Hey,
"Save The Dates" still on hold (I know, I know) Mr Warehouse have been making other plans and desperately trying to negotiate that guest list down. As described in the post a few months ago "The Gluttonous Guest List", our original rough number of about 65-70 for day guests is creeping up and up and the majority of our wedding party was more "Warehouse=family-heavy". With our venue, a stunning village hall in Stagsden, nestled away in the heart of the Bedfordshire countryside, its pretty hall and ideallic gravelled garden I am sure will be plenty big enough for our guests. Although more recently, cutting down our wedding guest list is like Hercules battling Hydra – cut one person and two more seem to grow in their place.
However, with mine and Mr Warehouses most recent look at the serious swelling of our guests and that with the addition of kids, cousins, cousins kids and every man and his dog it is easy to see how things have quickly got out of control. Seeking out some advice online, I have yet again stumbled upon the website Bridebook.co.uk - Pretty much a one-stop-shop on all things wedding and getting married. Some advice they have on guest list has been really helpful such as cutting out children from the wedding party, for part or even the whole day! "This is a dilemma lots of brides and grooms struggle to settle within themselves, never mind with each other. But you’re not a bad person for requesting this – lots of couples do. Not only does it cut costs and numbers but it gives the parents a night off to enjoy themselves too if they so wish" Bridebook.co.uk says. Some helpful advice we have known about for a while. Mr Warehouse and I tried to broach this subject a few times however it always ended in disagreement as there are far too many children.
I suppose I sort of just thought that family is family and whilst I hate not being able to put mom, dad and kids, heck even the family hound on the invite it is something that we simply cannot afford. If we just work with the adults here, that is everyone over the age of 10/12 (with a few exceptions of the close family members) the numbers come to about 85-90. Introduce all those cherubs and darlings and you have a wedding party of well over a hundred. No problem and all fun and games until you realise these people need to eat and the cost of that is already a bone of contention as the "W" seems to increase the price several times over!
I mean we could always Billy bullshit an excuse, saying that we were not allowed to have any children at the venue, however, I very much doubt that this would have been the case since the Warehouses are very accustomed to the church we are going to be wed in. Instead, we have decided to be totally honest and upfront about our plans for our big day and have asked all of those family members that have children if they would mind us just inviting mom and dad. I was surprised (although I am not sure as to why) that people have been totally OK about it all, some of them relieved they can leave the kiddi-winks at home or with a babysitter and enjoy the evening letting their hair down. Truth be told they are all understanding that weddings can be and are expensive and so as much as we would love to invite all the children of our friends and family, it is only possible to accommodate the children of close family, mainly down to cost.
After reaching out I was glad and relieved at how many people had said that it was our special day and whatever we wanted they would accept. If it was children then great or no children still great. I was pleased with the relaxed attitude and feelings everyone replied with and truth be told good make me feel a little silly for sweating so much over it all. So does that mean that Mr Warehouse and I will be sending out our "Save The Dates" this weekend? Well maybe not as we have a few things planned and in the pipeline for home renovations and summer fun, however, I am sure that once we do get round to it in the next couple of months we will have a much better idea on numbers and therefore invites, favours and catering will all be much, much easier.
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Showing posts with label Parents. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Parents. Show all posts
Monday, 29 July 2019
Monday, 15 July 2019
One year and a whole lot of change
Hello,
As a child, I always found it incredibly boring walking around hardware stores, accompanying my parents on an arduous task to find all of the instruments they needed for their DIY Project. Whether it was kitchen tiles or flooring or new wardrobes I would always become irritable and bored out of my brain. And so I always reverted to what was much more fun normally annoying and pissing off my little brother, chasing him around the aisles or throwing soft furnishings at him. Obviously, this would annoy my parents no end and therefore turn into a massive family argument, normally ending with one of us sat in the car by ourselves as punishment. However, on the odd occasion, we were good walking around the store our parents would buy us ice cream from the van situated perfectly between the car park and the exit doors of the DIY store.
Despite me now being twenty-seven I disregarded the fact that I should be an adult and walk past said ice cream van with little regard for him or his menu. Instead opted for the biggest ice-cream I could find on the board with extra flake sprinkles and source something my parents would have never allowed and disregarded for a lolly or cheaper ice cream. But fuck that. I am closer to thirty than ever before and after my first DIY shop I feel I deserve a treat.
Mr Warehouse and I had just been shopping for our first decorating job in our new home. Our weekend plans had not started as such and had originally been reserved for making the "Save The Dates" we needed for our wedding which we were meant to be handing out this coming weekend at the annual family gathering the Warehouse's host. But alas I left all of my shit at work including my backup hard drive with all the documents on and since I have not backed them up on my home tablet stupidly I had no other plans.
With this in mind, Mr Warehouse suggested some DIY and maybe making a start on painting and decorating our hallway or living room. And so we found ourselves in the middle of B&Q searching out wallpaper and paint. However, since we are on a budget we thought it best to use the paint we were given a year ago to do up our flat. Mr Warehouse and I have been lucky to have friends and family as well as a few work colleagues who have donated different tins and buckets of paint and after a few mid-week paint swatches in several different shades from browns to greens to blues, greens and greys we settled on some good pairings. After settling on what type of colours we wanted in the living room we have decided to opt for a neutral palette for the hallway settling on a Dulux "Cookie Crumble" (a kind of milky coffee colour) and Homebase "Vanilla Rose" (basically Magnolia).
As I found myself wandering around B&Q on Saturday afternoon, I thought about the article I had read only the evening before from Huffington Post, "What Happens At 27 That Forces People To Grow Up?" Its a great article and I highly recommend it. I remember the article detailing how being twenty-six and being twenty-seven are very different and I agree. At Twenty-Six it is expected that you’re not going to have your shit together, but it’s cool if you do. Its also not expected to be in a relationship, but also totally normal if you are getting married. At Twenty-Six it is close to being Twenty-Five enough that you can get away with falling out of the club blackout drunk and stumbling home with a Subway in one hand and your heels in the other. At Twenty-Seven, this is not wholly acceptable.
At Twenty-Seven I feel as though I have it together OK. Probably could do with some improvements, a little bit here and a little less there but altogether I think I have it together. I have a house. I have a new puppy (kinda) and my original pooch. I have a fiance. I get married next year and I have a good job. I think I have a good grip on life. Yeah I might get drunk at kids parties (circa just last week) and I may indeed forget my shit all the time, but you give me an afternoon, some paint and my Bae and we have a brand new hallway. Now granted some of the ceiling, has paint on it. Some of the carpet, has paint on it. Some of the other walls have paint on it. But with a little bit of touching up it will be like it was done by a professional. Sort of. Nevertheless, I am happy with my half-arsed plan. I now have a modern and more spacious feeling hallway and whilst Mr Warehouse and I will more likely than not need to send our "Save The Dates" by post, I have made a start on the redecorating of our new home.
As a child, I always found it incredibly boring walking around hardware stores, accompanying my parents on an arduous task to find all of the instruments they needed for their DIY Project. Whether it was kitchen tiles or flooring or new wardrobes I would always become irritable and bored out of my brain. And so I always reverted to what was much more fun normally annoying and pissing off my little brother, chasing him around the aisles or throwing soft furnishings at him. Obviously, this would annoy my parents no end and therefore turn into a massive family argument, normally ending with one of us sat in the car by ourselves as punishment. However, on the odd occasion, we were good walking around the store our parents would buy us ice cream from the van situated perfectly between the car park and the exit doors of the DIY store.
Despite me now being twenty-seven I disregarded the fact that I should be an adult and walk past said ice cream van with little regard for him or his menu. Instead opted for the biggest ice-cream I could find on the board with extra flake sprinkles and source something my parents would have never allowed and disregarded for a lolly or cheaper ice cream. But fuck that. I am closer to thirty than ever before and after my first DIY shop I feel I deserve a treat.
Mr Warehouse and I had just been shopping for our first decorating job in our new home. Our weekend plans had not started as such and had originally been reserved for making the "Save The Dates" we needed for our wedding which we were meant to be handing out this coming weekend at the annual family gathering the Warehouse's host. But alas I left all of my shit at work including my backup hard drive with all the documents on and since I have not backed them up on my home tablet stupidly I had no other plans.
With this in mind, Mr Warehouse suggested some DIY and maybe making a start on painting and decorating our hallway or living room. And so we found ourselves in the middle of B&Q searching out wallpaper and paint. However, since we are on a budget we thought it best to use the paint we were given a year ago to do up our flat. Mr Warehouse and I have been lucky to have friends and family as well as a few work colleagues who have donated different tins and buckets of paint and after a few mid-week paint swatches in several different shades from browns to greens to blues, greens and greys we settled on some good pairings. After settling on what type of colours we wanted in the living room we have decided to opt for a neutral palette for the hallway settling on a Dulux "Cookie Crumble" (a kind of milky coffee colour) and Homebase "Vanilla Rose" (basically Magnolia).
As I found myself wandering around B&Q on Saturday afternoon, I thought about the article I had read only the evening before from Huffington Post, "What Happens At 27 That Forces People To Grow Up?" Its a great article and I highly recommend it. I remember the article detailing how being twenty-six and being twenty-seven are very different and I agree. At Twenty-Six it is expected that you’re not going to have your shit together, but it’s cool if you do. Its also not expected to be in a relationship, but also totally normal if you are getting married. At Twenty-Six it is close to being Twenty-Five enough that you can get away with falling out of the club blackout drunk and stumbling home with a Subway in one hand and your heels in the other. At Twenty-Seven, this is not wholly acceptable.
At Twenty-Seven I feel as though I have it together OK. Probably could do with some improvements, a little bit here and a little less there but altogether I think I have it together. I have a house. I have a new puppy (kinda) and my original pooch. I have a fiance. I get married next year and I have a good job. I think I have a good grip on life. Yeah I might get drunk at kids parties (circa just last week) and I may indeed forget my shit all the time, but you give me an afternoon, some paint and my Bae and we have a brand new hallway. Now granted some of the ceiling, has paint on it. Some of the carpet, has paint on it. Some of the other walls have paint on it. But with a little bit of touching up it will be like it was done by a professional. Sort of. Nevertheless, I am happy with my half-arsed plan. I now have a modern and more spacious feeling hallway and whilst Mr Warehouse and I will more likely than not need to send our "Save The Dates" by post, I have made a start on the redecorating of our new home.
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Monday, 8 July 2019
Having children is like having a blender with no lid!
Heyy,
A week on since the sunburn incident, I would say I have fully recovered and my face is now back to normal, as it Mr Warehouse's legs and ankles. Annoying really as we could have really enjoyed our last few days of holiday in Malaga and our trip to Gibraltar, not to mention not cancelling the multitude of hair appointments, doctors appointments, counselling sessions or other things I had planned for that weekend we returned. It is nice now to be enjoying the summer sunshine and fine English weather.
Enjoying a garden party this weekend made me think more than ever about not only our impending wedding, less than a year and 3 months away now but also that of children. A family BBQ held in honour of my future nephew's birthday, I was surrounded by all ages, from 9-weeks to 90! In amongst them were a few familiar faces, many of which had stopped asking now about babies and instead were asking about the wedding, thank fuck.
But as I poured myself another glass of Magical Mystical unicorn gin, infused with the flavour marshmallows and candy-floss, sparkling and shining as it glittered in the sunlight, Mr Warehouse found me and questioned why my portion size kept growing. Laughing it off we chatted in the kitchen for a moment away from the madness of bouncy castles and kids.
"Doesn't this make you broody?" he asked coyly suggesting a family one day. It got me thinking again about what life would be like. I think about it more and more I suppose as I get older. Moreso in different situations such as drink-fuelled weekend parties and holidays in the sun where your face turns into a pork scratching?! These are the irresponsible antics I would have to give up, not to mention practically starving myself and the deprivation that will come with pregnancy.
All the good things in life and all the foods I love are off limits; Alcohol, Blue Cheese, Smoked Salmon, running Eggs, Rare steak, Carpaccio, Prawns, and did I say alcohol just to mention a few! I may as well eat baby food myself. At least though by the end of it all I will not only have a bundle of "joy" but also an excuse for those stretch marks other than enjoying the odd KFC too much.
A recent article on the Relate website goes through some of the thought-processes of starting a family. As with most people, the thought of starting up a family brings me out in a whole range of emotions from excitement and happiness through to total anxiety and fear, borderline terror! I, like many other twenty-somethings my age, imagine creating a happy, safe home for my children, giving them the childhood I had and the one I had wished for. This being said I agree with the websites opening statement. I am incredibly nervous about the idea of bringing a new life into this world - I can barely raise myself let alone thing about raising a child. Relate go on to explain that "Having a child is an experience that brings into sharp focus your core life beliefs, the values that you inherited from your childhood, your relationship with your parents, your hopes and dreams – and your anxieties." I now know that feeling like there's a whole host of different feelings are jostling for attention in your head is entirely normal. After all, it’s a big decision!
Obviously, I and Mr Warehouse are in a stable relationship so realistically it could work and should the worst-case scenario happen and I fell pregnant then we would just "deal with it" so as to speak, going with the flow and bring our child up outside of wedlock. Whilst it would not be the way things were meant to be in my head, I would still love that child nevertheless. I would like to be married first, more for the commitment to me as I would feel that if you can commit to me with no real permanent ties or links then you are an appropriate person who I could bring up a child with, especially when I already have major issues with commitment and abandonment already.
It goes without saying that financially speaking, kids are costly. Having a baby is an expensive business and I only know this from the few trips I have had wandering around the children's section with friends or family searching for baby grows and muslin cloths. Relate make valid points saying "It’s important you make sure you're going to be able to afford all of the things you’d need to raise a child. This includes things like good, clothes and childcare – but may also need to take into account the expense of moving into a bigger property too".
All in all, I think that one day I would like children and my worries of not being an adequate mom have got better, but I doubt if they will ever disappear entirely. That being said though I know I am in good hands as Mr Warehouse's parental background is also littered with unhappy memories and unpleasantries. I know that my fiance is very child-friendly, whereas I may have a little bit of learning to do. Plenty of time before that though ... Chin Chin!
A week on since the sunburn incident, I would say I have fully recovered and my face is now back to normal, as it Mr Warehouse's legs and ankles. Annoying really as we could have really enjoyed our last few days of holiday in Malaga and our trip to Gibraltar, not to mention not cancelling the multitude of hair appointments, doctors appointments, counselling sessions or other things I had planned for that weekend we returned. It is nice now to be enjoying the summer sunshine and fine English weather.
Enjoying a garden party this weekend made me think more than ever about not only our impending wedding, less than a year and 3 months away now but also that of children. A family BBQ held in honour of my future nephew's birthday, I was surrounded by all ages, from 9-weeks to 90! In amongst them were a few familiar faces, many of which had stopped asking now about babies and instead were asking about the wedding, thank fuck.
But as I poured myself another glass of Magical Mystical unicorn gin, infused with the flavour marshmallows and candy-floss, sparkling and shining as it glittered in the sunlight, Mr Warehouse found me and questioned why my portion size kept growing. Laughing it off we chatted in the kitchen for a moment away from the madness of bouncy castles and kids.
"Doesn't this make you broody?" he asked coyly suggesting a family one day. It got me thinking again about what life would be like. I think about it more and more I suppose as I get older. Moreso in different situations such as drink-fuelled weekend parties and holidays in the sun where your face turns into a pork scratching?! These are the irresponsible antics I would have to give up, not to mention practically starving myself and the deprivation that will come with pregnancy.
All the good things in life and all the foods I love are off limits; Alcohol, Blue Cheese, Smoked Salmon, running Eggs, Rare steak, Carpaccio, Prawns, and did I say alcohol just to mention a few! I may as well eat baby food myself. At least though by the end of it all I will not only have a bundle of "joy" but also an excuse for those stretch marks other than enjoying the odd KFC too much.
A recent article on the Relate website goes through some of the thought-processes of starting a family. As with most people, the thought of starting up a family brings me out in a whole range of emotions from excitement and happiness through to total anxiety and fear, borderline terror! I, like many other twenty-somethings my age, imagine creating a happy, safe home for my children, giving them the childhood I had and the one I had wished for. This being said I agree with the websites opening statement. I am incredibly nervous about the idea of bringing a new life into this world - I can barely raise myself let alone thing about raising a child. Relate go on to explain that "Having a child is an experience that brings into sharp focus your core life beliefs, the values that you inherited from your childhood, your relationship with your parents, your hopes and dreams – and your anxieties." I now know that feeling like there's a whole host of different feelings are jostling for attention in your head is entirely normal. After all, it’s a big decision!
Obviously, I and Mr Warehouse are in a stable relationship so realistically it could work and should the worst-case scenario happen and I fell pregnant then we would just "deal with it" so as to speak, going with the flow and bring our child up outside of wedlock. Whilst it would not be the way things were meant to be in my head, I would still love that child nevertheless. I would like to be married first, more for the commitment to me as I would feel that if you can commit to me with no real permanent ties or links then you are an appropriate person who I could bring up a child with, especially when I already have major issues with commitment and abandonment already.
It goes without saying that financially speaking, kids are costly. Having a baby is an expensive business and I only know this from the few trips I have had wandering around the children's section with friends or family searching for baby grows and muslin cloths. Relate make valid points saying "It’s important you make sure you're going to be able to afford all of the things you’d need to raise a child. This includes things like good, clothes and childcare – but may also need to take into account the expense of moving into a bigger property too".
All in all, I think that one day I would like children and my worries of not being an adequate mom have got better, but I doubt if they will ever disappear entirely. That being said though I know I am in good hands as Mr Warehouse's parental background is also littered with unhappy memories and unpleasantries. I know that my fiance is very child-friendly, whereas I may have a little bit of learning to do. Plenty of time before that though ... Chin Chin!
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Monday, 3 April 2017
The Story of a Generation Robbed ...
Heyy,
Sat on my second hand-sofa, in my cheap one-bed ground floor flat I struggled to hold back the tears and be happy for the other person on the other end of the phone. After the death of the Landlord, my Dad's girlfriend had recently found out that the property where they both live is being put on the market. With both of them being over fifty, the likelihood of them getting a mortgage was slim and renting would only solve the problem short-term until they retire, and then what? They had both spent the last few weeks stressing over where they were going to be living in a few months time. With some savings they were in a sticky situation but at least they had some savings, maybe not enough for what they wanted, but it was a start, something myself, nor Mr. Warehouse had not even managed to achieve yet.
Apparently somewhere between the beginning and the end of last month, my father had found enough money for a large deposit on a two-bedroom new built property in an affluent area of outer Bedford. Listening to his excitement yesterday evening I really tried so hard to be supportive and what a "good daughter" should do in that instance. But it was hard, especially when only weeks ago I was explaining about mine and Mr. Warehouse's recent meeting with a mortgage adviser who has pretty much disappeared off the face of the planet since he found out we had no savings. At the time I spoke to my Dad about it in deep meaningful conversation and he mentioned to me on several occasions that he would love to help me out financially but he simply couldn't as he didn't have the money; A phrase which was common when I had difficulties involving financial cost, even when I hadn't asked him for anything.
Now I am not ignorant or silly to know that when all this was happening, my father, and admittedly his girlfriend, were faced with some hard decisions and tough challenges. Stuck in a situation far worse than mine and with only a decade or two left before retiring their options were limited. So in that respects I fully understand them using the money stashed away from my parents divorce to fund a bright and colourful new home. Either support myself and my girlfriend by funding our own home together and long-term securing our futures together, or gift the only child of two I speak to the once in the chance lifetime of owning her own home and getting onto the property ladder once and for all.
Of course it is a difficult situation but to be told one thing and then a matter of moments later to find out another is emotional-fuckery. If I am brutally honest I'm really having a hard time processing the lies he had told me previously about how he was not able to help out with the money, both in years gone by and in more recent times, all along knowing that he had enough for generous deposit on a swanky new home. Heartbroken I listened on to the tall-tales and arduous task of choosing tiles and kitchen cupboard doors for his off-plan bought apartment. Welling up I ended the conversation unhappy and on the brink of tears. This wasn't fair.
As detailed in my previous post (Wish I Was Born In The 80's!) I feel like a robbed generation that has to beg, borrow and steal their way through life, just to make ends meet. The world has moved on and whilst we have better technology, medical advances and new threats to worry about the days of being in a job for the rest of your working life are gone, as are 100% mortgages and a loaf of bread the would cost under fifty-pence. Life now for myself and other millennial's whose parents didn't start them off in life with a Mickey Mouse Trust fund for Eton begins at the bottom. Virtually no chance of getting into University for all the other places have been taken by students who have money and come from a better background to I. Ergo the rest of us muddle our way though our late-teens and early-twenties trying to get by on a pittance of a wage, all because of the generations before us.
Now by no stretch am I poor or even on the breadline; Mr. Warehouse and I have nice meals out, go on holidays or mini weekends away and are always treating each other to nice presents on birthdays and Christmas. And maybe that is our downfall for if we were not spending this on each other then we could plough it into a house of our own, but the simple fact is that it would take close to a decade to save and in that time I want my life to progress further than a poky flat in the centre of town. I want to get married and have children in that sort of time frame and I can hardly bring up a family when I am trying to scrape every penny I have into a Help-To-Buy ISA.
I get that my Father couldn't have split his savings with me, although would have been very nice, it would have practically made no sense what-so-ever, so I do understand his actions, I really do, I just don't understand the porkie-pies he told to try and protect his small fortune and it s for that reason that this news will be a hard pill for me to swallow.
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Sat on my second hand-sofa, in my cheap one-bed ground floor flat I struggled to hold back the tears and be happy for the other person on the other end of the phone. After the death of the Landlord, my Dad's girlfriend had recently found out that the property where they both live is being put on the market. With both of them being over fifty, the likelihood of them getting a mortgage was slim and renting would only solve the problem short-term until they retire, and then what? They had both spent the last few weeks stressing over where they were going to be living in a few months time. With some savings they were in a sticky situation but at least they had some savings, maybe not enough for what they wanted, but it was a start, something myself, nor Mr. Warehouse had not even managed to achieve yet.
Apparently somewhere between the beginning and the end of last month, my father had found enough money for a large deposit on a two-bedroom new built property in an affluent area of outer Bedford. Listening to his excitement yesterday evening I really tried so hard to be supportive and what a "good daughter" should do in that instance. But it was hard, especially when only weeks ago I was explaining about mine and Mr. Warehouse's recent meeting with a mortgage adviser who has pretty much disappeared off the face of the planet since he found out we had no savings. At the time I spoke to my Dad about it in deep meaningful conversation and he mentioned to me on several occasions that he would love to help me out financially but he simply couldn't as he didn't have the money; A phrase which was common when I had difficulties involving financial cost, even when I hadn't asked him for anything.
Now I am not ignorant or silly to know that when all this was happening, my father, and admittedly his girlfriend, were faced with some hard decisions and tough challenges. Stuck in a situation far worse than mine and with only a decade or two left before retiring their options were limited. So in that respects I fully understand them using the money stashed away from my parents divorce to fund a bright and colourful new home. Either support myself and my girlfriend by funding our own home together and long-term securing our futures together, or gift the only child of two I speak to the once in the chance lifetime of owning her own home and getting onto the property ladder once and for all.
Of course it is a difficult situation but to be told one thing and then a matter of moments later to find out another is emotional-fuckery. If I am brutally honest I'm really having a hard time processing the lies he had told me previously about how he was not able to help out with the money, both in years gone by and in more recent times, all along knowing that he had enough for generous deposit on a swanky new home. Heartbroken I listened on to the tall-tales and arduous task of choosing tiles and kitchen cupboard doors for his off-plan bought apartment. Welling up I ended the conversation unhappy and on the brink of tears. This wasn't fair.
As detailed in my previous post (Wish I Was Born In The 80's!) I feel like a robbed generation that has to beg, borrow and steal their way through life, just to make ends meet. The world has moved on and whilst we have better technology, medical advances and new threats to worry about the days of being in a job for the rest of your working life are gone, as are 100% mortgages and a loaf of bread the would cost under fifty-pence. Life now for myself and other millennial's whose parents didn't start them off in life with a Mickey Mouse Trust fund for Eton begins at the bottom. Virtually no chance of getting into University for all the other places have been taken by students who have money and come from a better background to I. Ergo the rest of us muddle our way though our late-teens and early-twenties trying to get by on a pittance of a wage, all because of the generations before us.
Now by no stretch am I poor or even on the breadline; Mr. Warehouse and I have nice meals out, go on holidays or mini weekends away and are always treating each other to nice presents on birthdays and Christmas. And maybe that is our downfall for if we were not spending this on each other then we could plough it into a house of our own, but the simple fact is that it would take close to a decade to save and in that time I want my life to progress further than a poky flat in the centre of town. I want to get married and have children in that sort of time frame and I can hardly bring up a family when I am trying to scrape every penny I have into a Help-To-Buy ISA.
I get that my Father couldn't have split his savings with me, although would have been very nice, it would have practically made no sense what-so-ever, so I do understand his actions, I really do, I just don't understand the porkie-pies he told to try and protect his small fortune and it s for that reason that this news will be a hard pill for me to swallow.
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Monday, 27 February 2017
Wish I Was Born In The 80's!
Good Evening,
Standing in the lounge at my Dad's Girlfriends I was more than eager to get home and start searching but in the back of my mind I knew that what was being proposed was simply a fantasy for my generation. Everything was much easier in the 80's with high wages and low costs of living and banks offering money to everyone! I'm talking about the property ladder and the fact that whilst a lot of my friends have no real hope at all of even renting somewhere with rent soaring in the UK to new highs, making most places in and out of the towns near on impossible to find the money for, there are always a few that don't realise just how good they have got it.
Firstly there is the deposit, and even with the best mortgages on the market asking young people looking to buy their first home, even 5% is a big ask for people who are on some of the lowest incomes in society. The average two-bed house in Bedford rental wise anyway is close to £850 per calendar month and with this comes the absolute heartache that you cannot even begin to save for your first home because your paying into someone else's with the extortionate high monthly bond. Saving the value you would need even on a cheap home, probably worse condition and location than your currently living in would take nearly 3 years for myself and Mr. Warehouse and even then it would be nothing near what we want or dream of.
One of the only ways that myself, Mr. Warehouse or any of my friends would ever own our own home would be if we came into the money in some way, either winning the lottery, getting a big payout from compensation or dare I say, it having someone close to them to pop their clogs. It sounds awful really, but if your not from a rich or at least middle class family, you will have not a chance in hell to save for a deposit. Some got their money from family members or the bank of Mom and Dad, but that is just not possible, at least not for Mr. Warehouse and I. Between us we only have the one parent theoretically and even they individually couldn't help with the vast sums of money that is needed for a deposit now-days.
A saving grace for most of my friends is that they either still live at home, that majority of them at least, or they have bagged themselves a council house paying reduced rent in comparison to the rest of us. And hey, if you can get away with it and live with the 'rents whilst saving for a pad of your own or better still save the money that would otherwise go to a greedy landlord then you go guys! I would suggest doing it until your able to do it no more, because living alone or even with a boyfriend or other person is hard. The bills are expensive, the forms are sometimes complex for different companies and the countless things that need to be shelled out for are seemingly never-ending.
But on the plus side you have your own little space and for those that have gained accommodation through the local councils you are in the best position. Something goes wrong, you get the council and their teams to come fix it and all whilst paying much less than the same property on the private rental market. It means you have the opportunity to save, even if its a little, so that one day you wont be reliant on the state. But the thing with Britain is that since my parent generation, council houses and government funded homes have dwindled to virtually none. Only the most neediest (or clever enough to swindle the system) get a home and this leaves such a gap that is only getting bigger with the years. Soon I would not be surprised if people are all scrabbling over a pokey studio apartment for nearly £1000 per calendar month on the open market.
More needs to be done to protect people who rent from sky-high rent, toppling agency fees and unscrupulous landlords who are nothing but a drain on society. I have been very lucky that my landlord, whom I have been renting from for nearly five years comes and fixes things when they need doing (most of the time), is easy-going and always helpful. Some people aren't so lucky and I have been on the end of a few mean, thoughtless landlords and agents in my time.
It all just seems so un-affordable at the moment and with Mr. Warehouse looking to our future more than ever with holidays, celebrations and hopefully a move at the end of this year to a proper house with a garden (and FUCKING PARKING!!!) I couldn't think of a better time to start getting some financial advise for the future. Maybe one day I can have that picket fence and suburban, red-brick castle of mine!
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Standing in the lounge at my Dad's Girlfriends I was more than eager to get home and start searching but in the back of my mind I knew that what was being proposed was simply a fantasy for my generation. Everything was much easier in the 80's with high wages and low costs of living and banks offering money to everyone! I'm talking about the property ladder and the fact that whilst a lot of my friends have no real hope at all of even renting somewhere with rent soaring in the UK to new highs, making most places in and out of the towns near on impossible to find the money for, there are always a few that don't realise just how good they have got it.
Firstly there is the deposit, and even with the best mortgages on the market asking young people looking to buy their first home, even 5% is a big ask for people who are on some of the lowest incomes in society. The average two-bed house in Bedford rental wise anyway is close to £850 per calendar month and with this comes the absolute heartache that you cannot even begin to save for your first home because your paying into someone else's with the extortionate high monthly bond. Saving the value you would need even on a cheap home, probably worse condition and location than your currently living in would take nearly 3 years for myself and Mr. Warehouse and even then it would be nothing near what we want or dream of.
One of the only ways that myself, Mr. Warehouse or any of my friends would ever own our own home would be if we came into the money in some way, either winning the lottery, getting a big payout from compensation or dare I say, it having someone close to them to pop their clogs. It sounds awful really, but if your not from a rich or at least middle class family, you will have not a chance in hell to save for a deposit. Some got their money from family members or the bank of Mom and Dad, but that is just not possible, at least not for Mr. Warehouse and I. Between us we only have the one parent theoretically and even they individually couldn't help with the vast sums of money that is needed for a deposit now-days.
A saving grace for most of my friends is that they either still live at home, that majority of them at least, or they have bagged themselves a council house paying reduced rent in comparison to the rest of us. And hey, if you can get away with it and live with the 'rents whilst saving for a pad of your own or better still save the money that would otherwise go to a greedy landlord then you go guys! I would suggest doing it until your able to do it no more, because living alone or even with a boyfriend or other person is hard. The bills are expensive, the forms are sometimes complex for different companies and the countless things that need to be shelled out for are seemingly never-ending.
But on the plus side you have your own little space and for those that have gained accommodation through the local councils you are in the best position. Something goes wrong, you get the council and their teams to come fix it and all whilst paying much less than the same property on the private rental market. It means you have the opportunity to save, even if its a little, so that one day you wont be reliant on the state. But the thing with Britain is that since my parent generation, council houses and government funded homes have dwindled to virtually none. Only the most neediest (or clever enough to swindle the system) get a home and this leaves such a gap that is only getting bigger with the years. Soon I would not be surprised if people are all scrabbling over a pokey studio apartment for nearly £1000 per calendar month on the open market.
More needs to be done to protect people who rent from sky-high rent, toppling agency fees and unscrupulous landlords who are nothing but a drain on society. I have been very lucky that my landlord, whom I have been renting from for nearly five years comes and fixes things when they need doing (most of the time), is easy-going and always helpful. Some people aren't so lucky and I have been on the end of a few mean, thoughtless landlords and agents in my time.
It all just seems so un-affordable at the moment and with Mr. Warehouse looking to our future more than ever with holidays, celebrations and hopefully a move at the end of this year to a proper house with a garden (and FUCKING PARKING!!!) I couldn't think of a better time to start getting some financial advise for the future. Maybe one day I can have that picket fence and suburban, red-brick castle of mine!
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Monday, 29 February 2016
Sleeping Like A Baby
Hiya,
And so, a week on from Dublin and Southern Ireland's trip ending, the holiday blues have set in and already I am desperate to start planning another holiday, especially with work friends (I say friends with some people in mind being the loosest of such) off to France and Italy in the months and one colleague in Paris at the moment. Yes I am severely jealous and I don't care! I suppose I would have had to end up learning to drive at some point, I do not really fancy being a bus-wanker for the rest of my days on this earth! And besides, at least then I could bundle Mr. Warehouse and his puppy into the car of a Sunday afternoon and go out for the day, seaside's, forests and day trips all at our disposal once I can drive! But sadly for that to happen I shall have to sacrifice a few holidays in order for that to happen.
Getting back to public-transport-hostage life as it is now though, this weekend itself has been relatively hum-drum and between finishing work on Friday and returning to my desk it has been spent mostly in a onesie and with puppy cuddles at Momma Warehouse's home in Marston Mortaine. A few countryside walks and lots of snacking was just the way I wanted to spend my weekend before pay-day when I am too broke to pay for life! One thing that did brighten my day was looking after Mr. Warehouse's youngest nephew. At a little over eighteen-months old he is probably, no, certainly the most adorable thing you have ever seen and his impression of an elephant is something to behold!
Now most of you that know me on a personal level will say that I am not a maternal person in any sense of the word - I mean seriously where would I have got it from even if I did have some?! In fact my lack of nurturing instinct is a constant running joke with Miss Tweedle-Dee and Miss Tweedle-Dumb and in all fairness next to them I would be the first one to throw my hands up in the air and run away from any interaction with small children and babies. In fact I recoil in horror when someone offers me up their new born and expects some sort of compliment in return for their swarking red bundle of scream and poop. Quite frankly most babies to me all look the same and whilst I would like to say that there is a definitive answer and to agree with the rest of the broody women in the room that "Yes he has got your great grandad's nose" I just cant see it and refuse to tell all newborns apart.
I think of the idea of children is a good one, you know, keep the world going with new generations and all and also I suppose sex is good for making you happy and keeping you thin (Obviously not having enough sex at present since I have gained several pounds in the last month - Mental note to make more effort in the Bedroom department) although for me the idea of children, my own especially, is that they pop out at around six months old, cute and fat with not bloody guts and gunk on them from labour and with a cheeky few words or actions in their remit. Unfortunately I doubt motherhood is like that, but I suppose there is always adoption ... I joke, I joke!
But anyway, I digress, So here Mr. Warehouse and I are, looking after little baby (*insert cute elephant noise from said toddler*) and soon enough its time to say goodbye to his Mommy and Daddy as they were off out for a nice meal whilst we babysat.
As I started to distract Baby with yet another round of 'This Little Piggy ... ', the phrase "Cuddles Dadda" were asked for a more than a few times before Mommy and Daddy made a quick getaway to the car. Now this got me thinking, if I was in their shoes - Could I put my son down and leave him whilst I went out for a meal?! The direct answer is yes, and of course, maybe rather harshly, I would jump at a chance. Having a normal adult conversation that doesn't centre around Iggle-Piggle and not having to make air-plane/choo-choo noises to eat something with a spoon or fork would be the idea of parental bliss, something childless-me probably takes for granted along with lay-in's and nights out on the lash!
A few mind-numbingly unbearable moments of In The Night Garden later, Mr. Warehouse and I decided it was time for bed and strangely letting me take charge I was instructed to take Baby upstairs, give him his bottle and read him a couple of stories before switching on a calming night-light and leaving the room. Doing it by the book and reading some informative stories of how three little kittens like to have their bedtime routine, it was time to leave the room and let the baby cry it out. Feeling awful I knew that Mr. Warehouse felt worse just by the look on his face. Mr. Warehouse's Baby Nephew had only just learned to try and say his name (after smashing mine first go a few weeks ago) and now all he kept crying and screaming from his little box room was for his Uncle's Cuddles. Heartbreaking as that was we needed to give Baby time to self soothe. Seven-minutes of sitting with the TV on mute, watching on the baby monitor this little sleeping bag of fury roll and screech around the cot I took it upon myself to go back in. Scooping the little monster into my arms I panicked, alone and unequipped in a dark room, Mr. Warehouse had chose to stay downstairs. As I took a seat on the edge of the rocking chair and gently rocked back and fourth, soothing Baby with my Shh's and letting him drink from the bottle again he was soon dozing off to sleep. grizzling a few times as I went to put him down in the cot I rocked him again until he was eventually on his one-way train to the land of nod.
Quietly slipping down the stairs I felt like a new Mom, weird I know. But what was weirder was that a few moments later I was brought to tears as Mr. Warehouse congratulated me and thanked me for being able to deal with the situation and succeeding in putting my first baby to sleep ever. Thinking about my lack of role model I could feel myself welling up inside and even before my beloved boyfriend had the chance to second that I would make a fantastic mother, hot salty tears were streaming my cheeks. Feeling silly he pulled me in for a cuddle and we spent the rest of the night in a "lets pretend we're parents" style, although without all the nappy changing, toe-stubbing baby toys and milky-sick duties.
Relieved to be back to my normal one-bedroom flat of untidiness and chaos, I am glad that I did not, like many, many of my friends, have children early as I think I would have more than regretted it in the long run. Right now I am happy to be a cool 'Cuz' to my three boisterous cousins and to Mr. Warehouses Niece and Nephews I can be the equally cool 'Uncles Girlfriend', despite being constantly referred to as Aunty on more than one occasion!
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
And so, a week on from Dublin and Southern Ireland's trip ending, the holiday blues have set in and already I am desperate to start planning another holiday, especially with work friends (I say friends with some people in mind being the loosest of such) off to France and Italy in the months and one colleague in Paris at the moment. Yes I am severely jealous and I don't care! I suppose I would have had to end up learning to drive at some point, I do not really fancy being a bus-wanker for the rest of my days on this earth! And besides, at least then I could bundle Mr. Warehouse and his puppy into the car of a Sunday afternoon and go out for the day, seaside's, forests and day trips all at our disposal once I can drive! But sadly for that to happen I shall have to sacrifice a few holidays in order for that to happen.
Getting back to public-transport-hostage life as it is now though, this weekend itself has been relatively hum-drum and between finishing work on Friday and returning to my desk it has been spent mostly in a onesie and with puppy cuddles at Momma Warehouse's home in Marston Mortaine. A few countryside walks and lots of snacking was just the way I wanted to spend my weekend before pay-day when I am too broke to pay for life! One thing that did brighten my day was looking after Mr. Warehouse's youngest nephew. At a little over eighteen-months old he is probably, no, certainly the most adorable thing you have ever seen and his impression of an elephant is something to behold!
Now most of you that know me on a personal level will say that I am not a maternal person in any sense of the word - I mean seriously where would I have got it from even if I did have some?! In fact my lack of nurturing instinct is a constant running joke with Miss Tweedle-Dee and Miss Tweedle-Dumb and in all fairness next to them I would be the first one to throw my hands up in the air and run away from any interaction with small children and babies. In fact I recoil in horror when someone offers me up their new born and expects some sort of compliment in return for their swarking red bundle of scream and poop. Quite frankly most babies to me all look the same and whilst I would like to say that there is a definitive answer and to agree with the rest of the broody women in the room that "Yes he has got your great grandad's nose" I just cant see it and refuse to tell all newborns apart.
I think of the idea of children is a good one, you know, keep the world going with new generations and all and also I suppose sex is good for making you happy and keeping you thin (Obviously not having enough sex at present since I have gained several pounds in the last month - Mental note to make more effort in the Bedroom department) although for me the idea of children, my own especially, is that they pop out at around six months old, cute and fat with not bloody guts and gunk on them from labour and with a cheeky few words or actions in their remit. Unfortunately I doubt motherhood is like that, but I suppose there is always adoption ... I joke, I joke!
But anyway, I digress, So here Mr. Warehouse and I are, looking after little baby (*insert cute elephant noise from said toddler*) and soon enough its time to say goodbye to his Mommy and Daddy as they were off out for a nice meal whilst we babysat.
As I started to distract Baby with yet another round of 'This Little Piggy ... ', the phrase "Cuddles Dadda" were asked for a more than a few times before Mommy and Daddy made a quick getaway to the car. Now this got me thinking, if I was in their shoes - Could I put my son down and leave him whilst I went out for a meal?! The direct answer is yes, and of course, maybe rather harshly, I would jump at a chance. Having a normal adult conversation that doesn't centre around Iggle-Piggle and not having to make air-plane/choo-choo noises to eat something with a spoon or fork would be the idea of parental bliss, something childless-me probably takes for granted along with lay-in's and nights out on the lash!
A few mind-numbingly unbearable moments of In The Night Garden later, Mr. Warehouse and I decided it was time for bed and strangely letting me take charge I was instructed to take Baby upstairs, give him his bottle and read him a couple of stories before switching on a calming night-light and leaving the room. Doing it by the book and reading some informative stories of how three little kittens like to have their bedtime routine, it was time to leave the room and let the baby cry it out. Feeling awful I knew that Mr. Warehouse felt worse just by the look on his face. Mr. Warehouse's Baby Nephew had only just learned to try and say his name (after smashing mine first go a few weeks ago) and now all he kept crying and screaming from his little box room was for his Uncle's Cuddles. Heartbreaking as that was we needed to give Baby time to self soothe. Seven-minutes of sitting with the TV on mute, watching on the baby monitor this little sleeping bag of fury roll and screech around the cot I took it upon myself to go back in. Scooping the little monster into my arms I panicked, alone and unequipped in a dark room, Mr. Warehouse had chose to stay downstairs. As I took a seat on the edge of the rocking chair and gently rocked back and fourth, soothing Baby with my Shh's and letting him drink from the bottle again he was soon dozing off to sleep. grizzling a few times as I went to put him down in the cot I rocked him again until he was eventually on his one-way train to the land of nod.
Quietly slipping down the stairs I felt like a new Mom, weird I know. But what was weirder was that a few moments later I was brought to tears as Mr. Warehouse congratulated me and thanked me for being able to deal with the situation and succeeding in putting my first baby to sleep ever. Thinking about my lack of role model I could feel myself welling up inside and even before my beloved boyfriend had the chance to second that I would make a fantastic mother, hot salty tears were streaming my cheeks. Feeling silly he pulled me in for a cuddle and we spent the rest of the night in a "lets pretend we're parents" style, although without all the nappy changing, toe-stubbing baby toys and milky-sick duties.
Relieved to be back to my normal one-bedroom flat of untidiness and chaos, I am glad that I did not, like many, many of my friends, have children early as I think I would have more than regretted it in the long run. Right now I am happy to be a cool 'Cuz' to my three boisterous cousins and to Mr. Warehouses Niece and Nephews I can be the equally cool 'Uncles Girlfriend', despite being constantly referred to as Aunty on more than one occasion!
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Monday, 24 March 2014
A Mothers Love: Part I
Bloggers Note: I have recently decided to start a thing going whereby if you yourself have a 'Trial or Tribulation' that I can help with then feel free to drop me a free and fully confidential message by popping it on a mini form in the right-hand sidebar or email me at: Abbbey4@gmail.com :) xx
Evening everyone,
Parents. You can't choose them can you. Once young people themselves they become known to you only as Mom or Dad. And every year we take forty-eight hours out of the year to celebrate and appreciate them as the people who taught us everything we know now. As some of you may know I love my father till the ends of the earth, but what many of you probably don't know and have maybe wondered why my mother is hardly mentioned. Well now I feel is the right time to tell you why; And just in time for Mothers Day!
The year was 1991. The first Starbucks opened in LA, the World Wide Web is announced to the world and Ötzi the Iceman is found in the Alps. But over eight-hundred miles away from the mountain region that would soon bear my initials a little miracle was happening and at just gone lunch time at a busy maternity ward in Bedfordshire a baby girl arrived. I was born to a soldier and his wife, and as I was handed to my first-time parents I opened my tiny eyes to the world making my father cry with joy. And to think that he nearly missed my late arrival for a bacon sandwich! Growing up was as to be expected in a military family and I always knew from a young age that things weren't like other families. My father would be away for long periods of time often missing important events like Birthdays and Christmas'. But I knew that he was needed elsewhere, helping out in war zones like Northern Ireland and the first Gulf war of the early 1990's and then again in later years when dictatorship in the Middle East ruled again. This left me alone with my mother alot of the time to which the majority of the time was pleasant but certainly not a time where I would look forward to being in her constant company as I always felt inside that there wasn't anything special shared between us.
The arrival of my brother in early summer of 1994 was a welcomed edition to our little family and as a result we moved to a larger family home in the quiet suburbs, close to family and soon to be life-long friends. With my fair hair and porcelain skin I was the apple of my fathers eye and a cutie no grandma could refuse, but with a new baby boy in the family I felt a little cast out and with this the feelings of discontent my mother emulated started to breed. Even as we got older, I knew that something wasn't right, the way she bonded with my baby brother was different to my experiences. As my Dad was away alot on weekends with the Army, he was always under the impression that the wife had something wonderful planned for the children whilst Daddy was away. On numerous Friday evenings my Dad was fed plans of girlie shopping trips and mother-daughter craft days before he went away and on numerous Sunday afternoon's he would be served up lies of what never happened. Instead, Mother would always take my brother shopping or on a trip out somewhere to visit friends for coffee whilst I was left at home alone, watching TV or browsing that new thing called The Internet!
Approaching adult-hood hormones ravaged my pre-teenage body and I became more aware of myself and my personality. I started listening to rock music, experimenting with fashion, make-up and hair-styles and generally rebelling against my Christian upbringing. At times I found myself completely intolerable to my mothers attitude, her mood swings and her manipulative games. As a teenager I found solace in music and socialising with friends but even that she tried to snuff out always cementing unreasonable curfews for no reason and finding constant chores to do around the house. Looking back I can see no reason for her acting in this way but what I do recall is the readiness for an confrontation and the argumentative streak. So many times my mom would promise me a weekend of fun and activities to bond over and so many times there would be a reason not to follow through. One day I think I just gave up hope and as a result stopped believing what I was told. Starting secondary school a hatred began a slow simmer.
I came home from one of my first weeks of middle school to find my mother home from work, crying and screaming at me to watch the TV. In a panic and not wanting to upset her further I sat on the floor of my childhood living room. It was the first moment I think we had spent together in a while and we watched silently, both captivated by what we were witnessing unfolding. The horror that we saw, the devastation that it caused and the inevitable consequences it would have on our family. The date was September eleventh 2001. I was less than a fortnight away from my eleventh birthday.
A year or so later, a crisp, brown envelope landed on our door mat that was to alter life as I knew it forever. The second Gulf war had been in progress for a few years but now with Saddam Hussain's power growing by the minute, Great Britain stepped in and after nearly all his working life in training for this moment my Dad left for war. People ask me all the time what it was like. Truth is I was accustom to it already. He had never been there on my birthday as long as I can remember apart from maybe one or two and had always been away for military exercises and camps so for me as a girl with a father in the Army I knew that someday the time would come that all the practise he had done in preparing for war would finally happen. Standing there at the huge green gates of my school with my beloved old man crouched in front of me in his combats a crowd of excited school children gathered a few yards behind me desperate to get a glimpse of my hero's attire. Without saying anything of importance I was told that he loved me and then left. Back to my classmates, I sobbed silent tears knowing that I might not ever see my father alive again and that all to easily he could come home dressed in nothing more than a white bag and dog-tags.
With my strong maternal instinct and a personality I hoped would brighten the darkness we were all in as a family but to no avail as my mother sunk into a fast and heavy depression leaving her completely incapable of caring for her young children and leaving me to step into the shoes. I cooked and cleaned, sorted out the washing and made sure that my brother was always dressed ready for school with a full packed-lunch for the day ahead. I ironed the clothes and sorted the bills into piles of ones that could wait and ones that could not. Looking back I feel that this is where I taught myself to create a facade of perfection, despite the distance from truth it was. After dealing with depression at the time and also later on in my life, those memories are one of the fewer things I don't begrudge my mother for. I can't imagine how hard it must have been however I feel that despite all of that the role of a parent should always take centre-stage and for motherhood never to be put on a back burner. It wasn't until a few years later after speaking to friends and family that not only was my mother in a dark place but I too was in the grips of my first ever experience with depression without even realising it. Shut off from family and friends I think it was during that time I left my childhood behind and became who I am today.
After nearly a years tour a man returned home to his family, a mere shell of what he once was. After a few hours with him snuggled on his lap as I always had, I knew he would never be the same man who left me at the school gates. Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder had stolen life from him as he knew it constantly keeping him on edge. I remember once being in the car driving with him when a swift crack of a passing branch caught one of the window's. Without thinking my Dad frantically started searching for something, patting down the doors and the area around the drivers seat. He was looking for something. He was looking for his gun. War had turned my beloved Papa into a nervous wreck jumping at any crack, pop or bang. They talk of the hundred-mile stare and even to this day I can catch my Dad doing it. Just thinking, remembering, haunting himself with images of war and conflict. He has never spoken about what he saw or experienced but I cannot imagine that there would be much good to tell.
Life deteriorated after that and as a family we separated, going off to do our own thing and only meeting around a dinner table at night for dinner whereby nothing of much importance would be said. Laughter rarely happened during those years and as the frequency of arguments between my parents escalated I was aware that their marriage would never last. At twelve I started to notice a huge distance between my mother and father. My mother had a new lease of life and a bounce in her step. I started to notice that mother would spend longer looking in the mirror; Prettying herself, doing her make-up, sorting her hair and generally making more of an effort. But this was not for my Dad's pleasure. No. She would venture out of an evening starting off once a week, only to be increased as the years passed by, to go for coffee or drinks with friends, to go to meetings that never existed and see friends she hardly ever saw. Watching helplessly as my Dad slipped deeper into PTSD but desperately clinging onto the marriage by bring gifts of chocolate, flowers and other romantic gestures to the table that was otherwise empty apart from himself. It was clear how much my father loved his wife of over a decade but it seemed she had other things in her sights, including men.
For a few years whilst I was at high school my parents tried to put a brave face on and pretend but the cracks were still there and the gaps were getting bigger. By the time I had finished my exams and graduated from compulsory education it was plain to see that it was the beginning of the end. The torture of watching my dad struggle with the uncertain faithfulness of his wife was sometimes unbearable for me also and being old enough to understand and listen and watch the story unfold was all the more eye-opening for me as a teenager. Although life and boys had somewhat passed me by it wouldn't be long before I was attracting the affections of a Rugby playing High school student now know as Mr. Ginge, my first ever proper boyfriend! But less than a week into what would be a year long relationship with Mr. Ginge I was told the news no child wants to hear.
In true Mother style I found out about my parents divorce in the car during a blazing argument with her. Turned out my father had an affair when I was nine and the marriage had never recovered although I have always said that the affair was not the only thing that contributed to the marriage's demise but also the fact that we were a military family whereby my father was away alot and also went to war, coupled with my mother's fleeting mid-week escapades all contributed towards the broken home statistic I found myself in. I still remember her screaming to me in her shrill tones and then quietening her voice just enough to make the impact of her words all the more earth-shattering. "Well your father and I are getting a divorce!" She said matter-of-factly in a abnormally calm voice. It was then that my world crumbled. Without my father there I knew life would not be worth living. What was I going to do without him to take the edge of her cruel demeanour? Who was going to save me from her wrath? But they were the least of my worries as the divorce lawyers and solicitors were rallied up the evil was only getting started.
Evening everyone,
Parents. You can't choose them can you. Once young people themselves they become known to you only as Mom or Dad. And every year we take forty-eight hours out of the year to celebrate and appreciate them as the people who taught us everything we know now. As some of you may know I love my father till the ends of the earth, but what many of you probably don't know and have maybe wondered why my mother is hardly mentioned. Well now I feel is the right time to tell you why; And just in time for Mothers Day!
The year was 1991. The first Starbucks opened in LA, the World Wide Web is announced to the world and Ötzi the Iceman is found in the Alps. But over eight-hundred miles away from the mountain region that would soon bear my initials a little miracle was happening and at just gone lunch time at a busy maternity ward in Bedfordshire a baby girl arrived. I was born to a soldier and his wife, and as I was handed to my first-time parents I opened my tiny eyes to the world making my father cry with joy. And to think that he nearly missed my late arrival for a bacon sandwich! Growing up was as to be expected in a military family and I always knew from a young age that things weren't like other families. My father would be away for long periods of time often missing important events like Birthdays and Christmas'. But I knew that he was needed elsewhere, helping out in war zones like Northern Ireland and the first Gulf war of the early 1990's and then again in later years when dictatorship in the Middle East ruled again. This left me alone with my mother alot of the time to which the majority of the time was pleasant but certainly not a time where I would look forward to being in her constant company as I always felt inside that there wasn't anything special shared between us.
The arrival of my brother in early summer of 1994 was a welcomed edition to our little family and as a result we moved to a larger family home in the quiet suburbs, close to family and soon to be life-long friends. With my fair hair and porcelain skin I was the apple of my fathers eye and a cutie no grandma could refuse, but with a new baby boy in the family I felt a little cast out and with this the feelings of discontent my mother emulated started to breed. Even as we got older, I knew that something wasn't right, the way she bonded with my baby brother was different to my experiences. As my Dad was away alot on weekends with the Army, he was always under the impression that the wife had something wonderful planned for the children whilst Daddy was away. On numerous Friday evenings my Dad was fed plans of girlie shopping trips and mother-daughter craft days before he went away and on numerous Sunday afternoon's he would be served up lies of what never happened. Instead, Mother would always take my brother shopping or on a trip out somewhere to visit friends for coffee whilst I was left at home alone, watching TV or browsing that new thing called The Internet!
Approaching adult-hood hormones ravaged my pre-teenage body and I became more aware of myself and my personality. I started listening to rock music, experimenting with fashion, make-up and hair-styles and generally rebelling against my Christian upbringing. At times I found myself completely intolerable to my mothers attitude, her mood swings and her manipulative games. As a teenager I found solace in music and socialising with friends but even that she tried to snuff out always cementing unreasonable curfews for no reason and finding constant chores to do around the house. Looking back I can see no reason for her acting in this way but what I do recall is the readiness for an confrontation and the argumentative streak. So many times my mom would promise me a weekend of fun and activities to bond over and so many times there would be a reason not to follow through. One day I think I just gave up hope and as a result stopped believing what I was told. Starting secondary school a hatred began a slow simmer.
I came home from one of my first weeks of middle school to find my mother home from work, crying and screaming at me to watch the TV. In a panic and not wanting to upset her further I sat on the floor of my childhood living room. It was the first moment I think we had spent together in a while and we watched silently, both captivated by what we were witnessing unfolding. The horror that we saw, the devastation that it caused and the inevitable consequences it would have on our family. The date was September eleventh 2001. I was less than a fortnight away from my eleventh birthday.
A year or so later, a crisp, brown envelope landed on our door mat that was to alter life as I knew it forever. The second Gulf war had been in progress for a few years but now with Saddam Hussain's power growing by the minute, Great Britain stepped in and after nearly all his working life in training for this moment my Dad left for war. People ask me all the time what it was like. Truth is I was accustom to it already. He had never been there on my birthday as long as I can remember apart from maybe one or two and had always been away for military exercises and camps so for me as a girl with a father in the Army I knew that someday the time would come that all the practise he had done in preparing for war would finally happen. Standing there at the huge green gates of my school with my beloved old man crouched in front of me in his combats a crowd of excited school children gathered a few yards behind me desperate to get a glimpse of my hero's attire. Without saying anything of importance I was told that he loved me and then left. Back to my classmates, I sobbed silent tears knowing that I might not ever see my father alive again and that all to easily he could come home dressed in nothing more than a white bag and dog-tags.
With my strong maternal instinct and a personality I hoped would brighten the darkness we were all in as a family but to no avail as my mother sunk into a fast and heavy depression leaving her completely incapable of caring for her young children and leaving me to step into the shoes. I cooked and cleaned, sorted out the washing and made sure that my brother was always dressed ready for school with a full packed-lunch for the day ahead. I ironed the clothes and sorted the bills into piles of ones that could wait and ones that could not. Looking back I feel that this is where I taught myself to create a facade of perfection, despite the distance from truth it was. After dealing with depression at the time and also later on in my life, those memories are one of the fewer things I don't begrudge my mother for. I can't imagine how hard it must have been however I feel that despite all of that the role of a parent should always take centre-stage and for motherhood never to be put on a back burner. It wasn't until a few years later after speaking to friends and family that not only was my mother in a dark place but I too was in the grips of my first ever experience with depression without even realising it. Shut off from family and friends I think it was during that time I left my childhood behind and became who I am today.
After nearly a years tour a man returned home to his family, a mere shell of what he once was. After a few hours with him snuggled on his lap as I always had, I knew he would never be the same man who left me at the school gates. Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder had stolen life from him as he knew it constantly keeping him on edge. I remember once being in the car driving with him when a swift crack of a passing branch caught one of the window's. Without thinking my Dad frantically started searching for something, patting down the doors and the area around the drivers seat. He was looking for something. He was looking for his gun. War had turned my beloved Papa into a nervous wreck jumping at any crack, pop or bang. They talk of the hundred-mile stare and even to this day I can catch my Dad doing it. Just thinking, remembering, haunting himself with images of war and conflict. He has never spoken about what he saw or experienced but I cannot imagine that there would be much good to tell.
Life deteriorated after that and as a family we separated, going off to do our own thing and only meeting around a dinner table at night for dinner whereby nothing of much importance would be said. Laughter rarely happened during those years and as the frequency of arguments between my parents escalated I was aware that their marriage would never last. At twelve I started to notice a huge distance between my mother and father. My mother had a new lease of life and a bounce in her step. I started to notice that mother would spend longer looking in the mirror; Prettying herself, doing her make-up, sorting her hair and generally making more of an effort. But this was not for my Dad's pleasure. No. She would venture out of an evening starting off once a week, only to be increased as the years passed by, to go for coffee or drinks with friends, to go to meetings that never existed and see friends she hardly ever saw. Watching helplessly as my Dad slipped deeper into PTSD but desperately clinging onto the marriage by bring gifts of chocolate, flowers and other romantic gestures to the table that was otherwise empty apart from himself. It was clear how much my father loved his wife of over a decade but it seemed she had other things in her sights, including men.
For a few years whilst I was at high school my parents tried to put a brave face on and pretend but the cracks were still there and the gaps were getting bigger. By the time I had finished my exams and graduated from compulsory education it was plain to see that it was the beginning of the end. The torture of watching my dad struggle with the uncertain faithfulness of his wife was sometimes unbearable for me also and being old enough to understand and listen and watch the story unfold was all the more eye-opening for me as a teenager. Although life and boys had somewhat passed me by it wouldn't be long before I was attracting the affections of a Rugby playing High school student now know as Mr. Ginge, my first ever proper boyfriend! But less than a week into what would be a year long relationship with Mr. Ginge I was told the news no child wants to hear.
In true Mother style I found out about my parents divorce in the car during a blazing argument with her. Turned out my father had an affair when I was nine and the marriage had never recovered although I have always said that the affair was not the only thing that contributed to the marriage's demise but also the fact that we were a military family whereby my father was away alot and also went to war, coupled with my mother's fleeting mid-week escapades all contributed towards the broken home statistic I found myself in. I still remember her screaming to me in her shrill tones and then quietening her voice just enough to make the impact of her words all the more earth-shattering. "Well your father and I are getting a divorce!" She said matter-of-factly in a abnormally calm voice. It was then that my world crumbled. Without my father there I knew life would not be worth living. What was I going to do without him to take the edge of her cruel demeanour? Who was going to save me from her wrath? But they were the least of my worries as the divorce lawyers and solicitors were rallied up the evil was only getting started.
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To Be Continued ...
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'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
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