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

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

Stilettos – the new WMD?

I think I’ve cracked it! After viewing the enjoyable #Cybergeddon over the internet at  the weekend and catching up with ‘Nikita’ on the planner I have realised that the world could become a safer place if women assassins /FBI agents/undercover something’s go out and do their thing wearing a pair of stilettos. I started to ponder this and seem to remember an impressive towering heeled Cat Women in The Dark Knight Rises, and even good old Lois Lane in Superman who became a superhero called Stiletto...

,

I marvelled at how these women pushed, punched and generally kicked butt in footwear that can only be described as terrifying. Personally I would have problems walking to the bus stop in some of the shoe attire which adorned those perfect size 5 feet, let alone saving a nation from nuclear meltdown or from the clutches of a madmen seeking world domination.

However saying that I did have a quick glance at my rows of shoes and boots, sitting waiting for the day they will be taken out of my closet, and I felt quite proud of the fact that if necessary I could probably play my part in keeping the world safe.

Clearly the kitten heels would be of little use, but I do have a pair of lethal looking shoes with studs on, which I am sure could rise to the challenge, as I’m around 6’1” with them on!  Only women who have a serious shoe habit will understand that you don’t actually have to walk in them. As long as your toes can wiggle in and your heels can rock from side to side until firmly rooted the walking unaided part is optional. It is Mission Accomplished as you admire your new shoes. Ok so there will be pain, we know this, but it is often a small price to pay for the sheer excitement of wearing killer heels. Of course in these cases there would be no room for martial arts or anything remotely superheroesque , nerves of steel and total focus would be required just to remain upright!

I am a 50 something  who has never quite grown out of the thrill of a good old girly shoe shop. 

The sad fact is that my feet seem to have expanded over the years and I now have bunions and an in growing toenail, (too much information?), but that still does not detract from my habit. It just ensures that these days I look and covet more than I actually buy.  Imelda Marcos I’m not. Apparently when she fled the Philippines a staggering 1,220 pair of shoes lay abandoned in a closet. Now that is one seriously large space for shoes!

Saying that though it would be marvellous to have a walk in swanky shoe closet with all the shoes and boots in boxes and a photo of the contents on the outside of the box. I did make a start at doing exactly that with my scant collection, but then my youngest son Ash went to Afghanistan...

You see when our troops are Out There we are allowed to send shoe box size parcels free of charge to them. During Ash’s tour on OperationHerrick 14 I sent 49 boxes. Each box was as a kiss from home. I imagined that as he opened each box he would be surrounded by us, his family and feel the love and hugs we had packed into them.

It became a mission to find things to pop into the box, surprises sitting alongside the toiletries and food. I sent him frisbies and juggling balls, photos and magazines, even hanging shelves from IKEA! When I had exhausted the supply of shoe boxes from my closet I started to beg for empty boxes from the local Clarkes, but looking back I now realise that I actually missed a trick. I had a bona fide excuse to go out and buy 49 pairs of new shoes and boots.

I mean it would be helping the country, our troops and the war effort and we all have to do our little bit now, don’t we?

www.operationshoebox.co.uk

Cathy x

For the Love of Dog...

I love my two dogs and they love me. I get the same excited waggy tailed welcome every single morning as I get up and let them out of the study, which is where they sleep. It’s a repeat performance when I get in from work, or when I have just popped down to the shops. The mention of ‘walkies’ sends them into an impressive dash around the kitchen, bouncing and barking. Special words such as ‘treats’ and ‘cheese’ (yes, yes I know I shouldn’t...), makes them sit instantaneously and sends the tail wagging into hyper drive. They are just content ‘to be’. I marvel at them. Archer and Poppy are supposed to be Miniature Schnauzers, but there is nothing miniature about Archer, and Poppy is, I think, a cross between a Westie and a Schnauzer, so we call her a Wowzer. She was born on 11th November, Remembrance, (Poppy) Day, hence her name.

My dogs are a source of consistency and happiness in my life, regardless of what else is going on. So when my youngest son went out to Afghanistan with 7th Armoured Brigade last year, (known as the Desert Rats), I relied heavily on my dogs to keep everything the same in my world; and probably more importantly to help keep me sane. As the rest of my world started to fray at the seams my two dogs were there, sitting by me, giving their support to me in an uncomplicated way.

When Ash called me from Afghanistan I used to tell him about the walks I went on with our dogs, trying to take him away from the sun and the dust and the bullets. Away from everything that symbolised the hellhole he was in. I talked about my walks in the woods and the way the dogs splashed in the small stream. I described the flowers which were in bud, the colour of the leaves on the trees and the smell of the cow parsley. I wanted to paint a picture, a memory he could store in his mind’s eye, for when he needed it. A breath from home. It could serve as a reminder of all that is peaceful and calm and lovely, a scene of happy dogs splashing in cool waters, without a care in the world.

And when one day Ash told me that the Danish soldiers he was serving with had rescued a puppy dog from certain death and had brought her back to the camp, I was happy. I laughed as he said that they had named her Rommel, commonly known as The Desert Fox back in the Second World War. This tiny puppy had lifted their spirits, even though she had chewed their shoes, and had stolen their rations and hadn’t quite got to grips with toilet training!

Every time he called he had a story about what she had been up to.  He recounted how one day the Danes had taken her out on patrol with them, and she had got left behind as they crossed a river, and how some Afghani children had found her and had brought her back to the soldiers at their Control Point. She was a constant source of entertainment and amusement during what was a very bleak time Out There, and for that I will always be grateful.

And Rommel is not the only dog in Afghanistan I should be grateful to. I read this week about a black Labrador called Treo and her handler Sergeant Dave Heyhoe. This dog had been trained to sniff out IEDs, bombs and weapons that had been hidden by the Taliban in Afghanistan. He was part of the 104 Military Working Dog Support Unit, Royal Army Veterinary Corps.

It transpires that this dog was awarded the canine equivalent of the Victoria Cross for his efforts and was responsible for saving the lives of many British soldiers during his many tours. Now retired he is enjoying a well earned rest with Sergeant Heyhoe, who has written a book called “It’s All About Treo: Life and War with the World’s Bravest Dog.”

Treo, Rommel, Archer and Poppy...what a team!  

Thank you!

Cathy x