Terror Is What You Regret In Life!

Hallo Everyone, 

Lazing away my morning in bed I was glad of a Friday off work. Thrilling though it is, sometimes it can be nice just to have a break from it. But I couldn't lounge around all day, I had a train to catch!

Off to London I went, mini case and signature Eggnog Latte from Starbucks in toe as I boarded my train to The Big Smoke for the weekend with Mr. Warehouse whom was still hard at work and would be joining me later for dinner. I was looking forward to my weekend away with the boyfriend and even more-so to be spending Saturday evening eating German Sausages, Candy Floss and Fudge all whilst in the company of Mr. Warehouse, Miss Tweedle-Dumb, Miss Tweedle-Dee. And as if the couldn't be more exciting we were all going to be in the company of Miss Tweedle-Dee's most recent Beau. I was more than made up that my little Tweedle-Dee had found someone and was excited to meet her and experience Hyde Park's Winter Wonderland 2015 all together. I had also planned something for Mr. Warehouse that he was not expecting on Saturday which was going to also add to the magic of a relatively romantic weekend away before Christmas. Although in hindsight maybe everything from Six O'Clock on Saturday evening onwards should probably be swept under the Klusterfuck carpet and never spoken of again?!

Being pampered and getting my hair done was, as it always is (isn't it gals), a pleasurable experience and even more so when it only costs you fifteen-quid at a top London salon in the heart of Hatton Gardens - Jewellery quarter of the city. Strutting my stuff I barely had enough time to head to the hotel which was nearly an hour outside the city (hastily bought due to a discount and very heavy eyes on a Sunday evening a few weeks ago) and back into the city again before Mr. Warehouse arrived. 

Trotting down to the platform at Baker Street, transferring from one tube to the next I stood on the platform awaiting the 1704 to Farringdon on the Circle Line (Yellow), due in just under two-minutes. I couldn't wait to see my baby and have a lovely meal and maybe some cheeky cocktails before bedtime! But as I approached the platform I noticed from the corner of my eye something strange. There was a man. Standing there just behind the yellow safety line. He was white, dressed in muted tones, a Khaki coloured, large, bulky coat covered him. His eyes were wide, like a deer stuck in the headlights of an oncoming car down a country lane. He looked worried. Scared even. I looked away but something pulled my gaze back towards him. Then I noticed it. He had a rucksack on. 

I turned away not wanting to believe that I could have such horrible dark thoughts about someone. I was kind and loving and enjoyed making people laugh and smile. How could I think that of someone, especially someone I never even knew? 'He didn't look like a terrorist? Did he? But then again - What do they look like?' I thought silently to myself. Trying my hardest not to be judgemental I thought that maybe if I spoke to him he would give something away that would enable me to realise I was just being silly and that he was just a normal bugged-eyed human being like me?!

"Excuse me, Sorry but do you have the time please? My phones just died" I asked the stranger, lying through my teeth as I hide my luminous, 78% battery life-d phone in my coat pocket. 
"Yes, its coming up to Five O' clock" he replied, gentlemanly with a normal, English accented voice. 

It didn't work. I still felt uneasy in his company on the platform. Swamped with thoughts the announcement for the tube blasted out over a tannoy and I was face with what was now seeming to me to be a very real life or death situation. I had built it up so much by this point I was expecting it to happen. Watching him shuffle from foot to foot as I recalled the rest of the passengers seemingly unaware of the turmoil I faced as the tube roared onto the platform - 'If I get on this tube, I may die!' 

It was something I had never considered ever in all the times of coming to London, even when visiting Mr. Cheese every other weekend. I had never felt so vulnerable and unsafe. If I missed this tube and waited for the next one I would almost certainly be late, ensuring and argument with Mr. Warehouse after leaving him to wait in the cold darkness of Farringdon Station awaiting my arrival which he did not know well. Alternatively I could board the tube and everything would be fine, I would alight a few stops down and I would arrive on time if not early, therefore impressing Mr. Warehouse and getting the evening off to a good start. with seconds to spare and the door alarms screaming in my ears I ran to get into the carriage. 

As the doors closed I looked across to my fellow passenger. It was the same man I saw on the platform, only now under the lights of the carriage I could see clearly that there was a small, perfectly square box in his jacket pocket. I caught his gaze. A cold steely stare from those bulging eyes. Even before the tube had set off I noticed beads of sweat forming on his brow. He had not ran anywhere. And it certainly did not feel so warm that you would break out into a sweat. He took his hand from his pocket and wiped his brow. But as he placed it back in his squared pocket I noticed that he was tapping his fingers, drumming them rhythmically along the yellowed bar of the carriage. He looked nervous. Again looking around everyone was oblivious to the fixation I had with this man. Looking back towards the doors I could see they were open. I tried moving closer to them but it was no use. I was stuck. Jammed in with commuters, tourists and the like of rush hour people traffic in London on a Friday evening. 

As the doors closed I turned back around and caught my own reflection in the glass. There I was. Twenty-Four. A little on the podgey side, but better than being stuck on a constant diet of gluten-free this that and going to the gym. I had people who loved me. My father. My grandparents and family. My Mr. Warehouse. My friends; Miss Tweedle-Dumb and Miss Tweedle-Dee. My work colleagues. I never had children, or the chance to be a mother. I never got married and felt what it was like to have someone call you their wife. I would never get my white picket fence and lovely four-bed fully detached family home. I had got my hair done real nice, dark chocolate in colour and with a slight curl for my date night with Mr. Warehouse. It cost me fifteen-pounds. What a waste that would be if the only place anyone ever saw it was in a body bag, pieces of me all contained after the explosion. It may seem silly and over-reacting now, but right there in that moment it seemed so damn real I was shaking where I stood. I was scared. Scared of dying and living with regrets of never being able to get to that point in my life where happiness was every day. 

After what seemed like minutes I was jogged forward as the tube started moving and with that I instantly looked at the man in the Khaki Jacket and Backpack. What I saw next terrified me more than anything I had seen so far. The man that I barely knew, that I had lied to just so I could gauge his person, began to cry. Silent, wet tears spilled over from his bulging eyes as he looked back at me in utter despair. That was it I knew that I had to get off this tube and as the next station approached I poised myself for a click. But it never came. Instead the platform arrived and I flung myself through the crowds to the doors and to what I presumed was safety. 

As I walked down the platform and away from the tube I waited in anticipation that it might happen now. It didn't. As the tube rolled off in the direction I needed to go I waited for the next one, keeping an ear out for any loud or suspicious noises. Nothing. 

As I sat on the next tube that came along I was overtaken by a feeling of guilt and disgust with myself. I had judged someone on what they were wearing and what they had in their pockets. I had persecuted someone (albeit in my head) based on their body language and the fact they were carrying a rucksack on their back. 'He may have just had a bad day? His dog might have died? He might have had some bad news?' I tried to reason with myself and could come up with nothing more than the question that if anyone else was faced with that situation; Eyes wide, pupils dilated, sweaty palms and forehead, huge coat and a rucksack coupled with a nervous disposition and deathly silent tears rolling down his face - Would you have stayed on board to await your fate?

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx

Celebrating Terrorists And The People Who Die to Protect Us From Them

Hello and Good Morrow, 

Once I was finished playing dress up and wearing scary make-up in last weeks Post I decided that a little less was definitely more - Except when it comes to my social life. And after hanging up the Little Red Riding Hood, I started to make plans for the rest of the year. 

Now in England, as well as the other United Kingdom occupants we here celebrate the night of Guy Fawkes on (Remember, Remember) the fifth of November, every year. Guy Fawkes, to give you a bit of background was some bloke who in 1605 (After the Battle of Hastings where some dude called Harold II lost an eye, and before Jack The Ripper - that other dude that liked to cut women) tried to blow up the Houses of Parliament in Westminster, London. All because of some beef that he had with the current King of England, James I. 

Turns out that the disagreement leading to the hopeful demise of King James I and all his kings men on November the 5th 1605 was actually we can all relate to in modern day society. So - Bringing it back down to street level - The thirty-five year old Fawkesy (Not an actual name, I just made that shit up for the LOLs) had decided that after growing up in a government whereby Queen Elizabeth I was going around making all these laws about being a Catholic and all Guy had enough. But luck would have it though as James I comes into power and everything would change for the better. But this was not the case and the laws that were introduced by Q.Lizzie No. 1 were now being held up and even added too by that Jammy James the first. 

In a way probably very similar to that of the 2010 manifesto that was drawn up by Mr. Nick Clegg, leader of the Liberal Democrats Party stating that he would make it his duty as part of a coalition government with David Cameron (Current PM) of the Conservative Party that Student Tuition fees would not increase. But oh, what was that, not even twelve-months later our little Cleggy broke that promise after being bum-raped by Cameron into raising them to over £9,000.00 a year in some cases much, much more, sending students across the country into meltdown after not only increasing fees, but pricing those on the brink of being able to afford going to Uni right out of the market. I was one of the last years that could have gone to University, but instead of putting in the hard work needed at college I opted into creating a life with my future husband-to-be, Mr. Workaholic. That ended but the anger towards the Lib Dems has not and still ensues to this day, reminding me of the one of the biggest regrets in my life. 

Anyhoo, Back to the Story. What did the little Guy do (see what I did there)? Did he write a strongly worded letter? Did he protest with flaming bags of shite? No. Well Sort of. Except the shit was actually thirty-six barrels full to the brim with Gun Powder, Something Mr. Fawkes had learned how to handle well and became somewhat of a connoisseur throughout Europe. And so with only hours to spare, England's most Infamous (and probably the first) Terrorist was caught in the act. I would like to think that Guy was just down the local having a couple of bevvies with his posse waiting for things to start 'Poppin' outside when the Feds came to arrest him. 

After the event was foiled, Guy Fawkes was tortured in good old fashioned style using The Rack as well as other instruments of immense pain and suffering. And 'eh, well done to the lad as he lasted two days on that thing before he uttered a word, something King James I was very impressed by. Eventually he 'fessed up and was sentenced to the highest punishment - To be hung, drawn and quartered! Unfortunately for the King and his Hitman, Guy was a little savvier than they were and as the noose was place around his neck, he jumped thus committing suicide instead and ending what would otherwise be a long and drawn out death. 

And that is the story of Guy Fawkes, a terrorist in his own making. But as we left the fireworks and bonfires behind on Saturday, celebrating them with Mr. Warehouse, Miss Tweedle-Dee and Miss Tweedle-Dumb in Luton, I donned a bright red Poppy for a celebration of a different kind on Sunday, thinking of our fallen soldiers on Remembrance Day. Standing in the crowds, my Daddy behind me on his Motorbike, riding as part of the Royal British Legions Poppy Appeal I stood as proud then as I was in all the times I stood alone whilst he was either at war or with comrades delivering Poppy Wreaths to the cenotaph along Bedford's beautiful embankment. 

I was reflective on how so many men, as well as women and children had died in the World Wars there had been, but moreso in the fact that since that moment we as a country had never really been out of war and at peace. Afghanistan, Bosnia, Northern Ireland, Falklands, Iraq and the Gulf. All wars that I, as a twenty-four-year-old second-generation military daughter had seen in my lifetime alone. Too much and yet for Politicians, still not enough? 

I remember getting angry at the 2004 attempts at Christmas number one - A classic rendition of Bob Geldof and Midge Ure's Do they know its Christmas? One of the lines I remember vividly sang out "War is Over" and I remember thinking that "No, No its not. War is not over and I know this as fact as my father will not be spending Christmas with us that year" and as a small person it infuriated me the fact that some jumped up little hairy homeless-looking man and his Pop Princes and Princesses were trying to convey tat everything was OK and no-one was getting hurt when in reality many were dying every day. 

But as I came back from the one minute silence, brought back into the room with the heart-wrenching Last Post, I caught myself pondering - When will it end? In truth, I don't think it will ever end. Politicians are too greedy now (although I doubt that even when Guy Fawkes was alive they were hardly humble-giver-backers). And then it suddenly dawned on me ... In the same weekend I had celebrated both Terrorism and Remembering those who died in conflict trying to stop it. Interesting concept I thought I would share with you all this week. 

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx