, as a matter of honour resign because the've been fiddling everything from dog food to moats are hanging on because if they go before the end of a session of parliament, they could lose up to £50k in pension rights. What a fine example they are.
Definitely feel poo today. The sore throat and achey bones have kicked in and so as soon as the nurse has been to dress my wound am going to rededicate myself to my mattress.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
Life is now all about juxtapositions. I am sort of re-entering my old life but there is a constant awareness that at any moment it could erupt into chaos, not that my life isn't prone to erupting into chaos anyway. Sent C off an ipod doc yesterday, his girlfriend sent him the Twilight books and a good friend is sending toilletries. My Aunt and Uncle are assembling a package of goodies to be sent from Nottighamshire and R has created a beautiful album of memories and messages she will send this week. My closest friend is looking into sending stuff out to C'c men because as she pointed out some people join the Army because they have no one else. It's so odd to think of such everyday, normal appliances being sent to a battle zone. It's as if by week 3 we've got used to it and almost acclimatised to it.
A colleague I work with said his favourite juxtaposition was a bird sitting on high tension power cables. All that might and power unaffecting something so delicate and beautiful. Please God and St Therese we haven't all been lulled into a false sense of security.
I've got an obsession at the moment with the apparent lack of morality and denuding of standards that now appears to be the norm. When did the 'f' word become an accepted adjective? When did spitting become something to do in the open? When did we begin to tolerate drivers screaming and shouting at each other? When did guns and knives become an accepted aspect of life in London? Everywhere we appear to be surrounded by violence and agression and yet we're not - or at least we shouldn't be in a civilised society. The people who are trained to work in an environment of application of physical force have codes and ethics drummed into them. When did we lose interest in responsibility and throw all the emphasis on personal rights regardles of how they impact on others?
Apparently all the MPs who should, as a matter of honour resign because the've been fiddling everything from dog food to moats are hanging on because if they go before the end of a session of parliament, they could lose up to £50k in pension rights. What a fine example they are.
Definitely feel poo today. The sore throat and achey bones have kicked in and so as soon as the nurse has been to dress my wound am going to rededicate myself to my mattress.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
Sunday 18 October 2009
Day 15 Week 3
Finally managed to sort out C's mobile phone account. The hotch-potch remedy is that I shall ring Vodafone on the first day of each month and if I have his bill settle the account in full and if I don't have his invoice then make a guess and deposit an amount which will hopefully cover the debt. Have written to the Bailiffs and DVLA about SORN - in good faith although now strongly suspect C is at fault. And hopefully have reactivated his bank account costing me £500.
To think before he left, the only knock at the door I thought I had to dread was 'the visit' from fellow officers, and the sort of knock I could imminently receive at the moment is from Bailiffs wanting to 'possess goods in lieu'. Just spoken to H about Cs complete lack of preparedness and he said he also hadn't made arrangements for me to officially handle his affairs in an emergency. I just feel so frustrated - its all very well C running around Salisbury Plain dressed as a tree in the run-up to the tour but surely the Army could have a few sessions on the practicalities of 'things to be left in order'. Or maybe they did and C just ignored it, he is prone to enjoying the finer things in life and not so fond of the mundane. H laughed when I said I felt so disloyal moaning about him because God Forbid he could be dead.
This is the reality of modern warfare. I was astonished when C told me the week before departure he had to go to the passport office in Glasgow because one of his platoon had forgotten to renew their passport. We live in a surreal world of health and safety, bureaucracy and killing.
The house is full of young ones this morning. R home from uni and several friends deposited around thanks to our nearness to the local night-club. They're all giggly and chatty and languishing with endless cups of tea, it's lovely to listen to them.
Feel a bit poo - hope to shake it off as am supposed to be being taken out by some very handsome young men. It's so sweet - H and C's friends rang me up and said they would like to take me out today to cheer me up and typically now feel as if I'm succombing to the bug everyone's been dropping like flies with.
Hope the day goes well and all stay safe
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
To think before he left, the only knock at the door I thought I had to dread was 'the visit' from fellow officers, and the sort of knock I could imminently receive at the moment is from Bailiffs wanting to 'possess goods in lieu'. Just spoken to H about Cs complete lack of preparedness and he said he also hadn't made arrangements for me to officially handle his affairs in an emergency. I just feel so frustrated - its all very well C running around Salisbury Plain dressed as a tree in the run-up to the tour but surely the Army could have a few sessions on the practicalities of 'things to be left in order'. Or maybe they did and C just ignored it, he is prone to enjoying the finer things in life and not so fond of the mundane. H laughed when I said I felt so disloyal moaning about him because God Forbid he could be dead.
This is the reality of modern warfare. I was astonished when C told me the week before departure he had to go to the passport office in Glasgow because one of his platoon had forgotten to renew their passport. We live in a surreal world of health and safety, bureaucracy and killing.
The house is full of young ones this morning. R home from uni and several friends deposited around thanks to our nearness to the local night-club. They're all giggly and chatty and languishing with endless cups of tea, it's lovely to listen to them.
Feel a bit poo - hope to shake it off as am supposed to be being taken out by some very handsome young men. It's so sweet - H and C's friends rang me up and said they would like to take me out today to cheer me up and typically now feel as if I'm succombing to the bug everyone's been dropping like flies with.
Hope the day goes well and all stay safe
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
Saturday 17 October 2009
Day 14 Week 3
Apparently, according to my stars I've got to energise and lead. Truth is I'd rather be energised and led.
Received an e-mail from C, here it is
'Hey ma, Thanks very much for the number, will give them a ring as soon as I can about that.Bayliffs?!? Bloody hell! How much money are they demanding? Tell them to do one!TBH Its been so long since Ive had to deal with Den that I cant remember... The only place I can think It would be is in the car itself? If not I havent got a clue! Almost certain I got her SORNed though... But as I say, was a while ago now!Just to let you know things are going fine with me here, bin out and about a fair bit, the temperature is noticably dropping as time goes on. How are you doing en angleterre?? All well after the op? Hope so. Have tried to give H a buzz a few times so when you speak to him tell him Im doing fine. Same to mou as I havent spoken to her in a while. Lots of love, Keep me informed about the bayliffs saga! x'
So looks like Swansea hasn't made a mistake afterall.
Lusty back in home waters so H able to ring home last night. He's exhausted but apparently playing war games in the middle of the Atlantic with 10 other navies is good fun. He's had a stint at being a Warfare Officer and loved every minute of it which is fortunate because if everything goes to plan that's what he wants to do - on submarines. Why?
It wasn't supposed to be like this. I was always a left-wing activists who thought the definition of a brilliant day out was hours spent freezing in a demonstration against western imperialist tyranny, singing 'we will not be moved', whilst eating a mung-bean casserole. Boyfriends had to have hair longer than mine and perish the thought they would wash or have more than one pair of jeans - too much ownership of anything was a sinister sign of capitalist exploitation. The thought of voting for anything other that the Labour party was akin to treason and one of the worst rows I ever had with my then husband was over the validation of the Falklands war and the sinking of the Belgrano. When my friend and I turned up (ironcally in something called an 'Afghan' which was a stinking coat made from goat's skin and boy you didn't want to be anywhere near it if it rained) to hear Jim Callaghan speak in our local church hall during the 1970s, we burst with pride as the policeman said 'so here's the troublecausers'.
A friend recently said to me 'as a former kaftan wearing CND supporter what does it feel like to have one son running around with a machine gun and the other with his finger on the trigger of nuclear annihalation?'. I think it's called irony.
If you want to make God laugh - make plans.
Have a good day
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
Received an e-mail from C, here it is
'Hey ma, Thanks very much for the number, will give them a ring as soon as I can about that.Bayliffs?!? Bloody hell! How much money are they demanding? Tell them to do one!TBH Its been so long since Ive had to deal with Den that I cant remember... The only place I can think It would be is in the car itself? If not I havent got a clue! Almost certain I got her SORNed though... But as I say, was a while ago now!Just to let you know things are going fine with me here, bin out and about a fair bit, the temperature is noticably dropping as time goes on. How are you doing en angleterre?? All well after the op? Hope so. Have tried to give H a buzz a few times so when you speak to him tell him Im doing fine. Same to mou as I havent spoken to her in a while. Lots of love, Keep me informed about the bayliffs saga! x'
So looks like Swansea hasn't made a mistake afterall.
Lusty back in home waters so H able to ring home last night. He's exhausted but apparently playing war games in the middle of the Atlantic with 10 other navies is good fun. He's had a stint at being a Warfare Officer and loved every minute of it which is fortunate because if everything goes to plan that's what he wants to do - on submarines. Why?
It wasn't supposed to be like this. I was always a left-wing activists who thought the definition of a brilliant day out was hours spent freezing in a demonstration against western imperialist tyranny, singing 'we will not be moved', whilst eating a mung-bean casserole. Boyfriends had to have hair longer than mine and perish the thought they would wash or have more than one pair of jeans - too much ownership of anything was a sinister sign of capitalist exploitation. The thought of voting for anything other that the Labour party was akin to treason and one of the worst rows I ever had with my then husband was over the validation of the Falklands war and the sinking of the Belgrano. When my friend and I turned up (ironcally in something called an 'Afghan' which was a stinking coat made from goat's skin and boy you didn't want to be anywhere near it if it rained) to hear Jim Callaghan speak in our local church hall during the 1970s, we burst with pride as the policeman said 'so here's the troublecausers'.
A friend recently said to me 'as a former kaftan wearing CND supporter what does it feel like to have one son running around with a machine gun and the other with his finger on the trigger of nuclear annihalation?'. I think it's called irony.
If you want to make God laugh - make plans.
Have a good day
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
Friday 16 October 2009
Day 13 Week 2
I'm not superstitious - I was born on the 13th. I was 40 on Friday the thirteenth . For God's sake there's nothing more to fear on the 13th day than any other, is there?
The trail of detritus that is Cs unfinished paperwork continues. Just had another android on the phone - but this time working for Cs bank. He's forgotten to pay his credit card and as I'm not officially authorised to have access to his account, sorting the whole mess out took an age. When I finally got to speak to a human she was so sweet and as I blurted out the scenario to her she just said 'oh bless'. And so it was that I burst into tears talking to a call centre in Birmingham. It's time I got a grip.
I love my little house. OK technically it's not mine in an 'ownership' sense of the word but it certainly is territorially. I exchanged proprietorship for tenancy 14 years ago, and it seems to me that if you do have a mortgage instead of a rent, when you do finally finish paying it off the government take the house off you - because by then you're so ga-ga you need care that you have to forfeit your house to pay for. Anyway I do love my little house.
I might be able to be philosophical about repossession of former marital home but actually the whole thing was a bloody nightmare. To cut a long story short, I was not in a position to pay the mortgage as I had chosen to put career on hold once I had H and be a stay-at-home-Mum, so when I found myself unexpectedly as provider as well as home-maker I couldn't afford the mortgage. Six months of hell and brinkmanship ensued during which time I managed to sell the house and seal the deal with one day's grace before court proceedings were due to commence. In the run up to completion the sale was on/off on a daily basis and so when it was finally confirmed I had eight days notice to clear the property.
I remember sitting with the Yellowpages, ringing round every removal firm in the district, trying to find one that could both move us out and take the furniture into storage with just a week's notice. Finally one nice lady in Windsor said they could accomodate us and their manager was in the next village so he'd pop in and price the job. The gentleman came, I levelled with him and assured him he would be paid, he agreed to use my furniture as a bond and even suggested that I negotiate with the guys on the day to move basics (mattresses, sofa, bedding, clothes etc.) into the hostel.
The bitterly cold November day came and I watched my life being put into boxes with the same sense of uncertainty when thinking about the future that I experience now - but for other potentially more devasting reasons. The guys who moved us were so kind and helpful and non-judgemental. Then three and a half months later they moved us into our new home as I had been lucky enough to be give a housing association house in one of the most sought after postal districts in England. It was only when I was chatting to them after they had tirelessy deposited my surfeit of furniture into house, attic and overspill into garden (yes I was downsizing), that I discovered they were in fact the Queen's personal removal team. The day before they had taken Princess Di's clothes up to London for the charity sale. I was moved into my council house by hands that had shuffled the Queen's bedroom furniture around the week before.
I was so lucky to be given it. Although things were a bit dodgy at first, we formed a resident's association, worked to settle confict and managed to turn the estate around. And I am blessed with the nicest, kindest neighbours anyone could wish for. It seems both a long time ago and also only yesterday. The kids were so young and now they're so grown up.
Sometimes only egg and chips will do and this is one of those moments.
Speak soon. A soldiers Mum x
The trail of detritus that is Cs unfinished paperwork continues. Just had another android on the phone - but this time working for Cs bank. He's forgotten to pay his credit card and as I'm not officially authorised to have access to his account, sorting the whole mess out took an age. When I finally got to speak to a human she was so sweet and as I blurted out the scenario to her she just said 'oh bless'. And so it was that I burst into tears talking to a call centre in Birmingham. It's time I got a grip.
I love my little house. OK technically it's not mine in an 'ownership' sense of the word but it certainly is territorially. I exchanged proprietorship for tenancy 14 years ago, and it seems to me that if you do have a mortgage instead of a rent, when you do finally finish paying it off the government take the house off you - because by then you're so ga-ga you need care that you have to forfeit your house to pay for. Anyway I do love my little house.
I might be able to be philosophical about repossession of former marital home but actually the whole thing was a bloody nightmare. To cut a long story short, I was not in a position to pay the mortgage as I had chosen to put career on hold once I had H and be a stay-at-home-Mum, so when I found myself unexpectedly as provider as well as home-maker I couldn't afford the mortgage. Six months of hell and brinkmanship ensued during which time I managed to sell the house and seal the deal with one day's grace before court proceedings were due to commence. In the run up to completion the sale was on/off on a daily basis and so when it was finally confirmed I had eight days notice to clear the property.
I remember sitting with the Yellowpages, ringing round every removal firm in the district, trying to find one that could both move us out and take the furniture into storage with just a week's notice. Finally one nice lady in Windsor said they could accomodate us and their manager was in the next village so he'd pop in and price the job. The gentleman came, I levelled with him and assured him he would be paid, he agreed to use my furniture as a bond and even suggested that I negotiate with the guys on the day to move basics (mattresses, sofa, bedding, clothes etc.) into the hostel.
The bitterly cold November day came and I watched my life being put into boxes with the same sense of uncertainty when thinking about the future that I experience now - but for other potentially more devasting reasons. The guys who moved us were so kind and helpful and non-judgemental. Then three and a half months later they moved us into our new home as I had been lucky enough to be give a housing association house in one of the most sought after postal districts in England. It was only when I was chatting to them after they had tirelessy deposited my surfeit of furniture into house, attic and overspill into garden (yes I was downsizing), that I discovered they were in fact the Queen's personal removal team. The day before they had taken Princess Di's clothes up to London for the charity sale. I was moved into my council house by hands that had shuffled the Queen's bedroom furniture around the week before.
I was so lucky to be given it. Although things were a bit dodgy at first, we formed a resident's association, worked to settle confict and managed to turn the estate around. And I am blessed with the nicest, kindest neighbours anyone could wish for. It seems both a long time ago and also only yesterday. The kids were so young and now they're so grown up.
Sometimes only egg and chips will do and this is one of those moments.
Speak soon. A soldiers Mum x
Thursday 15 October 2009
Day 12 Week 2
Picked a fine day to watch my first evening news. Thought - yes I can face this and was then arrested by the sight of Gordon Brown reading the names of the Fallen since July. ITN added photographs to the Roll of Honour. "We few. We happy few. We Band of Brothers. For those who shed their blood with us today shall always be our Brothers." They were all so young and alive and then in a moment gone.
The Army has been asking for more men on the ground and yesterday the Government announced it would be increasing troop numbers by 500 taking the total to 9,500. But they will only be deployed if 'strict' conditions are met. These qualifications are to include - sufficient equipment being in place and accessible; increased participation by NATO 'allies'; additional involvement by Afghan indigineous security forces and a broader sharing of the 'load'.
That is like a parent saying to a child who desperately needs a new pair of shoes, you can have them but only provided - you get yourself to the shoe-shop; the neighbours are prepared to assist with all purchasing requirements and the people who work in the shoe-shop share some of the cost. So, sorry little child with sore, cold feet but unless all that is met the new shoes will have to go on hold.
And to think soldiers back on leave guarded people shredding evidence of MPs fiddling expenses.
Empty nest syndrome is a frightening thing. Miss all my kids. Obviously C occupies a lot of thought because of clear and present danger but miss the other two achingly too. When my marriage ended a dear friend said to me 'whatever you do, do not inflict a stream of uncles on those children' and so I took a conscious decision to avoid the complications that can arise with step and half relations. Consequently we bacame a tight-knit bunch with the kids having a very deep bond of loyalty to each other and also thankfully to me. But during the heady ride through their childhoods I never once imagined that all three would fly the nest simultaneously.
Nothing really prepares you for the shock of it - one minute the house is alive with shouting, crying, laughter and fun and the next moment it is silent. The walls seem to be dead somehow. It's a cliche I know, but I have closed their bedroom doors because I can't bear to see the unoccupied space. Yes here I am, rattling around in a very quiet house, talking to myself, having 'diner a une' each evening and living with the Bridget Jones fear of being found dead at the foot of the stairs weeks after a fall. Well, maybe I exaggerate but without my gorgeous friends that's what it would feel like. Close ones have threatened to install a budgie.
A lovely lady very kindly sent this to me so here's the Prayer to St Therese.
'O little St. Theresa of the Child Jesus, who during your short life on earth became a mirror of angelic purity, of love strong as death, and of wholehearted abandonment to God, now that you rejoice in the reward of your virtues, cast a glance of pity on me as I leave all things in your hands. Make my troubles your own - speak a word for me to our Lady Immaculate, whose flower of special love you were - to that Queen of heaven "who smiled on you at the dawn of life." Beg her as the Queen of the heart of Jesus to obtain for me by her powerful intercession, the grace I yearn for so ardently at this moment, and that she join with it a blessing that may strengthen me during life. Defend me at the hour of death, and lead me straight on to a happy eternity.
Amen'
Apparently she really has worked miracles.
Thank you for all your messages of support.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
The Army has been asking for more men on the ground and yesterday the Government announced it would be increasing troop numbers by 500 taking the total to 9,500. But they will only be deployed if 'strict' conditions are met. These qualifications are to include - sufficient equipment being in place and accessible; increased participation by NATO 'allies'; additional involvement by Afghan indigineous security forces and a broader sharing of the 'load'.
That is like a parent saying to a child who desperately needs a new pair of shoes, you can have them but only provided - you get yourself to the shoe-shop; the neighbours are prepared to assist with all purchasing requirements and the people who work in the shoe-shop share some of the cost. So, sorry little child with sore, cold feet but unless all that is met the new shoes will have to go on hold.
And to think soldiers back on leave guarded people shredding evidence of MPs fiddling expenses.
Empty nest syndrome is a frightening thing. Miss all my kids. Obviously C occupies a lot of thought because of clear and present danger but miss the other two achingly too. When my marriage ended a dear friend said to me 'whatever you do, do not inflict a stream of uncles on those children' and so I took a conscious decision to avoid the complications that can arise with step and half relations. Consequently we bacame a tight-knit bunch with the kids having a very deep bond of loyalty to each other and also thankfully to me. But during the heady ride through their childhoods I never once imagined that all three would fly the nest simultaneously.
Nothing really prepares you for the shock of it - one minute the house is alive with shouting, crying, laughter and fun and the next moment it is silent. The walls seem to be dead somehow. It's a cliche I know, but I have closed their bedroom doors because I can't bear to see the unoccupied space. Yes here I am, rattling around in a very quiet house, talking to myself, having 'diner a une' each evening and living with the Bridget Jones fear of being found dead at the foot of the stairs weeks after a fall. Well, maybe I exaggerate but without my gorgeous friends that's what it would feel like. Close ones have threatened to install a budgie.
A lovely lady very kindly sent this to me so here's the Prayer to St Therese.
'O little St. Theresa of the Child Jesus, who during your short life on earth became a mirror of angelic purity, of love strong as death, and of wholehearted abandonment to God, now that you rejoice in the reward of your virtues, cast a glance of pity on me as I leave all things in your hands. Make my troubles your own - speak a word for me to our Lady Immaculate, whose flower of special love you were - to that Queen of heaven "who smiled on you at the dawn of life." Beg her as the Queen of the heart of Jesus to obtain for me by her powerful intercession, the grace I yearn for so ardently at this moment, and that she join with it a blessing that may strengthen me during life. Defend me at the hour of death, and lead me straight on to a happy eternity.
Amen'
Apparently she really has worked miracles.
Thank you for all your messages of support.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
Wednesday 14 October 2009
Day 11 Week 2
I was going to ramble about childhood, memories and hopes for the future but then my neighbour's dog signalled the arrival of the postman. Went to retrieve the bundle on the doormat and saw an unfamiliar sight - turns out to be a letter from C so here it is.
'Dear Mum
I thought I'd write you a letter that you'd keep hold of. I've moved into my new 'flat' now which is much more comfortable than what I originally thought - which is a bonus. Going to meet my new neighbours soon which will be cool, get to know them!
Basically, the phone situation here isn't exactly great, so if you get onto the e-bluey system, then I can receive letters and photos from you in 24hours after you send it, very easy to set up if you have any problems with it then you just ask E how it and it & he'll help you out.
How are you doing? Recovering nicely after your op? I haven't managed to get hold of H yet, so if you could tell him, and R, about the e-bluey thing when you work it out. Are you back at work yet? If not, I hope you're keeping busy and not just worrying too much - it's not good for you.
Im sorry to say that your birthday card has not yet arrived to me. The address that I put at the bottom is the proper one, so scratch the one I gave you if it's anything different.
Let me know how everything is. Would be good to hear from you. By the way I asked E to ask you to send me out a few things - if you could that would be brilliant.
Lots of love
(your favourite)
C x
PS please send me some Marlboro lights -pretty dire situation for them out here!'
Over to you St Therese.
Can't write any more today
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
'Dear Mum
I thought I'd write you a letter that you'd keep hold of. I've moved into my new 'flat' now which is much more comfortable than what I originally thought - which is a bonus. Going to meet my new neighbours soon which will be cool, get to know them!
Basically, the phone situation here isn't exactly great, so if you get onto the e-bluey system, then I can receive letters and photos from you in 24hours after you send it, very easy to set up if you have any problems with it then you just ask E how it and it & he'll help you out.
How are you doing? Recovering nicely after your op? I haven't managed to get hold of H yet, so if you could tell him, and R, about the e-bluey thing when you work it out. Are you back at work yet? If not, I hope you're keeping busy and not just worrying too much - it's not good for you.
Im sorry to say that your birthday card has not yet arrived to me. The address that I put at the bottom is the proper one, so scratch the one I gave you if it's anything different.
Let me know how everything is. Would be good to hear from you. By the way I asked E to ask you to send me out a few things - if you could that would be brilliant.
Lots of love
(your favourite)
C x
PS please send me some Marlboro lights -pretty dire situation for them out here!'
Over to you St Therese.
Can't write any more today
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
Tuesday 13 October 2009
Day 10 Week 2
Just been driven to the hospital to have post-op check and thankfully all doing OK. Stitches trimmed then new dressing applied and it was on the way back home that I suddenly became a tourist in my own country. The route took us through Ascot, Windsor and the Great Park, through Eton and along the river in Datchet and watching the acres of orange, red and gold that the autumnal air had kissed onto the previously green trees was breathtaking. It was as if I'd never noticed before what an exquisitely beautiful land England is or realised how priveleged I am to live here.
I wonder what Afghanistan looks like in the autumn. Being a northern hemisphere country their seasons follow ours and by all account the winters are dreadful. One soldier who had been out there last year said it was just like the Somme.
Sleep was fitful last night and although I managed to arrive in the Land of Nod the dreams were terrifying. I was flying over the ground at high speed, and obviously under my own steam, when I became embroiled in a swirling, suffocating, blinding sand storm. I was whirled around and around and couldn't breath at which point I woke up with a start and decided to try and break the imaginative flurry with a glass of milk. My secret and very anoraky collection of railway journey books has come in very useful lately.
When I set the alarm the previous night I actually felt brave enough to set it to the Today programme and so it was that my day began with someone explaining that Afghanistan wasn't as bad as we're being led to believe and that soldier's are, by and large, a bunch of people who like to moan and complain because that's what keeps them going. Also the reason we may have some shortages in areas like helicopters is because we plan 40 years ahead and it was always assumed the next war would be multi-fronted and mega and not strategic and localised. Oh and apparently the reason the Americans don't have problems is because they can change practice and tactics more quickly than us, because they do that well. With incredulity I listened and couldnt help but think if we had always been planning for big and not little wars shouldn't we have too many helicopers?
It takes twice as long for an injured British soldier to be transported to a casualty station than it does an American.
I have to consciously hold on to positive thoughts otherwise my brain spirals out of control. C always wanted to be a soldier from when he was the smallest boy. He would dress up as Captan Scarlett or a Thunderdbird, and as I was a mother who disapproved of toy guns, charge around the garden with a stick to the fore in his hand, yelling wildly at anything real or imagined.
From the age of 2 he was continually trying to escape. The first time I discovered he wasn't playing in the hall but had in fact taken a chair to the large Victorian door, undone both locks and safety chain, and left the house, I thought I was going to have a heart attack. I eventually found him sitting cross legged in my neighbours kitchen watching her washing machine, or 'she-sheen' as he called it, going round and round. On another occasion when he was playing with his father, brother and neighbours in the back garden, he picked his moment to slip off camera, climb over a wall and through the next door house to freedom in the form of the railway station. My then husband was ashen as he carried him home. C told me many years later that he had broken out of his prep school on his first day and had been found by the Headmistress in Sainsbury's - strangely enough the school never told me. I was quite jealous of mothers who complained their children were too clingy.
There's a photo on the piano taken just after we moved into our little house. I look very posh in an evening dress because I'm going to a ball at the Cafe Royal and H is one side of me in a T shirt, smiling. R is on the other side looking sweet in a duffal coat with ribons in her hair. But to the front is C, wearing a frogman's diving helmet thrusting a pirate's sword vetically into the air looking every inch like a wierd paramilitary. He was 11.
When he was 13 he joined the Army Cadets and never looked back. He did in fact end up as the Lord Lieutenant's cadet, which is the highest he could be. I remember being distraught when he announced aged 15 that he didn't want to do A Levels, but wanted to join up as a boy-soldier. To think my Grandfather used to boast that no one in our family had ever fired a shot in anger. Mercifully he was prevailed upon by school and indeed the Army to do his exams and apply to Sandhurst for Officer training - which is why I'm sitting here to day writing this blog.
Thank you for all your kind messages of support.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
I wonder what Afghanistan looks like in the autumn. Being a northern hemisphere country their seasons follow ours and by all account the winters are dreadful. One soldier who had been out there last year said it was just like the Somme.
Sleep was fitful last night and although I managed to arrive in the Land of Nod the dreams were terrifying. I was flying over the ground at high speed, and obviously under my own steam, when I became embroiled in a swirling, suffocating, blinding sand storm. I was whirled around and around and couldn't breath at which point I woke up with a start and decided to try and break the imaginative flurry with a glass of milk. My secret and very anoraky collection of railway journey books has come in very useful lately.
When I set the alarm the previous night I actually felt brave enough to set it to the Today programme and so it was that my day began with someone explaining that Afghanistan wasn't as bad as we're being led to believe and that soldier's are, by and large, a bunch of people who like to moan and complain because that's what keeps them going. Also the reason we may have some shortages in areas like helicopters is because we plan 40 years ahead and it was always assumed the next war would be multi-fronted and mega and not strategic and localised. Oh and apparently the reason the Americans don't have problems is because they can change practice and tactics more quickly than us, because they do that well. With incredulity I listened and couldnt help but think if we had always been planning for big and not little wars shouldn't we have too many helicopers?
It takes twice as long for an injured British soldier to be transported to a casualty station than it does an American.
I have to consciously hold on to positive thoughts otherwise my brain spirals out of control. C always wanted to be a soldier from when he was the smallest boy. He would dress up as Captan Scarlett or a Thunderdbird, and as I was a mother who disapproved of toy guns, charge around the garden with a stick to the fore in his hand, yelling wildly at anything real or imagined.
From the age of 2 he was continually trying to escape. The first time I discovered he wasn't playing in the hall but had in fact taken a chair to the large Victorian door, undone both locks and safety chain, and left the house, I thought I was going to have a heart attack. I eventually found him sitting cross legged in my neighbours kitchen watching her washing machine, or 'she-sheen' as he called it, going round and round. On another occasion when he was playing with his father, brother and neighbours in the back garden, he picked his moment to slip off camera, climb over a wall and through the next door house to freedom in the form of the railway station. My then husband was ashen as he carried him home. C told me many years later that he had broken out of his prep school on his first day and had been found by the Headmistress in Sainsbury's - strangely enough the school never told me. I was quite jealous of mothers who complained their children were too clingy.
There's a photo on the piano taken just after we moved into our little house. I look very posh in an evening dress because I'm going to a ball at the Cafe Royal and H is one side of me in a T shirt, smiling. R is on the other side looking sweet in a duffal coat with ribons in her hair. But to the front is C, wearing a frogman's diving helmet thrusting a pirate's sword vetically into the air looking every inch like a wierd paramilitary. He was 11.
When he was 13 he joined the Army Cadets and never looked back. He did in fact end up as the Lord Lieutenant's cadet, which is the highest he could be. I remember being distraught when he announced aged 15 that he didn't want to do A Levels, but wanted to join up as a boy-soldier. To think my Grandfather used to boast that no one in our family had ever fired a shot in anger. Mercifully he was prevailed upon by school and indeed the Army to do his exams and apply to Sandhurst for Officer training - which is why I'm sitting here to day writing this blog.
Thank you for all your kind messages of support.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
Monday 12 October 2009
Day 9 Week 2
C rang yesterday and spoke to R, his father and step-mother. He is at the front and again can't say where. Thank God he was safe and hopefully still is.
One of the perks of being a temporary invalid is being spoilt by friends and family, and had a lovely time yesterday being whizzed up to London by my glamorous cousin in her cute sports car. We laughed and giggled and talked about our mothers (who were sisters and extremely complex) and for a while it was like being young again. I lurched along Kensington High St on my sticks and we met her adorable son in a bar and then lit candles in the church on our way back to the car. Then I was home and back to reality.
The thing about the war in Afghanistan is that no one knows or understands what it's for. People say to me 'what does you son do?' and I reply he's a soldier in Afganistan and they invariably come back with 'yes, but what does he do', and the truth is I don't really know. The Army have a policy called 'Hearts and Minds' - meaning if you woo the indigineous poeple with positive examples of western philanthropy then they will turn against the insurgents. Well at least I think that's what it means. Trouble is war is not an exact science and so NATO has tragically had several failed missions which have killed innocents and consequently played straight into the Talliban's hand.
Had such a wonderful start to the day today. I have been given permission to open C's mail - not, of course, in an official manner with organisations contacted and Power of Attorney drawn up - more on a 'Ma if I get any post would you mind opening it for me?' kind of a way. So when a letter marked ominously in bold black capitals 'THIS IS NOT A CIRCULAR' arrived on my doormat I opened it immediately. C inherited my late mother's old Volkswagen Golf, and for some time it has been off the road, SWORN declaration in tact, sitting in my garage. And that should be the end of the matter except the DVLA in it's wisdom has obviously chosen not to process the request correctly, and so has handed the collection of non-payment of vehicle road tax over to a firm of Bailiffs in the North East of England. I cannot describe how I felt to read the letter threatening all sorts of fines, penalties, court proceedings leading to increased fines of up to £1000 and also retrieval of goods.
I rang the 24hr telephone 'helpline', and sat for 29 minutes on an automated switchboard wondering what the fatality rate was for use of such electronic technology. After 6 minutes of some wretched autmatum telling me in its best Stephen Hawkin that I was next to be answered I was not best pleased. The poor young geordie girl was most embarrassed and stumbled with her words when I vented spleen and asked her how they planned to contact my son to receive the £80 fine when he was rather busy at the moment somewhere unknown, close to enemy lines in Afghaistan? And that if they did in fact take him to court wouldn't that look impressive 'Serving soldier taken to court because of yet another Swansea blunder'. She assured me he would not be summoned but that until the DVLA authorise them to stop, the letters will continue. Of course, can I find the documents? They're probably in the barracks in Edinburgh - so because someone working for a government institution has failed to do their job properly we have yet more hassle - and be warned a friend told me the same happened to her, and the DVLA had even sent a refund on her old licence.
Apparently some guy went into Halfords to buy spray paint the colour of Afghan sand for his son to effectively camouflage his equipment. What have we come to.
Found a remedy for staring into the black. sleepless abyss - keep the light on. Just like a child I slept because I wasn't cocooned in darkness.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum
One of the perks of being a temporary invalid is being spoilt by friends and family, and had a lovely time yesterday being whizzed up to London by my glamorous cousin in her cute sports car. We laughed and giggled and talked about our mothers (who were sisters and extremely complex) and for a while it was like being young again. I lurched along Kensington High St on my sticks and we met her adorable son in a bar and then lit candles in the church on our way back to the car. Then I was home and back to reality.
The thing about the war in Afghanistan is that no one knows or understands what it's for. People say to me 'what does you son do?' and I reply he's a soldier in Afganistan and they invariably come back with 'yes, but what does he do', and the truth is I don't really know. The Army have a policy called 'Hearts and Minds' - meaning if you woo the indigineous poeple with positive examples of western philanthropy then they will turn against the insurgents. Well at least I think that's what it means. Trouble is war is not an exact science and so NATO has tragically had several failed missions which have killed innocents and consequently played straight into the Talliban's hand.
Had such a wonderful start to the day today. I have been given permission to open C's mail - not, of course, in an official manner with organisations contacted and Power of Attorney drawn up - more on a 'Ma if I get any post would you mind opening it for me?' kind of a way. So when a letter marked ominously in bold black capitals 'THIS IS NOT A CIRCULAR' arrived on my doormat I opened it immediately. C inherited my late mother's old Volkswagen Golf, and for some time it has been off the road, SWORN declaration in tact, sitting in my garage. And that should be the end of the matter except the DVLA in it's wisdom has obviously chosen not to process the request correctly, and so has handed the collection of non-payment of vehicle road tax over to a firm of Bailiffs in the North East of England. I cannot describe how I felt to read the letter threatening all sorts of fines, penalties, court proceedings leading to increased fines of up to £1000 and also retrieval of goods.
I rang the 24hr telephone 'helpline', and sat for 29 minutes on an automated switchboard wondering what the fatality rate was for use of such electronic technology. After 6 minutes of some wretched autmatum telling me in its best Stephen Hawkin that I was next to be answered I was not best pleased. The poor young geordie girl was most embarrassed and stumbled with her words when I vented spleen and asked her how they planned to contact my son to receive the £80 fine when he was rather busy at the moment somewhere unknown, close to enemy lines in Afghaistan? And that if they did in fact take him to court wouldn't that look impressive 'Serving soldier taken to court because of yet another Swansea blunder'. She assured me he would not be summoned but that until the DVLA authorise them to stop, the letters will continue. Of course, can I find the documents? They're probably in the barracks in Edinburgh - so because someone working for a government institution has failed to do their job properly we have yet more hassle - and be warned a friend told me the same happened to her, and the DVLA had even sent a refund on her old licence.
Apparently some guy went into Halfords to buy spray paint the colour of Afghan sand for his son to effectively camouflage his equipment. What have we come to.
Found a remedy for staring into the black. sleepless abyss - keep the light on. Just like a child I slept because I wasn't cocooned in darkness.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum
Saturday 10 October 2009
Day 8 Week 2
Grateful another day has passed uneventfully - thank you St Therese.
4 o'clock in the morning and sleep is elusive. Seemingly more people die between 2 and 4 than at any other time, it must be a natural watershed for mankind. Unsure of the spelling of 'elusive' I have just looked it up in the dictionary and it says 'difficult to catch or remember', how appropriate.
Why am I suddenly always angry? I always used to find the fun in things and now I only find the irritation. I lay in bed looking at the little glowing stars on the ceiling which were put there by C and R years ago - they used my bed as a trampoline to stick them up and during bouts of sleeplessness they used to provide comfort, but not any more.
Is he fighting? Has he moved to the front? What is the front?
Prior to deployment the families were invited to a briefing by the Army to explain the finer details, but I couldn't face it. Attending would have proved difficult and so that provided the ideal excuse not to attend. I didn't want to know. But now in the torture of a dark, cold, unwelcoming night, I want to know everything. Or do I?
Apparently it's true that the equipment is crap. (None of this comes from H and C but from other sources.) Soldiers in the British Army really do supplement their kit out of their own pocket. It's as if we train doctors and then say 'you're really well qualified now, but would you mind forking out for a couple of intensive care beds before you start practicing', or 'engineer, we'd love you to build the new spur on the M25, but our concrete's not up to scratch so over to you'. There's a whole burgeoning industry in purchasing warfare produce because our stuff is so inefficient.
Several years ago the MoD decided that it was no longer necessary to store supplies in readiness for active service, so they sold everthing off - mostly to developing countries - and closed the stores down. That was just before the second Gulf War, and consequently when hostilities ignited we had nothing. So we went back to our customers and said can we have it back please?Unsurprisingly they said 'yes, but at a premium'. So, in a wonderful example of financial mismanagement we eventually had equipment for people we sent off to do their best (and let's not forget, be prepared to die), repurchased at vastly inflated prices from far away people we thought we could initially rip-off. Who can forget the sight of the first batch of British soldiers standing out like sycamores in their dark green combats against the golden desert sand.
Anger. I just feel anger at the stupidity of it all.
The story goes that during the Bosnian conflict, our state of the art satellite radio system failed. So mobile phones were teamed up with Welsh speakers in a reinactment of incomers using native Americans to transmit signals which would be incomprehensible to outside ears.
I did 'the shop'. I went to Tescos and happily spent a fortune in the pharmacey on every remedy under the sun, covering everything from athlete's foot to constipation, and the look of gratefulness on C's face when I gave it to him was humbling. But why should I not only have to be prepared to give my son to the science of kill or be killed, and still have to provide resources that everyone knows are not available to him. Is my memory failing or was James Bond once saved from the epitomy of evil by a loving Taliban? We live in an age of Orwellian historical air-brushing.
I don't want to be angry like this all the time.
It wasn't supposed to be this way. Back in my youth I was a pacifistic rebel. Listening to Bob Dylan and reading political diatribes by anyone who dare to stand-up against authority, I really did believe it was possible to change the world. Injustice was to be challenged at every juncture. The answer was apparently blowing in the wind so where has it all gone?
Does the anger come from impotence?
It's not just death I fear, it's dreadful injury. Brain damage. Loss of limbs. Loss of dignity. Loss of my beautiful boy.
They're not evil killers. If you met them you'd think they were students or kids on a gap year. They're polite and fresh faced and full of hope and goodness. The image of Rambo could not be further removed from the reality of the crop of young people in the British Army that the politicians send off to do their bidding. Churchill said 'war war starts when jaw jaw stops', and how true is that. Old men should be sent off to fight - not the young with their lack of fear and awarenes of how precious life really is - then with the self preservation that nearness to death brings, the fighting would soon stop.
Sorry for the rant.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
4 o'clock in the morning and sleep is elusive. Seemingly more people die between 2 and 4 than at any other time, it must be a natural watershed for mankind. Unsure of the spelling of 'elusive' I have just looked it up in the dictionary and it says 'difficult to catch or remember', how appropriate.
Why am I suddenly always angry? I always used to find the fun in things and now I only find the irritation. I lay in bed looking at the little glowing stars on the ceiling which were put there by C and R years ago - they used my bed as a trampoline to stick them up and during bouts of sleeplessness they used to provide comfort, but not any more.
Is he fighting? Has he moved to the front? What is the front?
Prior to deployment the families were invited to a briefing by the Army to explain the finer details, but I couldn't face it. Attending would have proved difficult and so that provided the ideal excuse not to attend. I didn't want to know. But now in the torture of a dark, cold, unwelcoming night, I want to know everything. Or do I?
Apparently it's true that the equipment is crap. (None of this comes from H and C but from other sources.) Soldiers in the British Army really do supplement their kit out of their own pocket. It's as if we train doctors and then say 'you're really well qualified now, but would you mind forking out for a couple of intensive care beds before you start practicing', or 'engineer, we'd love you to build the new spur on the M25, but our concrete's not up to scratch so over to you'. There's a whole burgeoning industry in purchasing warfare produce because our stuff is so inefficient.
Several years ago the MoD decided that it was no longer necessary to store supplies in readiness for active service, so they sold everthing off - mostly to developing countries - and closed the stores down. That was just before the second Gulf War, and consequently when hostilities ignited we had nothing. So we went back to our customers and said can we have it back please?Unsurprisingly they said 'yes, but at a premium'. So, in a wonderful example of financial mismanagement we eventually had equipment for people we sent off to do their best (and let's not forget, be prepared to die), repurchased at vastly inflated prices from far away people we thought we could initially rip-off. Who can forget the sight of the first batch of British soldiers standing out like sycamores in their dark green combats against the golden desert sand.
Anger. I just feel anger at the stupidity of it all.
The story goes that during the Bosnian conflict, our state of the art satellite radio system failed. So mobile phones were teamed up with Welsh speakers in a reinactment of incomers using native Americans to transmit signals which would be incomprehensible to outside ears.
I did 'the shop'. I went to Tescos and happily spent a fortune in the pharmacey on every remedy under the sun, covering everything from athlete's foot to constipation, and the look of gratefulness on C's face when I gave it to him was humbling. But why should I not only have to be prepared to give my son to the science of kill or be killed, and still have to provide resources that everyone knows are not available to him. Is my memory failing or was James Bond once saved from the epitomy of evil by a loving Taliban? We live in an age of Orwellian historical air-brushing.
I don't want to be angry like this all the time.
It wasn't supposed to be this way. Back in my youth I was a pacifistic rebel. Listening to Bob Dylan and reading political diatribes by anyone who dare to stand-up against authority, I really did believe it was possible to change the world. Injustice was to be challenged at every juncture. The answer was apparently blowing in the wind so where has it all gone?
Does the anger come from impotence?
It's not just death I fear, it's dreadful injury. Brain damage. Loss of limbs. Loss of dignity. Loss of my beautiful boy.
They're not evil killers. If you met them you'd think they were students or kids on a gap year. They're polite and fresh faced and full of hope and goodness. The image of Rambo could not be further removed from the reality of the crop of young people in the British Army that the politicians send off to do their bidding. Churchill said 'war war starts when jaw jaw stops', and how true is that. Old men should be sent off to fight - not the young with their lack of fear and awarenes of how precious life really is - then with the self preservation that nearness to death brings, the fighting would soon stop.
Sorry for the rant.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
Day 7 Week 1
Sometimes a single incident can crystallise everything.
I was visiting a friend yesterday afternoon and my mobile rang and when I looked at the screen, the seemingly ordinary number was visible. It was C ringing from Afghanistan. His men have now arrived. He's already seen action. He was just about to be moved with his platoon to the frontline but couldn't tell me where that was. The call finished with the mundane business of exchanging e-mail addresses re the Vodafone direct debit and then he was gone.
My daughter R is home for the weekend from university. The fact she is studying at degree level is nothing short of a miracle considering everything that happened. Owing to her parents deciding to participate in a particlarly messy divorce, her education suffered and as an infant she began to fall behind. Also at that time of life, although I thought she was the most adorable little girl in the world, the word 'beauty' did not apply. Anyway, as is the case in all good fairytales she passed all her exams and has grown into the most stunningly beautiful young lady imaginable and last night she decided to go out with her friends.
Sleep is an interesting if not challenging prospect at the moment. I find the holy trinity of sauvignon blanc, pinot grigio and chardonnay, hopefully accompanied by something involving Maggie Smith or Judi Dench, or both, in flowing gowns on Film4, as a useful support mechanism. When the ritual works I usually find I can face the momentous climb up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire to either crash out, or stare at the ceiling with a swirling brain of worst case scenarios, at about 9 o'clock.
Imagine my joy last night at being woken up by very loud, obviously post-night out girls at midnight. When it finally went quiet I thought I would do a health and safety check to ensure all was well, only to find my wonderful daugher fast asleep on the landing floor. After much cajolling and prodding and attempted lifting - not easy with a leg recovering from bone surgery and a body full of anti-coagulant therapy, so should really avoid bumping myself - managed to establish her in her bed.
When I finally re-hit my own mattress I was wide awake and decided there was only one soporofic remedy that might work and that was the Worldservice, Sailing-by and the Shipping Forecast. As I heard the words 'Viking, Fastnet, Faroes, South East Icelend.....' I suddenly began to howl uncontrollably. Not the delicate wimpering of a maiden in distress, but the teeth clenching belly-aching howling of a damaged animal. Realising how pivotal H and C were to R and I performing as part of a functional family unit, I was consumed by a feast of self-pity. Why did one of my sons have to be in the North Atlantic? Why did one of my sons have to a serving soldier at war? Why, in an age of immediate communication did I live in a 1940's timewarp of duty and removal? Why did my daughter do this? Why is this happening to me? Why could I not have children who were living around the corner? Why could my sons not be stamp collectors? AND WHY ON EARTH HAS BARRAK OBAMA BEEN GIVEN THE NOBEL PEACE PRIZE??????
The shipping forecast had been replaced by the newsreader's announcement, and because of my avoidance of said broadcasts I must be the only person who hadn't heard. The revelation acted like a metaphorical slap across the hysteric's face. I mean I know he must have done wonders for the sales of explosives - but that's hardly the point. Maybe in 3 years time we will be able to look back and think he was the most radical thing since FDR but as of yet the man's done hardly anything.
Cynicism can be a cure for self-pity and I very quickly snapped out of my despair. The world really is going mad and as always is the case with such things it's the invisible little people who pick up the pieces.
The district nurse has just been and she comes from Lisieux. Apparently I must read about St Therese's life - it's exempliary.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
I was visiting a friend yesterday afternoon and my mobile rang and when I looked at the screen, the seemingly ordinary number was visible. It was C ringing from Afghanistan. His men have now arrived. He's already seen action. He was just about to be moved with his platoon to the frontline but couldn't tell me where that was. The call finished with the mundane business of exchanging e-mail addresses re the Vodafone direct debit and then he was gone.
My daughter R is home for the weekend from university. The fact she is studying at degree level is nothing short of a miracle considering everything that happened. Owing to her parents deciding to participate in a particlarly messy divorce, her education suffered and as an infant she began to fall behind. Also at that time of life, although I thought she was the most adorable little girl in the world, the word 'beauty' did not apply. Anyway, as is the case in all good fairytales she passed all her exams and has grown into the most stunningly beautiful young lady imaginable and last night she decided to go out with her friends.
Sleep is an interesting if not challenging prospect at the moment. I find the holy trinity of sauvignon blanc, pinot grigio and chardonnay, hopefully accompanied by something involving Maggie Smith or Judi Dench, or both, in flowing gowns on Film4, as a useful support mechanism. When the ritual works I usually find I can face the momentous climb up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire to either crash out, or stare at the ceiling with a swirling brain of worst case scenarios, at about 9 o'clock.
Imagine my joy last night at being woken up by very loud, obviously post-night out girls at midnight. When it finally went quiet I thought I would do a health and safety check to ensure all was well, only to find my wonderful daugher fast asleep on the landing floor. After much cajolling and prodding and attempted lifting - not easy with a leg recovering from bone surgery and a body full of anti-coagulant therapy, so should really avoid bumping myself - managed to establish her in her bed.
When I finally re-hit my own mattress I was wide awake and decided there was only one soporofic remedy that might work and that was the Worldservice, Sailing-by and the Shipping Forecast. As I heard the words 'Viking, Fastnet, Faroes, South East Icelend.....' I suddenly began to howl uncontrollably. Not the delicate wimpering of a maiden in distress, but the teeth clenching belly-aching howling of a damaged animal. Realising how pivotal H and C were to R and I performing as part of a functional family unit, I was consumed by a feast of self-pity. Why did one of my sons have to be in the North Atlantic? Why did one of my sons have to a serving soldier at war? Why, in an age of immediate communication did I live in a 1940's timewarp of duty and removal? Why did my daughter do this? Why is this happening to me? Why could I not have children who were living around the corner? Why could my sons not be stamp collectors? AND WHY ON EARTH HAS BARRAK OBAMA BEEN GIVEN THE NOBEL PEACE PRIZE??????
The shipping forecast had been replaced by the newsreader's announcement, and because of my avoidance of said broadcasts I must be the only person who hadn't heard. The revelation acted like a metaphorical slap across the hysteric's face. I mean I know he must have done wonders for the sales of explosives - but that's hardly the point. Maybe in 3 years time we will be able to look back and think he was the most radical thing since FDR but as of yet the man's done hardly anything.
Cynicism can be a cure for self-pity and I very quickly snapped out of my despair. The world really is going mad and as always is the case with such things it's the invisible little people who pick up the pieces.
The district nurse has just been and she comes from Lisieux. Apparently I must read about St Therese's life - it's exempliary.
Speak soon. A soldier's Mum x
Friday 9 October 2009
Day 6 Week 1
Life is strange. Things happen and though I have a great sense of destiny, the reasons are not always apparent until much further down the line.
C was 21 on Wednesday. When I cast my mind back to the delivery room, and a large slimey frog was placed on my stomach accompanied by a surge in love only a mother having given birth can feel, not in anyway did I envisage spending the day as it passed. The clock became a tallisman for remembering previous events on other birthdays. Going out to the ambulance at midnithg with him 3 weeks late, in a Liverpudlian gale, having just basted the Christmas cake with rum. 9.15 he was born, sharing his day with my parents' 38th wedding anniversary. Noon he had his second birthday party with me lumbering around with R well on the way. Entertainers, trips to adventure parks, cakes and powercuts all flashed through the tape in my head. The excitement when he turned 18 and became an adult with what should be a life of love fulfillment ahead. The recordings in the file named 'C's birthday' both comforted but exacerbated the coldness of now.
The summer had been a time of heady fun. Watching the young ones reminded me of Blackadder and the Tiddleywinkers of 1913 - it was all gung-ho and black jokes about being on each other's shoulders. It scared me how easily history can repeat itself, have we learnt nothing from the previous horrors of war? School children now have to study the First World War poets with all the momentous graphic description of pain, waste and futility. Yet we repeat as if it never happened.
The task of the summer was trying to arrange a mutual date where everyone could attend C's premature 21st celebrations. As my children's lives more closely resemble the Chelsea-set than that of produce of a single-parent in a council house, which is what they are, not only was it impossible to find a date when all 3 were around, but one where all 3 were actually in the UK. H agreed that the best weekend would be the one directly before C deployed, even though H would be three thousand miles away in the North Atlatic. This is because H is completing his training on HMS Illustrios and would be away at sea for 3 months before hopefully passing out at Dartmouth in December.
So a charabang was arranged for a night on the razzle in the West End the weekend of 26th September - one perk of living 20 miles as the crow flies from Trafalgar Square is the easy access to all London has to offer. R and I visited H on Illustrious the Sunday before he sailed and wandered around the magnificent but rather rusty old lady and made our farewells. R had left for uni the weekend before and it suddenly seemed real that all the birds were leaving the nest together.
The something wonderful happened and thanks to Royal Naval engineering H did not head with a fair wind to Iceland, but returned back to home port with a broken engine. So on the Friday before Cs day, received a text from H saying 'Get in the gin Ma x', and quite by chance all 3 brothers and sister were able to see each other. Seizing the moment I rang round family and friends and out of the blue the most wonderful gathering assembled to wish him luck.
As I look at pictures now it seems inconceivable that the person in the centre of it all is now in a country far, far away, fighting a war that everyday politicans question the validity and effectiveness of. Do they know how that makes the families feel? A 'change of direction' devalues every life of the Afghans and soldiers lost and reinforces the sense of uselessness.
St Therese was calming and I asked for her help and protection.
Speak soon x
C was 21 on Wednesday. When I cast my mind back to the delivery room, and a large slimey frog was placed on my stomach accompanied by a surge in love only a mother having given birth can feel, not in anyway did I envisage spending the day as it passed. The clock became a tallisman for remembering previous events on other birthdays. Going out to the ambulance at midnithg with him 3 weeks late, in a Liverpudlian gale, having just basted the Christmas cake with rum. 9.15 he was born, sharing his day with my parents' 38th wedding anniversary. Noon he had his second birthday party with me lumbering around with R well on the way. Entertainers, trips to adventure parks, cakes and powercuts all flashed through the tape in my head. The excitement when he turned 18 and became an adult with what should be a life of love fulfillment ahead. The recordings in the file named 'C's birthday' both comforted but exacerbated the coldness of now.
The summer had been a time of heady fun. Watching the young ones reminded me of Blackadder and the Tiddleywinkers of 1913 - it was all gung-ho and black jokes about being on each other's shoulders. It scared me how easily history can repeat itself, have we learnt nothing from the previous horrors of war? School children now have to study the First World War poets with all the momentous graphic description of pain, waste and futility. Yet we repeat as if it never happened.
The task of the summer was trying to arrange a mutual date where everyone could attend C's premature 21st celebrations. As my children's lives more closely resemble the Chelsea-set than that of produce of a single-parent in a council house, which is what they are, not only was it impossible to find a date when all 3 were around, but one where all 3 were actually in the UK. H agreed that the best weekend would be the one directly before C deployed, even though H would be three thousand miles away in the North Atlatic. This is because H is completing his training on HMS Illustrios and would be away at sea for 3 months before hopefully passing out at Dartmouth in December.
So a charabang was arranged for a night on the razzle in the West End the weekend of 26th September - one perk of living 20 miles as the crow flies from Trafalgar Square is the easy access to all London has to offer. R and I visited H on Illustrious the Sunday before he sailed and wandered around the magnificent but rather rusty old lady and made our farewells. R had left for uni the weekend before and it suddenly seemed real that all the birds were leaving the nest together.
The something wonderful happened and thanks to Royal Naval engineering H did not head with a fair wind to Iceland, but returned back to home port with a broken engine. So on the Friday before Cs day, received a text from H saying 'Get in the gin Ma x', and quite by chance all 3 brothers and sister were able to see each other. Seizing the moment I rang round family and friends and out of the blue the most wonderful gathering assembled to wish him luck.
As I look at pictures now it seems inconceivable that the person in the centre of it all is now in a country far, far away, fighting a war that everyday politicans question the validity and effectiveness of. Do they know how that makes the families feel? A 'change of direction' devalues every life of the Afghans and soldiers lost and reinforces the sense of uselessness.
St Therese was calming and I asked for her help and protection.
Speak soon x
Thursday 8 October 2009
Day 5 Week 1
Have you ever felt that you were no longer inhabiting your ownlife, but had somehow been transported into someone else's? That's just where I am at the moment. I shall give a very brief background thumbnail by way of an introduction.
I am 50, have been single for 14 years and have brought up 3 children by myself through many interesting and challenging situations. Without wishing to dwell that has included homelessness, illness and financial hardship - but believe me I am not a gloomy depressive and the main reason I have been able to stand up to everything is I have been blessed with a hearty Irish sense of humour and English stiff upper lip. I work in adult literacy in further education and am surrounded by the best bunch of friends anyone could hope for.
I have 3 children H (boy) aged 24, LLM and training to be an officer in the Royal Navy; R (girl) aged 18 and at University in London and middle one C (boy) aged 21 - yesterday- and as of Sunday last a serving Officer with the British Army in Afghanistan. For the purpose of this blog I shall focus on C, his life and the effect that has on the rest of us.
C flew out on Sunday and it was one of the most surreal days I have ever known. May God forgive me but in the preceeding weeks and months I had dealt with the inevitability with a combination of denial, avoidance and at times actually hoping he'd have some slight medical condition (nothing too serious or life threatening) which would call a halt to the whole episode. Yes as a mother, I had actually been wishing harm on my beautiful boy in a kind of trade-off against fatality at war.
But the day came and all I could do was watch the clock and imagine with sinking nausea how close he was to gunfire. Then against all expectation, just when I thought he was landing at Kabul I received a text from him. My heart leapt into my throat as I opened it, what would it say? Would it be some final admittance that he'd made a mistake and should not have signed up? As I read the words 'Mum, stop over in a hot country. I need a huge favour', I thought I was going to vomit. Then it went on 'Would you ring Vodafone, details below and set up a standing order for monthly payments by direct debit............' I wanted to simultaneously laugh and scream. Here was my son on the way to war with all the horrendous brutality that would contain and possibly the last request he would ever make of me was that I would do what a mother always does and sort out paperwork.
Monday was taken care of as I was in hospital having yet another operation on my leg, there's nothing like general aneasthetic, pain and a life threatening condition as a distraction. That said he was never far from my mind. Once I was back on the ward (fittingly at the hospital where they filmed Carry on Doctor - alas Hattie and Dr Kilmore did not put in a ghostly appearance), my phone rang with an ordinary looking number Ididn't recognise and when I answered it a very familiar voice said 'Ma, I'm here, how are you?'. The call lasted no more than thirty seconds before we were cruelly separated by failed technology but his voice sounded so near and so close and thank God alive. Apparently Afghanistan is hot and dusty.
I am now at home and as I heard someone on the radio say, I've come to dread the News and an unexpected knock at the door is terrifying. But as a friend whose son mercifully survived the 6 months said to me, 'you mustn't cry in front of him. He must remember you always laughing'.
Our village is being blessed this evening with a visit from StTherese of Lisieux, who is not only the patron saint of florists but also of serving soldiers at war, so I am going to be taking my crutches to pay my respect to the relics, and as soldier's mothers have done for years, asking her to protect my son from harm, keep him safe and spare him the horrors of war.
Speak soon. Soldier's Mum x
I am 50, have been single for 14 years and have brought up 3 children by myself through many interesting and challenging situations. Without wishing to dwell that has included homelessness, illness and financial hardship - but believe me I am not a gloomy depressive and the main reason I have been able to stand up to everything is I have been blessed with a hearty Irish sense of humour and English stiff upper lip. I work in adult literacy in further education and am surrounded by the best bunch of friends anyone could hope for.
I have 3 children H (boy) aged 24, LLM and training to be an officer in the Royal Navy; R (girl) aged 18 and at University in London and middle one C (boy) aged 21 - yesterday- and as of Sunday last a serving Officer with the British Army in Afghanistan. For the purpose of this blog I shall focus on C, his life and the effect that has on the rest of us.
C flew out on Sunday and it was one of the most surreal days I have ever known. May God forgive me but in the preceeding weeks and months I had dealt with the inevitability with a combination of denial, avoidance and at times actually hoping he'd have some slight medical condition (nothing too serious or life threatening) which would call a halt to the whole episode. Yes as a mother, I had actually been wishing harm on my beautiful boy in a kind of trade-off against fatality at war.
But the day came and all I could do was watch the clock and imagine with sinking nausea how close he was to gunfire. Then against all expectation, just when I thought he was landing at Kabul I received a text from him. My heart leapt into my throat as I opened it, what would it say? Would it be some final admittance that he'd made a mistake and should not have signed up? As I read the words 'Mum, stop over in a hot country. I need a huge favour', I thought I was going to vomit. Then it went on 'Would you ring Vodafone, details below and set up a standing order for monthly payments by direct debit............' I wanted to simultaneously laugh and scream. Here was my son on the way to war with all the horrendous brutality that would contain and possibly the last request he would ever make of me was that I would do what a mother always does and sort out paperwork.
Monday was taken care of as I was in hospital having yet another operation on my leg, there's nothing like general aneasthetic, pain and a life threatening condition as a distraction. That said he was never far from my mind. Once I was back on the ward (fittingly at the hospital where they filmed Carry on Doctor - alas Hattie and Dr Kilmore did not put in a ghostly appearance), my phone rang with an ordinary looking number Ididn't recognise and when I answered it a very familiar voice said 'Ma, I'm here, how are you?'. The call lasted no more than thirty seconds before we were cruelly separated by failed technology but his voice sounded so near and so close and thank God alive. Apparently Afghanistan is hot and dusty.
I am now at home and as I heard someone on the radio say, I've come to dread the News and an unexpected knock at the door is terrifying. But as a friend whose son mercifully survived the 6 months said to me, 'you mustn't cry in front of him. He must remember you always laughing'.
Our village is being blessed this evening with a visit from StTherese of Lisieux, who is not only the patron saint of florists but also of serving soldiers at war, so I am going to be taking my crutches to pay my respect to the relics, and as soldier's mothers have done for years, asking her to protect my son from harm, keep him safe and spare him the horrors of war.
Speak soon. Soldier's Mum x
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)