When We Were Five....

I rang my friend Marie last night to ask her some questions about our wonderful childhood days in Famagusta, Cyprus when we were five. What brought this on was a conversation with Mr S and how we perceive death as a child. It may be a bit of a long one...but I hope it is worth the read.

We lived in a block of flats next to The Grecian Hotel in Famagusta. The flats were right on the beach, lucky us! It was 1968, my mother had four children at the time, she was 24 years old. I was five, the terrible twins two and a half and Christian just a baby. We lived on the second floor and Marie, her mum, Pauline and Dad, Tom and siblings lived some 8 flights up from us.

The beach was beautiful, white sand, calm, clear, blue seas and you often had difficulty telling the sea from the sky. The heat haze shimmering over the sand and very few tourists lazing away the day. We finished school at lunchtime and at the age of five we swam like little Gobi's and were often allowed on the sand, being watched carefully by our mothers, pegging out washing on their balconies. My mother would lower a bucket, containing my lunch, to me on the beach but we were never allowed to swim unless our parents were there. Then my father would come off shift, pull off his uniform and put on his trunks, put me on his back and swim out with me and show me the wonders of this new underwater world through his snorkel and mask. We would dive down together, me grabbing a little shell, him, able to stay down much longer and coming up with much more interesting things.

An idyllic life, apart from when someone got into trouble. The tourists were mainly German with a sprinkling of well off English (this was 1968 after all). The red flags were posted when it was too dangerous to swim. There may have been a bit of an offshore breeze but the water looked the same. Clear and calm but danger lurked within, as Famagusta beach was well known for its little eddies and undercurrents. They were extremely powerful and if you got dragged into one, you had to fight for survival. We had, had this drummed into us by our parents, the tourists did not have that knowledge.

I suppose my first memory of someone in trouble was my mum shouting at me to grab the twins and follow her. My father and Tom worked different shifts so if dad was on shift then Tom was probably sleeping off nights. Mum would run up all 8 flights dragging us four behind her and call for Tom to help as someone was in trouble. Tom would roll out of bed, pull on a pair of shorts and go after the poor man/woman/child in trouble. He (as I remember) was a strong swimmer. A stocky but not a particularly big guy. I talked to mum about it today as I wanted to know how Pauline felt about it at the time and she did admit to Pauline being a little upset on only one occaision. There was another guy, I think his name was Ian, perhaps a Navy diver and he went out with Tom a few times.

The German tourists were I suppose 'voyeurs', they watched but did not step in to help, whatever nationality was in trouble. Some days Tom and Ian saved people (plus other guys from our flats) and other days the people that got into trouble drowned. Marie and I both remember a body being dragged from those beautiful blue waters. Trouble is....we did not realise what was happening.

A body, pulled fresh from the sea, much like a fish, looked like it was sleeping. Our mothers busy, content in the knowledge that we were on the sand and would never dare to swim in the sea without supervision. Us, looking at the dead body with no emotion. They looked like they were asleep, peaceful and content. We did not realise what death was. I think I saw about seven dead bodies by the age of six. Do not forget, we had no TV very little radio and no knowledge of the world outside our happy existence.

Marie and I explored why we felt like that in our phone call last night. We decided that we were wrapped in the cotton wool, that WAS a forces child. The 'was' is in big letters because most forces children today do not experience those Halcyon days that we had. We spent most of our young life on 'Camp' and did not have to deal with any crime, old age or sickness. If any person committed a crime, dared to get sick or old, they were shipped off to the UK. So the body pulled from the sea meant nothing to us because we did not understand the cycle of life.

There is a moral to this story. I was so naive that I married a Forces guy, thinking all Forces guy's were perfect. I was in my 20's and finally realised a couple of years later that crime, death and old age existed within our small world. I think the term 'Cotton Wool Children', is apt. Hey, it wasn't a bad life....think about the beach!

Namaste and respect to My Uncle Tom

Muse x

The Dating game Part 2!

Mr S got a flea in his ear the other night. He accused me of being 'reclusive' because I said I wasn't attending the upcoming school reunion (various reasons and a clash of dates) AND, horror of horrors... I have not dated for a while. Talk about waving a Red Rag at a Bull! Consequently, I have taken a deep breath and joined another dating site! So there! Mr S, stickin' my tongue out at you!

As I write this, I have 68 mails sitting unopened, in my mailbox on the site that shall not be named. Oh god, here we go again. Close friends of mine who know me well, are quite aware that I am perfectly capable of getting myself into trouble without even going out of the door. Also, do I have the energy to do this all over again? The British dating game is an exhausting, bewildering, bitch of a minefield.

Oh, and don't think that dating elsewhere in the world is any easier. Apparently there are 200,000 more single men than women in New York. How brutal is that? Frankly I would rather pull my own teeth out than be a single girl in that city. In Tokyo, you should take a business card to 'Gokon' dates, which are essentially blind group dates, there is a huge list of do's and dont's for these meetings and it seems there is safety in numbers. Just as well , when there are 27,704,000 ish of you! I could go on musing about the dating habits of the world but I want to swing this in another direction.

Five years ago, if you admitted to using an internet dating site, even your nearest and dearest friends would snigger into their drinks. So what has changed? The explosion of the WWW is what. The introduction of broadband and the huge explosion of communication technology. All of this has contributed to a shift in our socialising habits. When I was a young woman (clutching my zimmer here), we had no email, no text messages, no mobile phones. It was letter, landline or face to face. I cannot believe this is a bad thing. I have discussed the downsides of this in a previous blog but would to prefer to embrace rather than erase the phenomenon that has become our world.

So here I am, on the edge of Bodmin Moor, stuck in the snow, yet able to share my thoughts with you on this blog, able to text or phone any place in the world. I am also able to see photo's and profiles of prospective suitors, eliciting such comments as, Mmmm, too young but hot, oh he is gorgeous, Nah, you are joking and I am so not going there... I am behaving exactly as predicted, first impressions count. It is just a shame that you cannot make eye contact, watch how the guy moves and take a breath of his aftershave.

Still the same minefield, different rules, wish me luck.

Muse x

The Minefield that is Blogging.

I am struggling with Donut Child (yet again) as I worry my daily life and thoughts may be too boring to share with you, consequently I do not blog as often as if I was writing this as a private memoir. I was inspired to write tonight having just watched a programme on BBC4 entitled 'Dear Diary'.

The programme explored some famous diarists and questioned their ability to be honest within their private journals. It made me question my own capability. Did I censure my own writing, pre blog, or did I let it run free? I have to say, it is much easier to write for oneself than to share with others, but nowhere near as exciting. Yeah! vanity publishing it is but then, oh bugger and double bugger, I have opened a real can of worms now and as tired as I am, must carry on.

I have explored this before, as has my blogger friend Mr S. He tried to make me realise, at the time of his blog, that even my private handwritten journals, would be read by someone, during my lifetime or posthumously. I was having none of it at the time. My wonderful excuse for blogging publicly was my broken elbow, can't write for very long you see....

After watching the programme and thinking back on my conversations with Mr S on this, I can only conclude that he (as per bloody usual) is spot on. I really felt, in my heart that my journals, were for my eyes only and would only be read after my death. To be brutally honest, whilst they provided me with a great sense of comfort and solace at the time of writing and the joy of revisiting them, they now represent a huge threat to my privacy. Sitting there, little ticking time bombs. I guard them jealously, if I lose one down the back of the sofa etc...I lie awake at night trying to remember where I left the damn thing. Right! Time to pull my socks up, invest in a lock box, complete with booby traps, vile curses and a bit of voodoo for good measure and put them away. Perhaps, then I can give my full attention to Donut Child.

Problem is, Donut Child has its own dilemmas. I desperately wanted this to be a big piece of shining honesty, much like myself. I am often described as being too honest by my family of Southerners and blunt but 'made that way' by those North of the border.

Mr S, encouraged me to create another blog, to be totally honest about the darker (but infinitely more interesting) side of me. I have failed miserably and have shelved it for the time being. I know why I have failed. I SHARED and maybe I can do that to a certain extent with Donut Child but a hard lesson has been learned. Some of me, must be kept, ONLY for me.

I hope to find a solution by being more honest on Donut Child and creating another blog, for my eyes only. Having said all that, I love, love, love blogging, reading others and being part of a fantastic blogging community. Who needs TV, there are so many interesting people out there, all writing down their thoughts, hopes and dreams. Even if one person reads your words, its is a massive blast and everyone should do it. It does not matter about your written word, grotty grammar or perilous punctuation, if it helps you to see a place more clearly, then that is what Blogging is all about.

Happy New Year to all you readers and fellow bloggers.... take a deep breath and enjoy the ride that is 2010!

Let It Be...

I am reflecting tonight on Christmas past and looking forward to Christmas present...spending it with family. For the first time in twenty years I am not going to have to cook or lay a table, my daughter will shoulder that responsibility. I am so thankful for that but I also feel oddly redundant and find myself gazing longingly at material to make a cloth and napkins (something I do every year), worrying about how I should cook the Turkey, butter and bacon or apricots and apples? Polishing glasses, heating plates, juggling cutlery and spending a whole evening on the table centre. I am very unsettled by this.

My blog has always been pretty honest and I hope you will understand that what I am about to write doesn't just have a negative side, I do not feel sorry for myself but I am so frustrated at the moment at not being able to 'DO'.

Many of you know that I smashed and dislocated my elbow on the 6th of March. I ended up as a guest of the Royal Cornwall for 11 days, having two ops and a lot of physio. I haven't told the full story on this blog, so here goes.

I had been doing housework (ha, ha, ha...says my mother) and had just dashed up the stairs to empty the dryer. I also suffer with various forms of anaemia (3 at the last count) and felt very dizzy, whilst dumping said drying on bed...in fact I fainted. Came to, looked at strange shaped elbow, brain sent an urgent signal that read 'phones are downstairs, both of the buggers'. Foot hit bottom step, pain kicked in and luckily I managed to dial 999 before I was too incoherent. I spent at least 30 minutes abusing Paramedics until they got enough entonox and morphine in me to shut me up. Note I was still yelling as I was wheeled into resus (how DO you spell that?)

I vaguely remember begging a nice Doc for pain relief, who said she could not give me any more as she was a little worried about my BP and heart rate. Nice Doc then proceeded to try and put my elbow back in....twice. Luckily I passed out again and she felt sorry for me and administered lots of narcotics. No Pasenada, Eneshi Problema....just one of those bad judgements in life I guess! I really think my Ma (who was watching at the time) needed it more than I!

Big, complicated, very talented surgeon was very busy in the smoke so I waited 5 days with an unstable elbow for him to fly into exotic Newquay. During that time I had great fun abusing Ortho ward nurses (feck! they are made of stern stuff!) as apparently I get punchy on the morphine! Some Ortho nurses were great, others, you could hit over the head with a plank and they would not even blink! My surgeon, a Mr Wilson was three 'F,s' great, in fact he was the 'Puppy's Privates'. He gave me a new plastic elbow with lots of movement. I am struggling badly with the strength thing. I am left handed, guess which one I broke? Oh... and only one person in the whole world understood my pain, the legendary Mr John Hunter, thank you.

So to Christmas Past, I am the one that cooks, hand sews a cloth, wraps presents and writes cards. Now, I am afraid, I have sent barely any Christmas cards and even those have been a struggle to write. Forgive me if you have a 'missed' card from me this year. But I have to 'Let It Be'.

I still have a few molehills to climb. No matter, a lot of people out there will spend Christmas without their loved ones, some personal friends and of course the families of the brave boys serving overseas. Time to think of them.

Muse x

Let it snow, Let it snow, Let it Snow......

Being a Donut Child and ever prepared to batten down the hatches at the slightest sign of a National crises, smugly sitting among my tins of baked bean tins and kick starting my generator, I am of the opinion that if it is going to snow then let it SNOW. None of this little sprinkling that stays on the ground for all of 10 minutes, I am only happy with chest height snow drifts. Only then can you say to me there has been a blizzard in central London.

I was chatting to Mr S last night as he drove away from London, trying to stay ahead of the snow storm and we exchanged snow stories. These tales are like most Spanish Senoras, as they get older, they get hairier! He was telling me about the time, he took the last train to run out of London, in the middle of a snow storm. When he reached his destination in deepest Chav land (he is sooo going to get me back for that!), he found the station deserted and his car under waist deep snow. Wearing only a suit and a trench coat he decided, in his wisdom to walk home. His walk home involved cutting through a park, with a great big lake in the middle of it. This lake nearly always froze over but wasn't safe enough to walk on. He pushed his way through massive snow drifts and eventually reached home, safe and sound. When he got home, soaking wet and shivering, he finally realised what had been bugging him during the entire walk through the park. Not once had he tripped over a low flowerbed wall or stumbled into a fence. This could only mean one thing, he had walked most of the way over the lake and had survived to tell the tale!

I have a couple of tales myself. The year I passed my driving test I lived with my Army husband at RAF Upavon on the edge of Salisbury plain. At the time I worked in Tech Admin at the tank depot in Ludgershall and I had been on a tank driving course around the test track the week before. The course was so much fun and I got to drive everything from a Ferret scout car to a Chieftain tank, with a Haagglund Snow vehicle thrown in for good measure. In fact, it became a bit of a grudge match between me and my Officer Commanding. I disliked the man intensely as he insisted on calling me a camp follower, no matter, I used to spit in his coffee! (Shameful but true...)

Back to the snow story, during the night we had about three feet of snow. It didn't occur to me to ring in and say I couldn't get through the snow. Oh no! there was no way I was going to give the OC any ammunition to use in more sneering, chauvinistic remarks against me. So I rang Pa and took advice. Large sack of spuds in boot, check; blanket, check; spade, check; thermos, check. Army thermal underwear in olive drab, check! Off I went, dug myself out of a couple of snowdrifts en route and finally made it in two hours later.

I was feeling very pleased with myself until I heard a shout from the OC's office. 'If Mrs H has made it in, where the hell is Sgt Lamb' he roared. Turns out that Sgt Lamb lived 3 miles closer than me and had phoned in to say he couldn't get through. Poor Sgt Lamb pulled Duty Officer for some weekends to follow.....

More recently I was working as a Support Worker and covered an area from Plymouth to Liskeard. I had just dropped a lady off in Tavistock when my son's headmaster rang to say he was closing the school as it had snowed heavily in Bodmin. The difference in the local weather can be quite dramatic as not a flake had fallen in Tavistock. I raced back home as quickly as I could. I got to Liskeard, some 11 miles out of Bodmin and hit traffic. I was in the Glyn Valley, a beautiful winding tree lined road with steep banks and sharp drops either side of it. I stayed there for 8 and a half hours, choking on engine exhaust fumes and finally peeing in a MacDonald's cup! Luckily I was a Donut child and had water and blankets in the car.

I was pretty fed up and muttering darkly about my stupid bloody council not gritting that morning. I said as much in a text to David, the guy I was seeing at the time. But I inadvertently sent it to Dan Rogerson, my local MP, who's name was above David on my contact list....oops. I need not have worried as a text from Dan pinged straight back, "I am about a mile up the road from you...my sentiments exactly! Dan". To this day we text each other on New Years Eve and muse about the chance of snow. What a decent bloke.

I rang Pa tonight to get his snow story. 'Didn't you once dig Princess Anne out of a snow drift in Germany' I said. 'Nah' he replied nonchalantly ' I broke into her car in the middle of a rain storm, when she locked herself out....'!

So wherever you are I may be a fan of 'big snow' but I hope that you all reach your loved ones safely this Christmas.

Stay Warm

Muse x

Crab Cans and Soap Box Radios.

It has been six days since I have managed to share my thoughts with you. My blogger friend, Mr S and I usually spark off each other and he has been quiet of late whilst, I have been busy. We are generally competitive with one another and I will often end up in fierce debate with him.... me, stamping my foot at a bad mobile signal. The fact that he tends to put his mobile on hands free and then wander around, muttering to himself about technical things, does not help! He has a photographic memory and has to be patient when my ordinary one fails me, he continues to be generous and understanding of this.

My blog of last week discussed our childhood memories, what we remembered and how differently things were perceived through our childish eyes. The Muse household has been plagued with 'communication gremlins' of late. I live in the middle of Cornwall, fondly known as the black hole.The mobile signal defies belief and the land line and Internet can be sporadic, especially when The Git continually rides his bike into the connection! Well it dropped out last week and after 24 hours of waiting for the phone bloke to turn up, I had finally had enough. Friends had, had enough of me phoning them to ask if they could possibly check my hot mail and post on my FB wall and had stopped answering the phone to me! I had chewed my nails to the quick, read every book in the house (alright... I admit to not having finished the Palin Diaries) picked up the mobile and telephoned Mr S.

'Please, please tell me how I can sort this out or I shall start watching TV' I pleaded.
'Simple', he replied and proceeded to take me, step by step, through hot wiring a telephone socket. This is not as easy as it sounds. The basics were easy enough but you are talking to a complete blondie about all matters technical here and he had to put up with a lot of unlady like language, me shouting at him for not explaining things clearly enough. Bear in mind, he is working blind and having to put up with such little gems as 'it's the red thingummy attached to the round whatsit'. He was unbelievably patient with me. Oh joy of joys, it bloody worked until Pa came over and sorted it out 24 hours later. Oh and me? Well I did not say thank you to my long suffering friend, I told him, in the most threatening manner I could manage, if he ever told anyone I could do this, I would deny all knowledge!!!

These recent events sparked another conversation between us. I watched a film last week called 'When the Boat Rocked', telling the story of Radio Caroline, through the rose tinted glasses of the film industry. We talked about being children, a radio under our pillows, listening to Luxembourg. I was, of course, an extremely spoilt child as my father built me my first 'soap box' radio at the age of five. I remember it well, large regulation 'Crab Cans' a battery so big you could start your car with it and a tiny soap box clinging to the side of this mess. Et Voila! the Walkman of the 60's....bit of a shame Pa didn't patent it really! I still yearn for those Crab cans as my son regularly trashes a pair of headphones a month! Mr S, still wanders around with a large pair of cans perched on the top of his head, he has an excuse though, being a DJ!

So although I prefer simplicity, I adore the contact that the net has brought into my home, there are only so many conversations you can have with an 11 year old!

Namaste

Muse x

PS The Grumpy One AKA Muse has started her Christmas preparations so to all you Facebookers.... you may send me all the Christmas Yak you want and I will politely reply. You now have a 12 day amnesty. Happy Yakking x

Be True to Yourself !

The Muse has been unwell for the last week, unable to Blog and has lots to tell you. I had a huge response to the last Donut Child Blog, by phone, email, FB and text. I did not realise that I could evoke a reaction, thus.

All of our Dads were hero's, keeping us calm and lighting our way to bed. We remember the books they read to us, oh and The Muse learned a mean game of Chess, eventually beating her dad! Most of us remember that time, and practice something called 'Provident Living'...it just means that you make sure you are aware, and can survive by thinking about what you need. Not material possessions, just survival. Are we blessed with that knowledge, or burdened by it?

One of the most beautiful stories of that time was told by an old schoolie of mine. When I blogged about the terrible fear of Nuclear weapons as a 10 year old and not being quite sure as to where it came from, she explained it was the Government 'Propaganda Advertising'. The adverts ran in the 70's as to what we should do in the event that we were 'Nuked'. My friend is a couple of years older than me and remembers more than I did. She went to see Peter Pan at the cinema, was aware that her parents were talking about 'flying' to a posting. She was utterly horrified after seeing Peter Pan. How could she 'fly' with her brother, sister and teddy? My friend got on the plane, utterly sure that the decision she had made would damn her sister to fly alone, without her hand. She had decided her hands would be held by her brother and her Teddy!

What an innocent childhood we had...but how perceptive we were. I just hope that we can recognize propoganda from news. I can.....can you?

Be Kind to each other

Muse xx