Evening,
Last week I spoke of sparkles and twinkles and wedding planning bliss. However, it all came crashing down come last Wednesday morning when y invites arrived. Now originally I was not planning to buy them so soon in September's pay cheque, but nevertheless, I had money to burn (well Amazon.com vouchers) and thinking that if I bought them they would have arrived by the time I got back from Krakow and got Halloween over and done with, which to be fair they were when they arrived last week.
Opening the package I was so excited, more so than anything else I think I have done so far. This was really happening. Officially sending out notification that I will be married, betrothed if you will, to my dearest Mr Warehouse. However, on opening the package, shipped from Amazon, I was disappointed and angry. These were not what I ordered. The invites I had ordered were Ivory in colour with a slight shimmer and sheen in the pearlescent card, each laser cut with a pretty lace floral design. After opening the two doors, a pocket, again lacey and bridal laser cut would hold all the information about our big day. Looking online I was in love and it helped that it came with most of the information we required.
However, what arrived was far from this. All bar being lacey designed, that is where the similarities ended. I ordered Ivory. These were white. I ordered trifold. These were not. I wanted a pocket. These had none. I was devastated and immediately channelled my rage into an we worded email. Shortly I received a reply stating that, despite the enclosed photos of said delivery, the merchant could not see how it was an incorrect order. Fuming I lost it over the internet.
"You clearly have not looked at all the photos as I have included this already. I am struggling to see how you think that these even look remotely similar to the ones I purchased, apart from being white and have a lacey detail. Again please see enclosed photos of INSIDE the package and how it clearly does not match what I purchased or advertised. I would appreciate if you can resend these express delivery as I need them for my wedding invitations and they now are going to be going out late."
I received a less than apologetic reply and on finding it in my inbox the following morning I thundered on, wanting answers:
"I am not sure that you fully understand. I find it 100% unacceptable that you have not only sent the wrong ones but that now you are telling me to “Please be patient and wait for its arrival” – I am appalled and expect an appropriate response. I want it noted that I am not happy AT ALL and would expect some sort of part refund for the issues caused by the lack of due care and attention and stress this is causing me. As I said before these are my WEDDING INVITES and I bought from Amazon thinking that it is a reputable company with good customer service and products that are as advertised however this appears not to be the case."
I was so angry I could hardly contain it. Eventually, the "parcel" had hit customs (why I am not sure as I bought within the UK from a UK seller, or so they told me through there broken Asian-styled language) however there was a problem - What a surprise! It had apparently been damaged and they would refund me in full as they had no more stock left. However, they did add a caveat to all of this by stating that "You can buy goods directly at your local store." and "We are really sorry about that, we hope you can forgive us." Heading back to the internet I finally found the correct ones and had them shipped express delivery. They arrived this morning and are perfect, just what I always envisaged and what I always wanted.
I was wanting to get them out in peoples Christmas card packages, however, I doubt I will have the time to do them and get them out before the post gets busy and things start getting lost in the mail as they inevitably do this time of year. However, as winter approaches and the vibrant colours of fall fades, I feel as though I need to make more of what is left of Autumn. Halloween is over, pumpkin spice lattes are making way for mulled wine and soon it will be time to don that fur coat and headband! For me, Autumn is pretty much over after Remembrance Sunday and gives way to the run-up to Christmas (dare I say it) but this year was different for a few reasons.
After not accompanying my father last year due to some difficulties within our relationship and my battle with mental health I decided that the event would be more of a family affair as both myself and Mr Warehouse, and our pooches, old and young would take a walk down by the river in Bedford where we used to frequent, finally ending our journey at the Cenotaph, ready to pay our respects and remember the fallen. This would have been a successful family outing, had Frankenstein not become so terrified at the noise of my Fathers Kawasaki Vulcan Motorbike, along with his brother in arms and ex-servicemen and women, holding him close was not the trick as pissed himself. All. Over. Me. Obviously having him on the ground would have not been an option and I hazard to think about if he had wriggled free from his harness. Hindsight is a great thing but I still would have picked him up to settle him and I suppose it is all part and parcel of just being a dog mom! He was settled after at Lunch and enjoyed the pigeons, even if he didn't know what they were. Total country pup-kin!
Remembrance Sunday was different because of what I had experienced not that long ago in early October. In my blog "Arbeit Macht Frei (Work Will Set You Free)" I spoke of the horror and terrifying reality that my time at Auschwitz and Birkenau - The Nazi Death Camps brought me. As I stood within the minute's silence, holding my pup close, I remembered our guide as we explored the camps of Auschwitz and Birkenau and her echoing words. More than ever I thought about not only the soldiers, still boys really, and their family and loved ones back home. I thought more about the Polish residents and what they had to endure throughout years of hardship and heartache. I thought about the babies and the mothers and the children ripped from families and told to clean up only to be never reunited again. And I suppose it is cliche but they honestly and truly did give up their lives for us to live ours - Lest We Forget
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Showing posts with label War. Show all posts
Showing posts with label War. Show all posts
Monday, 11 November 2019
Monday, 7 October 2019
Życie dobrze podróżowane (A Life Well Travelled)
Hi,
Setting off from home the whole family had turned out to see me off, although I think the older one had got a bit bored and headed off down the street, probably to take a shit in one of the neighbour's front gardens. Cuddles with my Frankenstein only made me remember the moments we had shared over the weekend as we had taken our first puppy swim class together and he had done so well. Kissing and hugging Mr. Warehouse I was sad he was not coming as well but would love the moment I came home to him and the puppies. Heading down back home I popped by my Scottish grandmother to say hello, as I did with my Auntie and Uncle. I finished off by settling into Nanny Pumpkins, roast lamb dinner and a period drama I was tired and knowing the early start I was ready to bed down.
Falling asleep quickly on her Sofa I remembered the last time I was on there and it was not a favourable circumstance. I must say it was not the best night's sleep and I was absolutely nackard when I was awoken at 4.30am to my dearest Nanna asking if I was going to stay there all day or if I wanted to go on holiday. Make-up done and hair in a Halloween scrunchie, I was ready and so was the taxi! The airport was pretty clear, as I would normally expect, so arriving nearly three-hours before our flight seemed futile, but nevertheless, it allowed us time for some overpriced breakfast and coffee and a nice chat. The flight was easy enough and as normal, despite the time, I treated myself to some champagne and nibbles. The flight itself I expected would have been busy but in actual fact was so empty most of the wing seats had only one person in them, something I know as a fact Mr. Warehouse would have appreciated and been the first to jump into given half the chance.
Arriving and getting through the airport and city to our hotel was a breeze as Nanna had opted for a private transfer, something which was deemed a luxury for Mr. Warehouse and me when we are travelling. The hotel is lovely and is situated in a historical building, in the heart of Kraków’s Kazimierz - the former Jewish district. Within walking distance of the Old Town and the historical Wawel Castle the heated and air-conditioned rooms at Hotel Kazimierz are well-appointed including a private bathroom with a shower and a toilet, as well as satellite TV and free Internet access. We have yet to spend our first night hear obviously and have yet to sample the breakfast buffet which is available every morning, however, I am sure to enjoy a morning coffee, and maybe a cheeky cigarette on our balcony overlooking the back streets of Kazimierz. With the hotel's jazzy wallpaper and random decor choices, its offering is good for any traveller, couple, single or family with a 24-hour front desk, as well as airport shuttle and free of charge luggage storage.
I get the feeling, especially so when Nanny and I went to explore the hotel and the "breakfast balcony" where the morning meal would be served. Stepping up the small flight to the balcony I looked around to see plenty of tables and chairs. However, looking over the balcony and peering down to what can only be described as more restaurant seating areas, covering what would maybe be a dance floor I felt as though the building could tell some dark tales. Staring down I had visions of the family running and hiding or trying desperately to escape as German troops and officers stormed the building, as they had done with the whole street I imagine, marching the men outside, never to be seen again and leaving the rest of them to only wonder what next. It gives me chills to think about what happened here but I feel as I did when Mr. Warehouse and I stayed in a hotel in Newquay for one of his cousin's weddings and the feels and creeps I got from that place, only to discover its tragic past of the Hotel Victoria.
I am sure I will get many more feelings like that, but for now, I am absolutely shattered and after a ravishing meal, I am sooo ready for bed. Tomorrow we visit the Jewish areas of Krakow and attend the Schindler Tour. Escape2Poland explains that "you will be guided around the former Jewish district of Krakow seeing not only beautiful synagogues but will have a chance to visit one as well." Allowing tourists to see where the city came to life before the Second World War and explore various religious locations such as ritual bathhouses and a cemetery I am sure will allow you to further your understanding of the city, the country it belongs too and some of the awful things its residents had to endure throughout the occupation. We will get to visit the ghetto square and to take in the former walls that enclosed the ghetto. Nanna and I will see numerous sites used when shooting Spielberg’s Schindler's List in the early 1990s and learn about an incredibly brave man with a passion for helping people. I shall look forward to the next few days as much as possible without sounding like a raving Nazi, but until then - Night, NIght!
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Setting off from home the whole family had turned out to see me off, although I think the older one had got a bit bored and headed off down the street, probably to take a shit in one of the neighbour's front gardens. Cuddles with my Frankenstein only made me remember the moments we had shared over the weekend as we had taken our first puppy swim class together and he had done so well. Kissing and hugging Mr. Warehouse I was sad he was not coming as well but would love the moment I came home to him and the puppies. Heading down back home I popped by my Scottish grandmother to say hello, as I did with my Auntie and Uncle. I finished off by settling into Nanny Pumpkins, roast lamb dinner and a period drama I was tired and knowing the early start I was ready to bed down.
Falling asleep quickly on her Sofa I remembered the last time I was on there and it was not a favourable circumstance. I must say it was not the best night's sleep and I was absolutely nackard when I was awoken at 4.30am to my dearest Nanna asking if I was going to stay there all day or if I wanted to go on holiday. Make-up done and hair in a Halloween scrunchie, I was ready and so was the taxi! The airport was pretty clear, as I would normally expect, so arriving nearly three-hours before our flight seemed futile, but nevertheless, it allowed us time for some overpriced breakfast and coffee and a nice chat. The flight was easy enough and as normal, despite the time, I treated myself to some champagne and nibbles. The flight itself I expected would have been busy but in actual fact was so empty most of the wing seats had only one person in them, something I know as a fact Mr. Warehouse would have appreciated and been the first to jump into given half the chance.
Arriving and getting through the airport and city to our hotel was a breeze as Nanna had opted for a private transfer, something which was deemed a luxury for Mr. Warehouse and me when we are travelling. The hotel is lovely and is situated in a historical building, in the heart of Kraków’s Kazimierz - the former Jewish district. Within walking distance of the Old Town and the historical Wawel Castle the heated and air-conditioned rooms at Hotel Kazimierz are well-appointed including a private bathroom with a shower and a toilet, as well as satellite TV and free Internet access. We have yet to spend our first night hear obviously and have yet to sample the breakfast buffet which is available every morning, however, I am sure to enjoy a morning coffee, and maybe a cheeky cigarette on our balcony overlooking the back streets of Kazimierz. With the hotel's jazzy wallpaper and random decor choices, its offering is good for any traveller, couple, single or family with a 24-hour front desk, as well as airport shuttle and free of charge luggage storage.
I get the feeling, especially so when Nanny and I went to explore the hotel and the "breakfast balcony" where the morning meal would be served. Stepping up the small flight to the balcony I looked around to see plenty of tables and chairs. However, looking over the balcony and peering down to what can only be described as more restaurant seating areas, covering what would maybe be a dance floor I felt as though the building could tell some dark tales. Staring down I had visions of the family running and hiding or trying desperately to escape as German troops and officers stormed the building, as they had done with the whole street I imagine, marching the men outside, never to be seen again and leaving the rest of them to only wonder what next. It gives me chills to think about what happened here but I feel as I did when Mr. Warehouse and I stayed in a hotel in Newquay for one of his cousin's weddings and the feels and creeps I got from that place, only to discover its tragic past of the Hotel Victoria.
I am sure I will get many more feelings like that, but for now, I am absolutely shattered and after a ravishing meal, I am sooo ready for bed. Tomorrow we visit the Jewish areas of Krakow and attend the Schindler Tour. Escape2Poland explains that "you will be guided around the former Jewish district of Krakow seeing not only beautiful synagogues but will have a chance to visit one as well." Allowing tourists to see where the city came to life before the Second World War and explore various religious locations such as ritual bathhouses and a cemetery I am sure will allow you to further your understanding of the city, the country it belongs too and some of the awful things its residents had to endure throughout the occupation. We will get to visit the ghetto square and to take in the former walls that enclosed the ghetto. Nanna and I will see numerous sites used when shooting Spielberg’s Schindler's List in the early 1990s and learn about an incredibly brave man with a passion for helping people. I shall look forward to the next few days as much as possible without sounding like a raving Nazi, but until then - Night, NIght!
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Monday, 13 November 2017
A Step Back In Time ...
Good Evening,
Walking into the public house, I thought to myself about how you could have quite easily missed bit if you have not been looking. A cold November afternoon wintered on outside as I took off my coat and got settled. Looking around at the compact bar area where many of the local residents drank the afternoon away in merriment I noticed the bunting of red, white and blue, Union Jacks proudly hung from the walls and somewhere there was a picture of the queen hanging proudly for all to see. It certainly didn't take long to hear the beautiful voices of the 30's, 40's and 50's serenading us all into a singsong.
On a quiet and rather unassuming street down by a local park frequented in this day and age by dog walkers and joggers alike, The Devonshire Arms in Bedford's Dudley Street is probably one of my favourite pubs I have been to in a long while. There is something about the place that speaks to an inner, deeper part of my soul that as a twenty-six year old I cannot explain as to why. There was something about this pub, something about this day, Remembrance Sunday, that seems ever so poignant for me. The icy cold air of a November morning awaiting my father and his men (and now some women). The feel of pride that swells within me from my military heritage and background. The absolute sorrow and sadness of those left behind by the brutal snatching's of war and conflict. All balanced out by the warmth I found myself in The Devonshire Arms on Sunday afternoon.
Accompanying my father whilst he collected a generous gift donation from the local boozer, Mr. Warehouse and I, along with the dog as well trundled into the rather busy public house following the Remembrance parade along the river. I had visited the bar a couple of times before, both with Mr. Cheese as our first date and as also an "ultimatum date" in the following spring. It had seemed nice then, both in the height of summer. But walking in here today seemed all the more different. Maybe, as I said before it was the decor and bunting and singers, but a part of me feels the same way about the The Devonshire Arms as I do about the Hotel Victoria from a previous blog post from last year "Newquay - New Life?". You see I fall in love easily (most of the time anyway) more-so with things than people, and strangely buildings are one of them. I seem to resonate with older more Victorian buildings, maybe one of the reasons I am writing to you now from a early 19th Century converted townhouse. I am somewhat fascinated by there history and the moments that their walls saw. I feel there energy and I want to experience and feel the times in which it cried and laughed. And to think that this is all from building's I barely knew.
Maybe more recent films like Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, Allied and Dunkirk have awoken a part of me that lay rather dormant for a while and only now am I exploring its possibilities. Many people, including Miss Tweedle-Dee and I believe in the phenomena that is past life. I would love to go to someone genuine and have my future read, but even more-so my past. I have a deep rooted uneasy feeling about deep water and whilst I love travelling the idea of a cruise makes me more than anxious. Is this because of my fixation with the Titanic as I have done ever since I was small or is this because I maybe was a part of something bigger in my past life? I also have a obsession with murder and horrific crimes including the work (if you can call it that) of Jack the Ripper, Ted Bundy and Josef Fritzl. Does this mean in a past life I had something to fear from these people? Notice how they are all men - Does that mean something? I don't know. I am so intrigued by this that I have begun to look into the possibilities of time slips, past life regression and even Deja Vu focusing on the premise that Deja Vu, at least in one of my opinions, is where you link seemingly unrelated things in your current life with these that you previously did, talked about or that happened in a previous time.
Whatever the reasoning I felt a connection to The Devonshire Arms. Perhaps the atmosphere took me away on the sweet notes of the post-war karaoke and cosy nature of the establishment, or maybe, just maybe. Had I been madly in love with my sweetheart when they were taken to war only to experience the heartbreak when the earth shattering news came back that they were never coming home, forever destined to spend my nights drowning my sorrows at the bar. Was I one of the lucky ones whose soldier came home albeit changed forever but so happy to see me we embraced for eternity. Had I been a mother who lost their son to the battlefield and sat in the corner awaiting the postman, pleadingly with a letter to let her know that her boy was OK, both feeling the screaming horror or tearful joy that may follow. Maybe I was another parent saying preparing my child for a swift goodbye at the station ready for their new life away from the bombings in cities and towns, knowing you may never kiss them goodnight again. Or could I have been the one with the box round my neck and a suitcase to match. Or maybe it is just my fantasy. My Imagination. My Creativity. Whatever it may be, Lest we Forget those fallen ...
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Walking into the public house, I thought to myself about how you could have quite easily missed bit if you have not been looking. A cold November afternoon wintered on outside as I took off my coat and got settled. Looking around at the compact bar area where many of the local residents drank the afternoon away in merriment I noticed the bunting of red, white and blue, Union Jacks proudly hung from the walls and somewhere there was a picture of the queen hanging proudly for all to see. It certainly didn't take long to hear the beautiful voices of the 30's, 40's and 50's serenading us all into a singsong.
On a quiet and rather unassuming street down by a local park frequented in this day and age by dog walkers and joggers alike, The Devonshire Arms in Bedford's Dudley Street is probably one of my favourite pubs I have been to in a long while. There is something about the place that speaks to an inner, deeper part of my soul that as a twenty-six year old I cannot explain as to why. There was something about this pub, something about this day, Remembrance Sunday, that seems ever so poignant for me. The icy cold air of a November morning awaiting my father and his men (and now some women). The feel of pride that swells within me from my military heritage and background. The absolute sorrow and sadness of those left behind by the brutal snatching's of war and conflict. All balanced out by the warmth I found myself in The Devonshire Arms on Sunday afternoon.
Accompanying my father whilst he collected a generous gift donation from the local boozer, Mr. Warehouse and I, along with the dog as well trundled into the rather busy public house following the Remembrance parade along the river. I had visited the bar a couple of times before, both with Mr. Cheese as our first date and as also an "ultimatum date" in the following spring. It had seemed nice then, both in the height of summer. But walking in here today seemed all the more different. Maybe, as I said before it was the decor and bunting and singers, but a part of me feels the same way about the The Devonshire Arms as I do about the Hotel Victoria from a previous blog post from last year "Newquay - New Life?". You see I fall in love easily (most of the time anyway) more-so with things than people, and strangely buildings are one of them. I seem to resonate with older more Victorian buildings, maybe one of the reasons I am writing to you now from a early 19th Century converted townhouse. I am somewhat fascinated by there history and the moments that their walls saw. I feel there energy and I want to experience and feel the times in which it cried and laughed. And to think that this is all from building's I barely knew.
Maybe more recent films like Boy in the Striped Pyjamas, Allied and Dunkirk have awoken a part of me that lay rather dormant for a while and only now am I exploring its possibilities. Many people, including Miss Tweedle-Dee and I believe in the phenomena that is past life. I would love to go to someone genuine and have my future read, but even more-so my past. I have a deep rooted uneasy feeling about deep water and whilst I love travelling the idea of a cruise makes me more than anxious. Is this because of my fixation with the Titanic as I have done ever since I was small or is this because I maybe was a part of something bigger in my past life? I also have a obsession with murder and horrific crimes including the work (if you can call it that) of Jack the Ripper, Ted Bundy and Josef Fritzl. Does this mean in a past life I had something to fear from these people? Notice how they are all men - Does that mean something? I don't know. I am so intrigued by this that I have begun to look into the possibilities of time slips, past life regression and even Deja Vu focusing on the premise that Deja Vu, at least in one of my opinions, is where you link seemingly unrelated things in your current life with these that you previously did, talked about or that happened in a previous time.
Whatever the reasoning I felt a connection to The Devonshire Arms. Perhaps the atmosphere took me away on the sweet notes of the post-war karaoke and cosy nature of the establishment, or maybe, just maybe. Had I been madly in love with my sweetheart when they were taken to war only to experience the heartbreak when the earth shattering news came back that they were never coming home, forever destined to spend my nights drowning my sorrows at the bar. Was I one of the lucky ones whose soldier came home albeit changed forever but so happy to see me we embraced for eternity. Had I been a mother who lost their son to the battlefield and sat in the corner awaiting the postman, pleadingly with a letter to let her know that her boy was OK, both feeling the screaming horror or tearful joy that may follow. Maybe I was another parent saying preparing my child for a swift goodbye at the station ready for their new life away from the bombings in cities and towns, knowing you may never kiss them goodnight again. Or could I have been the one with the box round my neck and a suitcase to match. Or maybe it is just my fantasy. My Imagination. My Creativity. Whatever it may be, Lest we Forget those fallen ...
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
Monday, 9 November 2015
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
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
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.
* * *
To Be Continued ...
* * *
'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx
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