A Diamond Christmas?

I am expecting an announcement. My eldest step-daughter, A, has been with her young man for ...crikey...seven years? and excitedly hinted to me the last time that we were together that a bethrothal was in the offing. Hardly unexpected, but thrilling all the same.

A's beloved is the most fabulous young man. A true Welshman from The Valleys, he has proven himself over the years to be everything her father could have hoped for his daughter - wise, kind, faithful, hard-working, honourable, familial and funny, but best,best,best of all, they so very obviously love each other. They have stood shoulder to shoulder through long separations whilst she was away at university studying to be the Lawyer he helped her to become, whilst he recently moved from the village where he had lived all of his life and the job he had held since he first went to work, to be with her.

A's parents divorce was protracted and bitter. Still reeling from the shock as a teenager, she at once accepted my place in her Father's life and even when I stepped on a mine in the minefield which is finding your way as a step-parent, our inevitable conflicts were softened by her inate kindness and willingness to extend her hand to someone she could so easily have tortured.

So - when the big announcement comes - I'm thinking Christmas - this step-mother will undoubtedly shed some very happy tears for the darling girl who deserves all the love and happiness in the World, and her delightful young man, who have enriched my once lonely life beyond my wildest dreams.

Grateful

I remember staring at a picture of Sally Thorneloe, the wife of the charismatic CO of the Welsh Guards as she stood ram-rod straight at his funeral, her face drawn with grief but perfectly composed, and thinking 'that could so easily have been me'.

I had practiced the expression her face was wearing. My beloved and I had discussed at length how he wanted his Military funeral conducted, how I should 'represent' him. It was the subject of heated discussion and debate amongst my fellow Army wives. Some expressed real confusion that we had a kind of macabre code of conduct, some felt that it was 'unnatural' - and maybe it was. Maybe it would have been completely unsustainable in the face of such enormous grief and loss, but I knew that Sally was wearing 'that' face because Rupert would have been proud of her for doing so.

I've discovered Google Blogs search - I know, it's pathetic that it's taken me so long! and I am overwhelmed by the sheer number of blogs I have come across written by Servicemen's widows. I am genuinely humbled by the strength and courage of those legions of women - all honouring their husband's memories whilst trying to find their way.

My beloved served in Northern Ireland during the troubles, in Kosovo and in Iraq amongst many other places and I have been in the ranks of those who wait and watch in fear. I know how it feels to feel sick every time the doorbell or the telephone rings, to panic when comms go down, to feel the relief to hear that it was 'someone else' and then the desperate sadness for 'someone else's' family - I have attended too many heart-breaking military funerals, but my husband always came home, and my God I am so very grateful.

Creepy!

Did you know that people LIVE at The Tower of London? How creepy is that?

My beloved recently had the honour of a 'behind the scenes' look around the Tower, courtesy of an acquaintance who is now a Yeoman Warder (all Yeoman Warders are ex Servicemen) and informed me with delight when he got home that he had been taken to 'the Pub' within the walls of The Tower!

The Tower has featured in my life, all of my life. As a London child I was taken to see the Crown Jewels, although I was far more interested in the Ravens. As an adult I drove past the Tower every day for years on my way to work, and at a dinner I was introduced to the Governor and his delightful wife. She did tell me that they had a house there, but for some reason the penny didn't drop that they LIVED there! Well they do. There are little streets of ancient houses with arrow slits for windows and a community, a real community, of those who work at and guard The Tower, their families - even their pets, all inhabiting what I suppose amounts to a village. There is the aforementioned tiny 'Pub', a Doctor, even their own Postman. But here's the thing.... at midnight they are locked behind the great walls. Can you imagine? I'm trying to.

My guess is that during daylight hours it's not unlike living on any military 'patch' (well except that thousands of tourists tramp past your front door every day which must be quite bizarre, especially if you are doing the washing up in your jammies, or trying to have an afternoon snooze) but how weird must it be at night? Locked behind the gates of one of the bloodiest places in British history. Walking back from the pub past the spot where Ann Boleyn was beheaded, knowing that you are feet away from where Guy Fawkes was brutally tortured. I take my hat off to the women who follow their men into that particular village. My imagination is running riot just thinking about it.

Here's a fantastic article from Spitalfield Life about a Day in The Life of a Yeoman Warder:

http://spitalfieldslife.com/2012/01/31/a-day-in-the-life-of-the-chief-yeoman-warder-at-the-tower-of-london/

but what I really want to read about is a day (and night) in the life of his wife!

'Stiff Upper Lip'

We were talking this morning about an injury my beloved is carrying. I said that he must be in pain and asked him why he continued in a way which was likely to exacerbate the situation. He grinned at me as he said 'Stiff upper lip Darling'.

I've just been reading the blog (brilliant blog I might add) of someone who is currently transitioning from military to civilian life and he's obviously finding the whole thing complex and a little lonely. He's taking a long time to find a new career, and I think, his way. This made me wonder if the incredibly seamless transition my beloved appears to have made, is indeed that. He's  a deep thinker and he feels deeply. There is nothing 'gung-ho' about him. When we met new people and they discovered that he took IED's apart for a living, there was always genuine surprise. His persona is that of a rather cheerful Diplomat...seriously.

I expected such enormous change to weigh on him, to impact on him in some way - but almost a year later - he seems truly happy, healthy (apart from the injury) and emotionally in tact. I don't know if the fact that he had been invited to take up what amounts to a dream job, before he left the Army, is the key to that. Whether it is because we didn't have to move to unfamiliar territory (our last posting was only 30 miles away from where we have settled), that many of our friends were civilians and we see them and our military chums often. Or maybe it's because he and I are best friends and we live close to his lovely (and my darling step) daughters. Or...is he hiding inner turmoil? Is the passion for his job, the laughter, the sheer joyfulness him employing his stiff upper lip? I genuinely don't know - but if it is, then he's kept it up for a long time.

We've seen friends flail after leaving the Army. One, terribly, terribly, sadly couldn't find his way despite love and support and took his own life. Many cling very closely to their old Army comrades and struggle to adapt to the very different working and social lives. Why has it been so easy for us? There's no smugness in that question, only genuine surprise.

Downton

Am I the only person on the planet who isn't swept up in Downton fever? It's the telly equivalent of easy listening isn't it? At the beginning of every episode you can accurately predict EXACTLY what is going to happen? I just know that the writer (Julian...Julian...Fellowes?) sits down at his desk and thinks 'Okay, how shall I re-work the formula this week? the formula is: unrequieted love, baddy gets come-uppance, cold hearted person proves not to be... insert different names....
I like junk telly. In fact I love junk telly: ' Cheaters', 'Storage wars', 'Sister Wives', anybody? what I really hate is hugely expensive junk telly which should have been good.

So Mr. 'Raking it in by producing tripe for the masses Julian Thingybob'. Take heed, for the same money (less probably) you could have made the unutterably, stylishly simply, fabulous...Cranford!

Waving not drowning

I think we have established by now that I am pretty computer illiterate - but are there really so few older Army/Retired Army wives (although not necessarily either retired army wives, or indeed wives) with lives of their own and anything vaguely interesting to say out there? - and yeah, before you tell me I know that I haven't got anything interesting to say - I can't write that kind of stuff I just want to read it!

I started my blog as a kind of diary. I was too lazy to write in long-hand and following a Soldier around is quite interesting - I didn't want to forget it - but I think I also hoped that it would help me to connect with similar people going through similar experiences and through the myriad of transitions.

All the blogs which I have managed to unearth which searches have suggested may be what I am after, are written either by breathy teenage girls declaring: 'I luv my Soldier!!!!' to which the only possible response is 'Jolly good, carry on' - or perfectly coiffured 'Mommies' who tell me on page one that Jesus is the head of their household, their husband is the best thing that ever walked the earth and that Kaycee/Macee/Mckynzee/...insert daft made up name... is the 'cutest thing EVER!'...to which I am afraid I don't feel able to contribute more than 'Jolly good, carry on'.

Where do the middle-aged, professional(ish), mildly eccentric, mildly conservative, politically left-wing, animal loving, opinionated women hang out on the internet? I know for certain that they aren't in their kitchen baking  friggin' cup cakes!

Hugo

I don't think I had ever given Greyhounds a second thought until I read an article about the utterly tragic way that they are treated when their racing days are over. Look away now if you don't know (although I'll spare you the worst)....

When they no longer make their owners money they are either:

destroyed, abandoned or in a few lucky cases, rescued.

These dogs are THREE.

The article didn't spare the worst (some of the stories reduced me to tears) and de-bunked the almost universally held beliefs that Greyhounds need huge amounts of exercise, that they cannot be house-trained and that they can't adjust to family life, that they rush about, that they need loads of space.....

We had been considering a companion for our Ridgeback X but had stumbled over it, as she was (and is) a dominant (although gentle and trained so absolutely no aggression), princess. Long story short, we ended up at our local Greyhound rescue. I'm afraid I cried my eyes out. Not because the dogs weren't beautifully cared for, because they were, but because these lucky few were just so sweet when they had had so little human kindness. I have never been in such a quiet kennels. They seemed 'resigned'. The lovely kennel Managers brought several dogs to meet us. My overall impression of their physicality was that they were odd looking and huge. My overall impression of their temperament was 'why don't people know about these dogs??'.

It took us minutes to know that one of them was coming home - but which one? They were all lovely, they all desperately needed a home. We asked 'who can't you re-home?' and were given the barmy but sadly true, explanation, that people don't want big black dogs. Apparently, the brindle and blue bitches are fairly easy to re-home and after that, it is a sliding scale down to those big, black, boys.

So - a big. black boy was led to us. It was impossible to gauge his character. His story was appallingly sad, he had been rescued in Ireland, hung around in kennels and then been shipped to England in the hope that he might fare better there. He was pretty newly arrived at the kennels. He was spectacularly smelly and his feet were torn to shreds. Hebe ignored him. He ignored her - actually he ignored everyone and everything. We figured ignoring was fine. We'd take him home and see what a bath, continued treatment for his feet, Hebe's joyfulness, a warm bed, good food and a lot of love could do. That was three extraordinarily happy years ago. Turned out, he is loving, funny, playful, gentle, loyal and sweet and utterly devoted to us and to Hebe. If he could say 'thank you' every day, he would. In fact for a while he was so desperate to ingratiate himself that he would hold on for a pee for EVER (we never had an accident in the house) and would be terrifyingly good. My father who was visiting at the time, filled up the first time that trusting lad looked him in the eye, Steve and I did the same the first time he 'stole' a biscuit. It's not often a dog gets applause and cuddles for stealing! I've met hundreds of Greyhounds since and forgive the evangelising tone but seriously people - want a dog? think 'Greyhound!'

 

He prefers our bed to his......

 

 

He likes to know what Dad is doing......

 

He loves getting together with his Greyhound buddies....

 

and Dad can't keep up!

 

Farewell Army Quarters

I was pondering today whether I miss living in SFA (Army married quarters) and came to the conclusion that although I miss some things, I really don't miss others!

I DO miss some of the social events. The Army community is skilled in going from 'fancy a barbie?' to mobilising the whole street in a matter of minutes and there is no denying that it is comforting being surrounded by trained killers Great for security!) and wives who have so many shared experiences. The other big plus is that it's so cheap. Our last house - four big bedrooms, study, big garden, garage etc. cost us less than £300 a month - I kid you not!

What I don't miss is magnolia paint, the lack of diversity (herded together by rank - I only ever met other Colonel's wives of my age), no children (away at boarding school or adult by the time their father's have achieved the age necessary to achieve the rank), no old people, HAVING to go to events at which wearing a ball-gown was a must (before you think 'that's disingenuous - try dashing home from work to get trussed up to spend a dull evening with people you wouldn't choose to be with) an unnatural number of old Etonians.....

But the thing that I found hardest (other than the lack of en suite bathrooms and the fact that doing anything with a garden was pointless because you'd always be moved on before you saw it grow) was the lack of privacy. There was no anonimity, at all, ever. One particular wife would lie in wait (she didn't work) and literally pounce when I drew up from work EVERY DAY. If we didn't open our curtains by 9.00 a.m someone would come round to 'make sure you are alright'. If someone in the close had a row, we'd all know the details. For some it spelled 'community', for me, it felt cloying.

I know women who have lived 'behind the wire' for ALL of their adult lives. They've never mowed their own lawn, painted their own bedroom, packed to move or made any friends beyond their fellow Army wives. There is a conspiracy of silence about 'stepping off' (leaving the Army), as if saying it would make it real, and oh how they feared the civvy life on the other side of the fence. Me? I'm loving it - but then we carefully planned our exit. We had lovingly maintained our friendships outside the Army, Mr. S had an exciting job lined up and we moved to our own home in the town where I had worked for two years, just a few miles away from where we grew up and where our friends and family are. Apart from being able to exercise our taste in our home and Mr. S going to work in any colour he likes, rather than khaki, remarkably little changed but now our front door is ours!

  Wills & Kate's wedding day. The 'patch' party.

Waving swords around....

Well done America!

Well, here's a thing. ALL of my friends, whatever their nationality, race, profession, persuasion or creed wanted Obama to win - so I know a lot of people who are chuffed - me included.
Here's another thing -  most of the blogs I follow are written by people who are currently weeping into their Cheerios. Obviously with my weird interest in the Bloggernacle one could expect that those would be populated by those who voted in their own interests - but even those (with exceptions - you know who you are ;) ) whose lives extend beyond the borders of their kitchen in Utah, supported Romney. Extraordinary!

Four very happy years ago.....

Grumpy

I am cross with myself and I am grumpy because I'm cross. I wouldn't bother with this one if I were you - I'm just venting.

Here are my excuses for grumpiness:

• We have been surrounded by the cracks, bangs and booms for two weeks now. Guy Fawkes night is tonight. I absolutely get that tonight, the letting off of fireworks that terrorise pets and small children is par for the course - but having held a shaking and terrified Hebe (Ridgeback X) every night for a fortnight - I'd like to drag the inconsiderate twits who think any and every night is Guy Fawkes night, into my house and make them watch her suffering. 
• Someone in another department at work who is vastly senior to me thought it was clever to patronise and bully one of MY Editors and then having chucked a hand-grenade into the arena, ran away leaving me to clean up the fall-out. I have had very dark thoughts about what I'd like to do to him.
• I offered to go and watch someone to whom I have been very devoted doing something dangerous for charity. I was assured that as all of her family would be there it wasn't necessary. Today she showed me the photgraphs and there were FRIENDS there. What am I? chopped liver?!
• Now the NY server is functioning again - we're swamped. There aren't enough hours in the day to publish the back-log. How come an international company of our size and standing falls over because a server on  another continent goes nap?
• I miss Gailey

but...

and here's the thing


A member of the Bloggernacle, who is quite possibly the most decent person on the planet and who has handled her own terrible tragedy with dignity, sweetness and grace, was kind to me, very kind to me when she would have been entitled to tell me to wind my neck in, and there's nothing like feeling ashamed of yourself to make you feel grumpy. You'll be pleased to hear that I am at least hanging my sorry, grumpy head, in shame.

Hebe checking for fireworks. She's yet to figure out that the drama doesn't start until after dark!