London to Brighton - now that’s a nice walk... Help for Heroes

“Are you mad?” was my first reaction when my daughter, Rosie, told me that she was going to walk from London to Brighton. The London to Brighton 100km London 2 Brighton Walk  which is 62.13 miles in old money. She had just started her first job at  xceed group London and a few of her co workers thought it would be a challenge and they could raise money for charity.

Rosie chose Help for Heroes helpforheroes.org.uk, which isn’t surprising as her brother, Ash, is in the Army and served out in Afghanistan on Operation Herrick 14 , and his girlfriend Sheryl is a Gunner, having served tours in Iraq and Afghanistan where she suffered life changing injuries and has been put back to together by the amazing people at Headley Court headleysurrey.org.uk , helped in no small way by the funds raised by Help for Heroes.

And it seemed fitting that Rosie would walk, walking for those who couldn’t walk anymore.

The girls: Rosie Sunny Grace and Lucy got into training. The walk would take over 24 hours to complete, covering all terrains as well as walking through the night. I kept hearing The Proclaimers singing ‘I would walk 500 miles’ but after seeing the people at the finish in Brighton I have to say I bet they wouldn’t...

I went to the 25km point to cheer them on - they were in good spirits, a definite party atmosphere and all seemed well. Rosie’s brothers Gary and Ash, along with their girlfriends Hannah and Sheryl went to the 56km mark to offer encouragement and support. It was getting dark by then and I think the full horror of what they had taken on was just starting to sink in. 50km was the most they had walked in training and the remainder of the walk was unknown territory, in the dark, with no sleep and a long way from home.

At 10am the next day, 26 hours after they started I spoke to Rosie, she was in high spirits, “It’s adrenalin that is keeping us going Mum. We’ve done 87.5km. This is so very hard...but we are nearly there...We just want it over now..”

28 hours after they started I stood on Brighton Racecourse watching the girls walk the final furlong. I have to say that I have never been more proud of her and her team. What an example of all that is good and kind and compassionate in the world. In light of the atrocities of Woolwich in the week it was heart warming to see people, all people, all ages, shapes and sizes, colours and religions, come together to make a difference for charity, for other people, regardless of personal pain.

Watching those people hobble over the finish line was uplifting, humbling and downright brilliant! We clapped and cheered, whooped and hollered. A fantastic event.

As Rosie crossed the line she smiled as she received her medal, but I could tell that she was in a whole world of pain. She slept all the way home. It wasn’t until she got home did I see her poor feet, swollen, blistered and red raw. She cried in pain, and I cried with her. But she personally has raised over £2,000 for Help for Heroes, which is no mean feat.

(sorry about the pun!)

I just wish we could bottle whatever it is that brings out the very best in people, the kindness, the compassion, the simply being a better person because you can, and for no self gain.

This amazing walk showed that we are awash with it in this country.

Long may it continue!

“Rosie, I’m just about to take the dogs for a walk, would you like to....Ouch!” as a well aimed trainer catches me on the side of the head...

“I take that as a No then?”

As I walk out the door I start to hum....”If I could walk 500 miles...”

Check out Rosie Charity page  rosie wiles Walk

Cathy x

 help for heroes

David Haye - not just a nice bum...

Well I have to admit it - ‘I’m a Celebrity’ is my guilty pleasure. I’ve always liked it but this year was the best one ever.  It was great fun, we had nice contestants, the bush tucker trials were horrible, Ant and Dec were on top form and there was THAT shower scene. Everyone has gone on about Mylene Klass and the white bikini but David Haye, naked under the waterfall, ladies....well....all I can say is...pwooor! (Gentlemen...please go to the gym...go directly to the gym and do not pass go!)

I actually know another side of David Haye. Yes I know, what with Ross Kemp the other week and now this, I am positively almost an A lister myself! He bought a house in my neck of the woods, (David not Ross!); him and his gorgeous wife and baby son, and I once dropped an invite to a party through his letterbox.

It’s not as mad as you might think, well maybe it is, but I was a little short on the ground of Big Names to invite, (well actually his was the only address I knew), but there was a connection. The surprise party was for Ash coming back from Afghanistan and Ash and his brother are both great Haye fans, having driven to Manchester to watch him win his world title. So I thought it fitting.

Unfortunately the date I picked was not only David Hayes birthday, (although we could have arranged a joint do?), but also the day he retired from boxing.  So I guess he could be forgiven for not attending the knees up at The Swan in West Wickham, although Mick & Lisa are the best landlords ever. He did however contact me through his PA expressing his regret that he could not attend and sent Ash a personally signed book with a notation to him on it. It was a lovely thing to do and I will be forever grateful for that small act of kindness that made Ash’s eyes light up.

Ash had been on Operation Herrick 14 and away for 7 of the longest months of my life. But he was back now, safe and sound, and we wanted to throw a party for him and put the past 7 months Out There behind us.

In my diary I wrote:

My covert mission to ensure that Ash’s party remains a total secret is going very well. The Swan is on high alert and Gary has been in to decorate the room with balloons and bunting. Mick and Lisa have arranged a disco and I have put numerous photos from Out There onto a memory stick to be projected onto the TV screen during the evening. Lisa’s mum has baked a cake and Mick and a guy from the British Legion have supplied flags. Rosie and Sammie have contacted everyone they know and we are hoping for a good turnout. The local press will be there and Lisa has arranged for the Crystal Palace Cheerleaders to come in and give him a cheer, complete with pom-poms!

 

My mission is to get him there without spoiling the surprise. I decide to tell him that my friend Chris is over with her sons from Italy and that they want to say hi and see his medals. I tell him that they will be in the local Pizza Express at eight o’clock and perhaps we could just pop in to see them. Luckily Ash has no other plans for the evening: he informs me that all his mates are being ‘right wusses’ and don’t want to go out tonight. I smile. I make a furtive call to Italy to tell Chris that she mustn’t telephone me later as she is supposed to be here in the UK. She laughs and is delighted that her family is part of the deception.

With military precision I text Gary at 7.56 to let him know that we are leaving the house. At 7.59 we get to Pizza Express, the designated place to meet Chris and the boys, only to find, surprisingly, that they are not there.

‘Oh, Ash, I wonder where they can be?’ We stand outside, looking through the window of the restaurant.

‘Let me call her.’ I reach for my phone and dial Gary’s number. ‘We’re outside Pizza Express.’

‘We are all ready here, Mum,’ Gary says. I pause for further effect. ‘Caught in traffic?’ I respond. I look at Ash and raise my eyebrows. ‘You’ll be about ten minutes?’

‘He hasn’t got a clue, has he, Mum?’ Gary says.

‘Just a minute, Chris. They’re caught in traffic, Ash, what shall we do?’

‘Go to The Swan, for a quick drink?’ he says.

‘Good idea, Ash,’ I answer.

‘Result!’ Gary says.

‘We’ll go into The Swan for a drink then, Chris. Call me when you get here.’

‘See you in a minute, Mum.’ As Gary’s voice trails off, I hear him shouting, ‘Right, everyone, he’s on his way. Into positions!’ Ash and I chat as we cross the road and I notice Mick standing outside the pub smoking a cigarette. He gives me the smallest of nods.

‘Ash, my boy!’ Mick says as he embraces Ash. ‘Nice to see you!’

We follow Mick into the bar and I hang back. I notice that the door to the conservatory is shut as Ash heads towards the bar. ‘Drink, Mum?’ he asks.

‘Oh, Ash, let’s go into the conservatory. I prefer it in there.’ I catch Mick’s eye; he’s panicking ever so slightly. ‘Really?’ he replies, and for a split second I think it’s all about to go horribly wrong. But then Ash puts his wallet back into his pocket, and turns away from the bar.

‘Go on then.’ I gesture towards the door. ‘Afghan heroes first.’

As he opens the door all that can be heard it a massive cheer and the sound of scores of party poppers exploding, the flashing of cameras and the opening bars of ‘Ain’t No Stopping Us Now’ (David Haye music as he enters the ring!) Ash looks around at me and as I see his face I worry that he might hit the deck, believing that he is back Out There and under sniper fire. But then he smiles and walks into the room. He is immediately lost in a sea of people, surrounded by his friends, who are all laughing and slapping him on the back. Everyone is happy for him, pleased to be part of this, and so very proud.

The room looks fantastic, the place has been transformed into a magical wonderland filled with light and happiness and love, and I beam from ear to ear as I watch the scene in front of me. I go up to him and give him a hug. ‘Surprise!’

He looks at me and then frowns. ‘What about Chris and the boys?’

‘Oh, Ash… It was just a ploy to get you here. You were conned!’ I laugh.

‘Mother, I will never believe a word you say to me ever again!’

And the Cheer Leaders danced and people ate and drank and smiled...and if David Haye had been there last thing he would have said is “I’m a Celebrity - Get me out of here!”

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

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

Call yourself a Good Mum?

I was in Starbucks having a much needed injection of caffeine, (grande skinny latte with an extra shot...I know, but if I top up before 11am I can still sleep that night). It had been one of those mornings so I stopped off at my local coffee shop for a much needed change of scenery.

I looked around and saw a number of women sitting round a table, hemmed in by some very fancy buggies - I guess these machines are the 4x4s of the stroller world nowadays. I thought back to the double buggy I had for my kids and remembered that it was always a balancing act. I couldn’t hook too many bags of shopping on the handles and let go for fear of the buggy collapsing and my children being catapulted backwards through the air. But that was long ago and far away.

I couldn’t quite catch what this group of young mums were discussing but one posed the question, “So that’s being a good mum is it?”  Her face was perfectly made up and she had the most amazing long nails, (how does she cope with them I wondered, and immediately winced as an image of her changing the baby’s nappy, and a tiny bit of pooh getting stuck under a nail flashed before my eyes - oh the horror!)

She was very animated with the enviable ability to raise just one perfectly plucked eye brow as she talked. I have always been slightly in awe of people who can do this, as try as I might I can’t. I can do both brows going up into a surprised face, or both going down into a scowly face, but fail miserably at the single brow trick.

I guess these women could be classed as Yummy Mummies: with not a hair out of place and nails and faces perfect. They were immaculate, as were their charges. I would even go as far to say co-ordinated, which was a little scary but even so I was slightly envious. My mind went back to when I was about their age, but I was a manic, single working mum with three very small children who never had any spare time, and if I did I used it for one thing - sleeping, (which was a treat in itself in the early years!)

But the question made me think. What is being a ‘Good Mum’? I mean I have never mislaid any of my kids, does that count? And then a memory, long buried, resurfaced.  I was in a supermarket, almost twenty years ago and my youngest, Ash, would not sit in the seat of a double shopping trolley. Rosie, who was a year older, but the same size, had slotted in perfectly, but Ash had gone rigid. Trying to force his unbending legs between the metal bars whilst keeping a smile on my face, (so that everyone knew I had this under control), and starting to feel the burn in my arms, (as children are always a lot heavier than they look), became impossible. I gave up, telling him to hold on to my hand, which soon became impractical as I had one of those trolleys with a wheel that goes in a different direction to the others. So I told him to hold onto the trolley.

I went whizzing down the aisles, grabbing the bogofs, (buy one get one free), whilst keeping an eye on the time. Things were going well, shopping almost done, mind racing about the twenty things that had to be completed in the day and then I heard it: the ding dong of the public address system. A nasally women started speaking, “Would the parent or guardian of a small boy wearing a Spiderman outfit please come to Customer Services where we have your child.”

 I froze...

I closed my eyes for a second and then looked down at the empty space, although already well aware that Ash would not be there. Let’s face it how many small boys are there at any one time wearing Spiderman outfits in a supermarket? C’mon it was 1992 - it was okay back then...

As I made my way to Customer Services Rosie started to cry. I took a deep breath as I reached the counter, “I’m here to collect my son...the one in the Spiderman outfit...the announcement said ...” my voice trailed off and I tried a ‘whoops silly me’ face and smiled.

A stick thin woman in her 50s, whose perfectly coiffed grey hair was kept in place with a can of hairspray, looked over her glasses at me. She said nothing at first, just slowly looked me up and down as I self consciously tried to hide the stain on my jacket where Rosie has been sick the previous day. She looked across to the wailing Rosie, face bright red by now and snot hanging from her nose. I then followed her gaze as she noted all the special offers in my trolley and I knew that she was judging me.  I became conscious that my face was make- up free and my hair, scraped back in an elastic band, was in need of a wash. She raised just one perfectly plucked eyebrow and said:

“Call yourself a Good Mum then?”

I remember shrinking to the size of a small insect and wanting the floor to open up. But then, as if by magic, Rosie stopped crying and smiled as she saw her brother. I grabbed Spiderman who hugged me as if I had been gone forever and I also smiled, a big beaming smile, a smile that goes all the way across your face and makes your eyes go all crinkly, and my world was once again happy, perfect and complete.

I have three incredible children: Ash got out of his Spiderman habit and is now a soldier in the British Army, having served in Afghanistan last year during Operation Herrick 14; Rosie has turned into a beautiful woman and has just completed a Masters in Forensic Computing at Portsmouth University, and landed herself a fantastic job;  my eldest, Gary, has made it to his 30th birthday, despite having me as a mum, and is amazing person as well as an inspirational Master Personal Trainer and all round good egg.

Ooh, I’ve just remembered - I’ve got to dash, as I am having hair, nails and face done, in practice; so when the time is right I want to have a shot at Call Yourself a Good Nan then?!

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...