Where is St Christopher when you need him?

I was brought up being told that St Christopher was the patron saint of travellers. Infact when I was a child, everyone I knew had a necklace with a little medallion with him on it. I was a Catholic, but I am quite sure that you didn’t need to be in the ‘club’ for him to work his magic.

So where is he? I strongly suspect that he has been excommunicated due to his abysmal track record, especially where the 7.08 train from Beckenham Junction to Victoria is concerned.

Putting aside, for this blog anyway, my frustration with Southern and South Eastern Rail services, (I have the dubious pleasure of using both these companies for my commute into work), I want to rant about the Commuter.

Is it just me or perhaps my specific daily commute that makes me confront, on a daily basis, a mixture of people who, frankly, should either be on medication or seeking professional advice, but really should not be amongst us unaccompanied? I am also quite sure that many of these people hold down responsible jobs, captains of industry and the like. So what happens to them as they wait on the platform, because that’s where it starts. The jockeying for position as the train approaches, not allowing anyone off, just incase they lose their square foot of platform. The over enthusiastic use of shoulders to barge their way onto the train. Then there are the people on the train - no please don’t move to let us on, even though there is room. They stand there defending their spot, as if somebody’s life was at stake.

And if you are lucky enough to spot a seat, why do you have to stand there whilst (sorry ladies) handbags are slowly moved onto laps, and then comes the tut and ‘that’ look...for goodness sake you don’t pay for a seat for your handbag, so move the darn thing.

Don’t get me started about overweight people taking up half of the seat that I have managed to bag. I happen to be fairly slim, but I still pay for a WHOLE seat, and having to squeeze into a space that a contortionist would have a problem with, complete with my handbag, and to have to sit there for the entire journey with everything squished in stressful, although maybe good for my core muscles.

And there are the ones who talk loudly on their mobiles. I have no desire to know the intimate details of your love life, (although occasionally I listen up in case I may be missing out on a trick or two). I also do not need to be a party to your arguments. Let’s face it at 7.08 in the morning my brain is barely functioning, and whilst I admire the fact that you can string pretty plausible arguments together, I have no desire to witness it.

On the subject of phones - if it rings ANSWER IT- the entire carriage has heard it ring 5 times, we all know it’s yours, (commuters develop their own pin point accurate radar system), so how come you do not know? And then do not add insult to injury by allowing it to continue to ring whilst you look at the screen to check out the number - just ANSWER IT!

I know it annoys some people when women apply make-up on the train, but personally I find it quite useful to see the before and after as well as pick up tips on what to use and how to apply, or not as the case may be. Sometimes this is fairly scary, especially when you get the ‘what are you looking at’ scowl. It’s free entertainment as far as I am concerned - get over yourself.

I like music, all music really, but I don’t want to listen to the tinny sound of  noise coming from your ear phones -invest in better ones, turn the volume down (you will be deaf by the time you are 30), or sit ANYWHERE but near me.

Buy tissues! I have personally handed tissues to commuters who have sniffed, sneezed and coughed their way through the journey. I don’t want it, whatever you have, keep it to yourself! Did your mother never tell you not to sniff - same rule applies on the train - you have not slipped into a parallel universe for the journey where sniffing and the like are acceptable. And why is it that no matter how hard I glare at you, you still sit there sniffing, reading the Metro or playing with your phone, oblivious to my laser stare boring into your skull?

Okay we know when it rains we need an umbrella, and on the train the umbrella is closed, ladies we have this totally under control, but men - it is an umbrella, it has a pointy end. It is not a jousting stick. Keep the pointy end down. Avoid placing it under your arm like a newspaper where the pointy end sticks out. I have seen many people almost lose eyes, stabbed in the chest and other areas, and one lady had her handbag hooked. If you can’t use it responsibly don’t use one and get wet instead, saving untold injuries to your fellow travellers.

And when the train gets into the station, us poor people who have stood the entire way are entitled to get off the train first, unless we let you off. So sit down and WAIT. Being smug that you have a seat is fine but don’t then expect us not to stamp our rights when we can, and don’t tut and sigh heavily, just don’t...

Finally, Oyster Cards/Tickets - do not wait until you get to the barrier to fish around in every pocket/handbag/briefcase that you possess looking for it. It is annoying and causes us seasoned half awake commuters to slam into the back of you as we are on robot mode, it is very early and we are conditioned, and if you are a man with an umbrella you could kill somebody...

I could go on and on. I haven’t covered people who bring bikes onto crowded trains, people eating, beggars on train, reading over my shoulder, the announcements, people with poor personal hygiene...

Perhaps I could do with some divine intervention, St Christopher’s clearly MIA, so I googled it...and came up with Ekahau a Mayan God of travellers and merchants, and so I have specifically appointed him to rule over the 7.08 Beckenham Junction to Victoria.

May the force be with you..  Everything is OK on the Happy Carriage

Cathy x

I think I have Post Office Rage...

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I am totally convinced that every Post Office should carry a government health warning.

I can honestly say that I cannot remember a time when I walked into the Post Office and there wasn’t a queue. It doesn’t seem to matter which day you go, or what time of the day, it’s always busy. In fact at my Post Office there is a queue forming even before the doors have opened in the morning. It is distressing.

The queue often snakes its way around the barriers and out the door. There is a handy chair to sit on half way round, for those for whom the wait has become intolerable. But I never use it, as sprightly old ladies seem to manage without the need to collapse into the seat, and so I feel slightly embarrassed at not ‘manning up’ to the task.

Today was no different. Why do I always stand behind the ‘E bay’ woman who has about 20 parcels to send, all shapes and sizes...what the hell is she selling I wonder ...No, no please don’t ask for a proof of postage for every single item...ye gods, I will be here all day.

Then the clerk asks if she wants to top up her phone or apply for a Post Office credit card or change her life/home/car insurance...I have the overwhelming desire to shout: “Just take the parcels and let her go - I’ve been waiting for 30 minutes and am losing the will to live.” But I don’t of course.  I inwardly mutter and sigh loudly because that always makes me feel better. I catch the eye of the person next to me, we raise eyebrows and nod knowingly, a shared sense of frustration.

And to those people clutching their road tax papers I want to say give up your place and DO IT ON LINE. The computer instantly knows if you have an MOT certificate, insurance and the like, as soon as you tap in your car registration details; surely a simple verification process but which seems to take the human clerk FOR EVER.

I must keep calm...

I gaze down the line and notice a distracted mum trying to stop a bored three year old playing with the goods for sale, displayed at handy toddler height just to make the whole experience as uncomfortable and distressing as possible, for the toddler, the mother and, it transpires, for me. Thank you Mr Post Office.

And then a young man walks in and heads straight to the currency window. I know it’s allowed, but I am infuriated as it means that the two open windows are now reduced to one.  I watch him suspiciously, in case it’s a ruse just to muscle in. I narrow my eyes and cock my head straining to catch what he is saying. The rest of the queue has sensed this potential interloper and is on high alert, and a collective silence descends.  He’s buying dollars. “You off on your holidays?” the clerk asks. He laughs, “No not really. I’m going back to Afghanistan, to complete my tour. I’m in the Army”

At the mention of the word Afghanistan, people crane their necks to look at this young man and as he turns away from the window, clutching his dollars, an elderly man pats him on the back and offers his hand.  The young lad looks surprised but smiles as they shake hands and then the queue breaks out into a spontaneous round of applause. The soldier turns a deep shade of pink and half raises his hand in a slightly awkward acknowledgement. I whisper,” Keep safe” under my breath as he leaves the Post Office building.

And all of a sudden I am transported back to last year when my youngest son, Ash, was in Afghanistan on Operation Herrick 14 and the Post Office became almost a second home as every few days I sent out a shoebox full of goodies to him. A shoebox that was a kiss from home, filled with love and sweets and goodies and hope. A shoebox that would somehow, in my mind, protect him and keep him safe.

On 31st August 2011 I wrote in my diary:

“It is a red-letter day.

Today I am packing the final box.

This very last shoe box will be winging its way to Ash, Out There. I decide to go to Marks and Spencer and buy all the naughty but nice biscuits and sweets, all of those really lovely bits and bobs that sit on the shelves and call to you when you are waiting to pay. Today these special treats have been chosen, chosen to go into the final box. My next stop is Clarks shoe shop, which has supplied me with empty shoe boxes since March. I ask an assistant if I can select the box myself as it is the final box. She smiles and takes me to the shelves with the boxes. I ponder for a moment – the box has to be just right – and then I spot it, it is perfect. I reach up and take it from the shelf and I start to smile. Every box has been special, but this one is the king of the boxes. This one is the last of its kind.

I walk home, place the box on the kitchen table, carefully arrange the scissors, sticky tape, marker pen and brown paper next to it, and then empty out the contents of the M&S bag. The scene is set. I begin filling the shoe box, treating every item that goes in with the reverence it deserves, placing it exactly in the correct position. By the time I have finished, King Box is crammed full of goodies. I pop a note to Ash into the top of the box and then stand back to admire my work. This box is a masterpiece; in fact I will go as far as to say that it is my finest box to date! I close the lid and wrap the box with the final sheet of brown paper and sticky tape it up.

That’s it. All done. Box number 49, King Box, reporting for duty. The very last box in a long line of boxes, standing to attention, primed and ready to go.

I address this box as I have addressed boxes forty-eight times before. I know the address by heart, but I always go to the fridge door where the post-it note with his address sits under the Help for Heroes door magnet. I take down the post-it note, a little moth-eaten and grubby now, and put it next to the parcel, copying the words exactly, as I always do. It is my routine and I will not change it because he is safe and changing my routine might change that. I know this thought is ridiculous, but it helps me cope. This time, though, I write a note on the outside of the box:

This is Box 49, my final box. I want to thank every single person who handles Box 49 on its journey to Afghan. Thank you for everything you do. Whether civilian or military, your efforts count. Keep safe. A mum x

I put the box under my arm and head to the post office.

As the final box is taken from me, I smile. I actually want to wave at it as the clerk throws it into the big grey sack behind her, but I resist this urge as I know it will make me look like an absolute lunatic. So I wave at it inside my head and smile as I turn and walk out of the door.”

 

My Ash came back from Afghanistan, safe and well. For that I will be eternally grateful - I’m sure the shoeboxes helped!

I would like to dedicate this blog to Ian, Gill and all at OPERATIONSHOEBOX who do a fantastic job of keeping soldiers spirits high! Keep up the good work!

Cathy x

The Power of LOVE

Life isn’t defined by how old you are, or what you own, or how much you are worth. It is about the person you are and is defined by the actions you take. Life is about the selfless acts undertaken on a daily basis here, on this planet.

It is about making a difference, however small. It is often about unselfish acts performed without witnesses, without ceremony and often without reward. It is about reaching out and holding a hand in need, even though you may have nothing to give but your compassion.

It is about the whisper and not the shout.

Our troops, this special band of men and women define this. They show us qualities that we can only begin to dream of. They serve us with respect, dignity and pride.

Whilst remembering their courage, we should also acknowledge the parents and guardians who raised these fine people into adulthood in the right way, and supported them so that they could protect us. It is about being there for the people we love, always and unconditionally.

We remember today, our heroes, both sung and unsung.

We thank you for your courage, your inspiration and your humour. Our world is a brighter place because of you.

Today is a day for silence, for contemplation and for reflection. Today is a day where we say a special ‘Thank You’ wrapped up with deep and humbling gratitude to the Fallen and the injured from the current war in Afghanistan, who now stand shoulder to shoulder with those from all wars where our young men and women have given their lives, their limbs, their eyes and their minds to keep up safe.

It is a debt that can never be repaid.

I salute you.     Cathy x

Is 54 too old to jump in puddles?

It was a normal Saturday morning and, as usual the dogs and I were walking through the woods when I saw it. It was a puddle so big that I was stopped in my tracks. Ok so it’s not in league of what Hurricane Sandy left behind in New York, but never the less it was sizeable. The dogs had already waded through, stopping to have a drink half way across, (I wish they wouldn’t), but as I got to the outer edge I had a moment. I am actually quite prone to having moments, I’m not sure if it’s the menopause but this curious behaviour has been more noticeable since my youngest returned safely from Afghanistan a year ago, so there is definitely something afoot.

And without a thought I jumped in, two feet, kerbassh, straight into the middle of the puddle...and then I jumped again, kicking the water as I went and I started to laugh because it was silly and stupid and...well, fun. The dogs wagged their tails and started to bark and all was well within my little world.  Until I turned round to follow the line of their gaze... and there he was: a man holding onto the collar around his boxer dog’s neck, looking at me. Not in a creepy, stalkerish way, but more in a bemused, where is her Carer sort of a way.

I stopped jumping. I opened my mouth to say something witty and terribly clever and “The water’s lovely!” came out. He remained silent and then, without uttering a single sound, turned round, pulling at the lead, now firmly attached to the equally bemused boxer dog’s collar, and strode off , head down in a purposeful manner, in the opposite direction.

I looked down at my muddy green wellies and brushed down the front of the enormous Army issue green waterproof I was wearing over my sheepskin jacket.  On reflection I could see that my appearance bore vague similarities to an enormous green gherkin, which was probably quite a scary sight, even for those with a strong constitution. It was definitely not a scene you want to stumble across on a Saturday morning in November.

I sighed, and thrust my hands into the huge pockets of my waterproof and pulled out a refresher chew - well it had been Halloween and I had overdone the sweets thing - I actually only had one fairly pathetic fairy and a cowboy (?) knock on my door, so I am now on a diet of Refreshers, lollies and mini milky ways.

My kids use to love Halloween. Well if I am being honest I loved and still love Halloween. My children didn’t need much encouragement to go with the flow! At the time I saw nothing wrong in dressing them up, painting their faces and sending them off into the dark to knock on strangers houses and ask for money or sweets...ok...so I have had a few years to think about it...and Fagin does spring to mind...but they loved it, and it was different back then, wasn’t it? They would come back with their bags overflowing and tip their spoils out on the carpet. It was just a bit of fun.

Nowadays we do seem to be a bit devoid of fun sometimes.

I also have been known to whiz down a supermarket aisle whilst pushing a big trolley building it up so after a couple of good pushes I can lean forward and take my feet just off of the ground just enough so I speed along on trolley power alone. In my head I do make the ‘Wheeee’ sound, and I must admit that there was an incident last week when I said this out loud, forgetting myself for just a moment, and causing a small boy to turn to his mother and say, “She’s being naughty isn’t she Mummy?” and his Mother giving me one of those ‘for goodness sake act your age’ looks.

And I smile, because it is harmless and silly and the world is such a dull place at times, and it doesn’t hurt anyone. And I’m 54 and I can.

I can blame it all on the menopause, people either nod knowingly, (and perhaps a tad sympathetically), or shuffle away embarrassed. I don’t even have to say the words; I can mouth them in an exaggerated fashion, ala Les Dawson: “It’s the menopause you know.”

And even if that isn’t a valid excuse, then as a mother of a serving soldier who has done his stuff in Afghanistan I am allowed to be a bit crazy, ditsy and silly. I am allowed to let off steam and to be thankful that, for now, he is home and he is safe. Me, just like thousands of other mums who have, or have had, their children serve Out There spend so much time worrying and fretting that we need to have an escape. Menopause of not, puddle splashing and trolley riding should be compulsory.

And of course it is now firework time, so I need to go and find me a sparkler, so I can write my name in the air...

Cathy x

Light a candle ...

It’s just a day, 7th October. But for me this date has taken on a significance all of its’ own. It is the 11th Anniversary of the start of the war in Afghanistan. Eleven years since NATO airstrikes first hit Kabul, and oddly it is exactly one year ago today that my youngest son came back from his tour in Afghanistan. It is a day when I can celebrate his 2011 safe return and yet mourn the date in 2001 when we saw the beginning of something dreadful. It is an odd and very peculiar feeling, happy and sad all at once, the good and the bad, the light and dark.

My baby boy came back safe in mind and body and for that I will be eternally grateful. I read back the pages of my diaries that I kept whilst he was in Afghanistan. I barely recognise the woman I was then. I was, of course a Mum of a Son who was fighting in a foreign land 3,554 miles away, for a cause that I didn’t really understand. It was a strange and scary time for me. I was doing a tour by default. It made me question everything. I re read my words and I realise that the questions I posed then are still relevant now and still, an entire year later, unresolved and unanswered.

Last year I was shocked at the cost of the war. At that point it was estimated at £258 billion but I recently read an article that put it at 1 trillion dollars, a figure that I am unable to get my head around, (and honestly I have no ideas how many zeros that is!). But it isn’t about the money, it’s about the loss of life and limbs and minds. It’s about the human cost. It’s about sons and daughters not coming home, about children being denied a parent. It’s about the heartache and the devastation and that doesn’t ever have a price tag.

I was angry last year, angry at the last government for sending them Out There and even more cross at the new government for keeping them there. But I am not a political animal. I am just a very proud mum of a serving soldier in the British Army and from where I sit it is all about the troops and their families. I care about them and care nothing for the politicians and their meaningless words. We are still Out There, we will continue to suffer losses and injuries. I want to be able to do something, even if it’s a little something to help, to show my support.

So when I went to Trafalgar Square in London today to attend the Stop the War Coalition ‘Naming the Dead’ rally it was the photos of the fallen that I saw and their names that I heard, not the political speak. British soldiers who had made the ultimate sacrifice, and the names of some of the thousands of Afghani civilians who were in the wrong place at the wrong time, being read out aloud together.  As I stood there and listened I heard some familiar names, names of those who were killed whilst Ash was on tour. They were the sons and daughter of families I had spoken to. Real people, real families; not just numbers and statistics.

Somebody’s special somebody. People to whom I can relate, because when we said our goodbyes as they went off to start their tour, we never knew if we would see them again, we never knew what a knock at the door would mean, we were helpless and all we had was hope and love...

I was momentarily distracted from the ceremony as my gaze wandered across Trafalgar Square where I saw an entire family of pearly kings and queens resplendent in their costumes. They were coming out of a church, and I smiled as I watched them, just a small smile as I remembered that the Pearly motto was “One never knows.”

And the irony did not escape me as I remembered that cold afternoon in March last year when I kissed my soldier son goodbye and realised that it was probably just as well that I didn’t know what the future held...