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
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