Move over Grant Mitchell...I think the real Ross Kemp has just stood up...

Ross Kemp - not Grant - ed!

I went to lunch with Ross Kemp this week. Well I guess I should clarify that: me and fifty or so others went to lunch with RK. Check me out! Sarah, (who is my long suffering friend who does all the clever internet stuff, which I am totally incapable of doing), joined me and we met and listened to Ross wax lyrical about what he’s been up to, (see I am on first name terms now..)

I do have to say that I was a little terrified I would call him Grant, (Mitchell from East Enders fame), and so I started to repeat a Ross Ross Ross mantra in my head, hoping that the words would stick. Oh the shame if I called him Grant, or even worse Phil...

I don’t know what I expected. He is made out to be a bit of a hard man, perhaps he would lunge at us and shout “’Ave it, you scum!” whilst brandishing a sawn off shotgun, looking menacing with a fierce and slightly mad glint in his eye. Actually, dispelling all the myths, in reality, he is quite charming, shorter that I thought he would be, but dressed in the required dark suit shirt and tie combo. He appeared relaxed and conversed easily as he made his way around the tables.

On our table we had a young lady who had travelled all the way from Blackburn for this lunch, and then decided that she couldn’t eat anything as she was so star struck! She even had Ross Kemps’ initials tattooed on her arm. I have to say that I found this a bit disturbing, but felt her efforts should not go unnoticed and so as he reached our table I told him about her. After hearing this he whipped out his mobile phone and started to press buttons. I was a bit miffed and suggested that maybe this wasn’t the time to be texting or tweeting but he actually wanted to share a photo with me. It was a photo of a man’s leg with a tattoo of Ross Kemps face on it. I actually thought that it was quite a good likeness but in a creepy sort of way: 1. because who would have a tattoo of a total strangers face put on their body? & 2. Why has Ross Kemp kept it on his phone? and in that moment I realised that there was indeed, ‘Nowt as strange as folk!’

I frowned as I showed Sarah, “Ooh that’s a bit odd, don’t you think?”she said I nodded, I mean, come on - sorry Ross, because you seem a very nice man and all that, but, personally I wouldn’t want your face staring up at me from the back of my calf until the end of days, no offence of course...

I told him my about my Ash serving with the Army in Afghanistan last year, and he showed me a photo of his little boy, who is gorgeous. We were, in that moment, both extremely proud parents of boys, and it was nice and convivial. Ross Kemp was very... well... ordinary... normal, dare I say it...even soft...

After dinner he spoke about the horrors he has seen. He wasn’t dramatic, just very matter of fact, which I actually felt a little sad about...perhaps he has seen too much death, pain  destruction in Afghanistan, Chile, Pakistan, Mexico, Glasgow and all of the other places he had reported from; perhaps he is now desensitised? I recently watched his programme Invisible Wounds about troops with PTSD from the 1982 Falklands war and more recently Afghanistan - he clearly was moved, connected and concerned about the potential time bomb we have with this rarely talked about issue.  But it was when he talked about the devastation of the rain forests, about what he saw happening to the Amazon, the lungs of the world, he became animated, alive, his blue eyes shone. He claims that he is no environmentalist, but you know I think deep down he cares, really cares...

After the lunch was over I asked him if he would support our project called Herrick Wood. A project to create woodland, to support, protect and encourage the lungs of our country and in doing this support the troops returning from Afghanistan and their families who suffer the on- going and future psychological effects of war. And you know what? Ross Kemp gently put his hands on my shoulders and looked at me...

Move over Grant Mitchell...I think the real Ross Kemp has just stood up...

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...