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

If at first you don’t succeed...

Staying power and focus are admirable qualities. Unfortunately in my working life and housework I don’t see myself as having either trait in vast quantities, but when it comes to my children I produce a will of iron from somewhere deep inside me and refuse to take no for an answer. I have been likened to a dog with a bone, or even less (?) flatteringly an Exocet, (for those who don’t know this was an anti aircraft missile used extensively in the Falklands war. It could be launched from almost anywhere and lock onto its target regardless of anything in its way).

I suppose I would have felt better if I was likened to a lioness protecting her cubs. This, in my mind is far more noble and positive...and then I think of the documentary footage of a lioness bringing down a tiny deer or a strayed baby wildebeest and the whole thing becomes slightly confused and a tad awkward, but I digress...

 I have been a single mum since the children were very small. I have tried, with varying degrees of success, to put them on the right path; a path that would see them safe and happy. So when Ash told me aged 15 that he wanted to join the Army it was the determination in his eyes and his resolute and unshakeable faith that this was his path in life which made me feel that I had a responsibility to make it happen.

It wasn’t easy, I was wary about my baby boy joining up. He seemed too young and yet there was a knowingness about him, he was so sure, and through that I became sure. There were interviews and paperwork, tests and more tests, mostly involving me taking Ash to the Army Recruitment Centre in Blackheath and waiting. There was a lot of waiting. 

The path through the recruitment stage was long and arduous and I learned that only 1 out of every 10 young men who walk through the Army Recruitment Centres doors actually make it to basic training.

The morning the letter arrived Ash was at school, so I opened the letter and read that he had been turned down on medical reasons. I stared at the letter and reread its contents. It was because he had had asthma. Thoughts raced through my head and I instantly remember the bad attacks Ash had when he was small, being hospitalised once when I will never forget his tear stained faced begging me not to leave him...but that was years ago and he hadn’t had an asthma attack since he was about 6 and had been off the inhalers now for years. I scratched my head and read the letter again....my eyes darted over the page until I saw the words “Appeal against the decision”, so there was hope.

I found myself checking the clock at regular intervals during the day, waiting to hear the key in the lock and Ash to come home from school. He sat down as I told him the news. His eyes got wider and wider and then started to glisten,

“But Mum” he said “What do I do? What do I do now? It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

And I looked at him, this young man with eyes the colour of conkers, and I knew that I had to make this happen. I had no choice because I was his Mum and that my job, regardless of how I felt, because it was about him, and not about me.

So I wrote the letter, and fought the decision. After a few weeks the decision was over turned and Ash was cleared to go to basic training and to join up. He was going into Army.

It was on August 28th 2007 in the Army Recruitment Centre in Blackheath, in front of Major M Norris, (a man you had joined as a 16 year old raw recruit), that Ash swore his allegiance to the Queen, I cried, he was not just mine anymore. He was 16 years old and agreeing to serve, to defend, and potentially lay down his life in order to protect others.

“ I Ashley Thomas Wiles swear by almighty God that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II, Her heirs and successors and that I will as in duty bound honestly and faithfully defend Her Majesty, Her heirs and successors in Person, Crown and dignity against all enemies and will observe and obey all orders of Her Majesty, Her heirs and successors and of the Generals and Officers set over me."

 I was humbled and immensely proud of this young warrior, my son. And through the tears I laughed. A silent inward laugh as he pronounced the words Heirs as Hairs, and it made me want to hug him as I realised just how young, how vulnerable and how very unworldly he actually was.

It was a few years later that I was to remember that it was my decision to send the appeal letter and to fight for his right to join up. It was my actions that would eventually result in my son, my baby boy, going to Afghanistan and to war...

Madness is inevitable

“I suppose madness is an inevitable outcome...” I overheard these words as I stood in the checkout queue in the supermarket. The woman in front of me was talking into her mobile. I immediately became interested, and stepped closer to her.

An outcome to what?  Why was madness inevitable? Who was she talking about? I strained to catch the rest of the conversation, but it was her turn to be served and so she moved away to the bagging end of the counter. I took a couple of steps closer but she caught my eye, flashed me a look as if to say “Get back to the shopping divider” and said something quietly into her phone whilst holding her steely gaze locked into my eyes. I shifted slightly uncomfortably and rummaged around in my bag looking for an imaginary something. I considered the words and realised that she may well have been discussing me, not now of course, but me, last year.

My youngest son is currently serving in the British Army, 207 Signal Squadron and went out to Afghanistan last year aged 20 on a 7 month tour. During that time I wrote a diary, trying to purge the thoughts I was feeling. I took the ‘better out than in’ approach. It was a peculiar time for me.

 I existed.

Every waking moment was consumed by Ash in Afghanistan. I longed for his call. I scoured the internet to read anything and everything about Nahr e Saraj, the area where he was based. I became obsessed, focused, determined and slightly batty. But I still had to go to work, keep the house and be here for my other two children. I had to function on the outside, and for all intent and purpose I was under the impression that I held up fairly well.

Well that’s if you don’t count the meltdown in Bromley High Street when I missed a call from him after an 11 day silence, or confusing the telephone call from my hairdresser with somebody from the Army, and of course the time when...hmmm, yes well perhaps, with hindsight, there were a few wobbles on the way, and perhaps madness was inevitable, even though it was only a temporary state of affairs. Perhaps the supermarket call was referring to another mum whose boy has gone to war. Perhaps madness is the tightrope we walk when our boys and girls get deployed.

I don’t come from a Military family, so when Ash aged 4 said he wanted to join the Army I just thought it was a typical 4 year old, lost in play, dressing up in tiny camouflage trousers and toting a plastic gun. Even when he was 13 and joined the Army Cadets I thought it was a good thing. It would keep him off the streets, out of trouble and teach him valuable life lessons.

As a single working Mum I was always slightly concerned about the absence of a Father figure in his life and welcomed his involvement with the Cadets, going away with them of their expeditions tromping through god knows where in the middle of the night reading maps and getting lost.  He loved it all, sleeping in tents and marching and was very proud of his uniform. Even when he became more serious about his career and told me at aged 15 that he wanted to join the Army, I didn’t really have alarm bells ringing. I was more concerned that he would be leaving school too early with just average GCSEs. He told me that he didn’t want to stay on and take his A-levels, that school wasn’t for him and that he didn’t want to go to College or University.

His one and only desire was to join the Army. I remember his eyes: big, brown, determined, focused. He looked at me with an unwavering stare. His mind was made up, and such was his determination I was slightly caught on the hop. Ash had always been so laid back, so calm and yet here was this young man in front of me, his jaw set, his lips pursed, knowing at 15 years old what he was going to do.

If I had realised that he would go to Afghanistan at that point I think I would have stuck him in a bag and locked him in the cupboard under the stairs. But hindsight is a wonderful thing!

Although there were wars in Iraq and Afghanistan going on at the time, and had been for some time, I didn’t connect the dots. Had I been wearing my sensible head then I’m sure it would have put the two together. Clearly though I wasn’t, but I’m still not too sure why I gave it such scant regard.  I honestly do not remember this conundrum ever gracing my thought process. I am a little ashamed of this fact as it now seems slightly irresponsible that as I was the one who had to sign the consent forms, it was my signature that would send him to war...
Cathy