Jobs and Jogs and Barking Dogs.

"Expect the unexpected", who said that? The original author being the Greek, Heraclitus in 1500 BC. Then it seems, blatantly nicked by the incorrigible Oscar Wilde in 1895.

I’ve never really followed this rule; it’s far too vague a sentiment for my sometimes latent, yet often flagrant control freak. I thrive on the regular and regimented. Most of you are aware of my ongoing struggle to find a new job, to finally free myself of this snakepit of inefficiency, backstabbiness and excuses and well, just leave, really. I was beginning to despair. Having tweaked and dumbed down my cv, given it a modern new format and even added a picture (perhaps not the best of decisions) ..I was still not getting any significant bites.  Sending off a slew of “open” applications to English speaking companies here in Leiden. Still reacting to vacancies on the online sites, receiving replies like “We’ve filled the vacancy internally” left me flabbergasted and demoralised. Why on earth advertise then?

Slowly becoming resigned to disappointment, imagine my surprise last Thursday to receive a phone call about a job possibility. Especially one I’d applied for 2 months ago. I’d already written this off, with much regret because I really wanted this job and my qualifications and experience seemed designed for their criteria. It was my day off, deciding on a bit of a pamper, I’d just put dye in my ever greying hair. Amidst the shock and surprise, I nearly forgot to rinse it off. Possibly not the interview look I’d be going for. 40+ year old Goths might not fit their expectations.

I’m thrilled, whoo hooo - I have an interview soon.

Already mentally wording my resignation letter, I hope I get it. Please keep everything crossed and if you’re passing a church…well, it can’t do any harm can it ??

Weight watchers is going quite well, I think. I’ve dropped a whopping 4 kilos in six weeks. That’s about 9 pounds. Maybe not the kilo a week target I’d set myself but if it means I can still enjoy a glass of wine in the weekend..well, who cares. Anyway, it’s dead hard . Although, the lack of crisps is still the absolute worst. I’m craving baked and salty goodness akin to an addiction. When will this poison leave my system, when will I be able to walk past the crisps aisle without drooling and wailing…when?…*sigh* listeing to other people’s difficulties helps. Some of them are just desperate…*snigger*. Mind you, I’ve started to notice a behavioral pattern amongst the longer standing members of WW. Some of them can be a bit mean to newcomers. Especially if you’re not a ginormous newcomer (<--- requisite bitchy comment there). I find myself quite surprised by how some members behave; I had thought there’d be solidarity amongst us dieters. Well, looking at the bigger picture (no pun intended) there’s a sort of group mentality amongst some members that shuts out the rest of us. You’d think it’d be the younger members who behave so childishly, but no, there are a couple of sexagenarians in there too and a few very flirty 30 and forty somethings, which is just a bit wrong..you know? Last night our coach was sick, her replacement was a lovely young woman in her 30’s who had herself lost a shedload of weight. She passed around the photos of her former self and told everyone how she’d done it..twice! Within minutes the murmurs started and the atmosphere became charged with challenge. Something this clique seems to have in common is a defeatist attitude and a lot of them proudly stage whispered that it wasn't that easy and they needed to lose loads more than she had. One by one they started bombarding her with questions like “why is salmon more points than white fish”…”Why is avocado more points than a carrot”….all this from people who’ve been going to WW longer than I’ve had grey hairs (read: ages). Really people, really? This might go some way to explaining why you’re not actually losing weight, you fatheads …hehe…um, sorry.  She laughingly dismissed my query that crisps actually being of potato origin should mean I can eat as many under the “free points” veggies rule.

 I was blydi serious too!!

Cheek!

Anyway, once again I digress.. this pint sized and feisty young lady had obviously dealt with fatties of a much higher bitch caliber than this lot. She effectively parried every witless comment, in the manner of a primary school teacher taking control of an unruly class. Breaking off her intro monologue to sternly stare at the two older ladies obliviously chatting away, until blushing, they stopped. Following this she loudly clicked her fingers at the student branche of the group, who seemed to be in their own private meeting. When a younger chap in the group boastingly stated he’d learned to drink Bacardi neat, to avoid coca cola points, she told him this was WW not AA.

I think I might love her!

I have however, decided it’s not coming off fast enough and it’s time to up the tempo. Yeah, I’m stupid like that. So I’ve started to jog and do some sit-ups in the mornings. Just about 10-15 minutes a day but hopefully if I do it every day I’ll see a result soon. Yesterday I kind of overdid it, I’m not bragging at all…no really, purely because it only happened while I was running away from an unruly dog. It was rampaging in the park and decided I was breakfast. Well, that was my interpretation of the barking and drooling, so I ran and ran as fast as I can…and almost gave myself a stroke in the process. This morning’s run went better, mostly because I avoided the park. Of course, the teenage critic sitting on the couch eating his breakie had a comment about the length of my run. It went something like “eh, you back already?” accompanied by smirking and “yeah yeahs” as I attempted to explain my methods. Apparently, according to Gareth, I should jog for 30 minutes every morning, even if it means getting up 30 minutes earlier “easy peasy, Mam”.

This from the child I’m considering testing for narcolepsy.

Ah well, onwards, upwards and hopefully straight into my bikini by July.

“I have to exercise in the morning

before my brain figures out what I'm doing.”

-Marsha Doble

Weight, Wine and A Bit Of A Whine

I’m such a big baby.

I was recently told that if my body didn’t start to behave, an operation was necessary. More detail?

**Lady Problem Alert..Men – look away now.**

I suffer from a condition that affects my uterus and at certain times of the month, it can get very uncomfortable. This operation is supposed to alleviate the discomfort. Basically, they send in a probe…* pending nausea warning* ….and it radiates a kind of heat which will then “burn” away the lining of my womb. Having had all sorts of medication to help this problem, it seems, bar a complete hysterectomy, this is my last chance. I’ve been putting it off for as long as possible due to an unreasonable and hysterical fear of going under the knife and just “going under” really. The plus points are: I can have it done with an epidural and there is not actual cutting up of human flesh involved. A lot of women who have had this procedure report only good things afterwards. I really must bite the bullet and make the appointment. 

Soon. 

Maybe.

-- Safe Zone --

The last lot of meds – you know the ones which my Doc assured me would help enormously and which didn’t! – caused me to gain quite a lot of weight around my waist area. 10 kilos in total.  I waited for it to go of its own accord. It didn’t. Finally, my jellybelly became too much to bear and I decided to do something about this. Well, by joining weightwatchers of course. Oh how the men in my life have laughed. The weekly shop has become a mirth filled excursion, peppered with catcalls of “you can eat dust” related comments. They seem to be under the impression that our weekly meetings are on the same scale as the Little Britain "Fat Busters" sketches and Pat has adapted the Marjorie Dawes persona. The bugger!

The only thing I just can’t give up, is the wine on Friday nights. I deserve that wine after living with the real life cast of the aforementioned comedy show. I did however, give up the crisps. Doritos Begone! God, it’s hard. I love a crisp or 60 with a glass of wine. I’m a bit of a crisp connoisseur you see, from doritos to Lays to Balsamic vinegar “light” (who are they trying to kid) crisps. Having decided that the root of my spare tyre lies in the evil of the salted snack, I changed my weekend nibbles to veg with yoghurt dip. Very low cal and very wholesome. Very blydi boring too. So last week I managed to actually drink a couple of glasses of white, without any snackage at all.  The first weigh-in was great, Rockyesque I stood on the scales, raising my fist in victory (well in my imagination I was) as Natalie (the coach) announced 1.5 kilo down. How great was that for a beginner. The second week I think I must have believed my own press and didn’t quite keep to the regime. No crisps but I did succumb to a veggie pita from the Greek up the road – lots of lovely feta and salty dolmakia, followed by more white and some crackers. Perhaps I should have realized that I had weightwatchers the next day and curbed my appetites somewhat…a lot…more. Off I went feeling oddly full, possibly the result of the pasta I caved to at lunch, and stepped on the scales. 300 grammes….”not as much today, Sharon”. 

*Deflated Gasp*

How could this happen? There must be some mistake?..Nooooo! Apparently salty foods retain fluid in your body and cause heaviness. Frankly, I blame the Greek for not informing his customers of the danger.

The thing is, I’m kind of competitive and can’t quite accept the fact that 60 yr old Florrie, who eats shedloads more than me and doesn’t exercise at all, lost more weight. Okay, she doesn’t drink anything stronger than water and tea, but really…This is war. Weight War and I will be victorious.

In your face sexagenarian! I really should stop with the “In your face” shouldn’t I :)

Tell you what though, that’s just the way I am.

Tell you what again though, I’m desperate for a bowl of nachos.

“Our character is what we do when we think no one is looking"
H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

Crashed, crushed and just plain crazy Ice.

A winter’s Friday saw Pat, Gary and me pile into the car for a weekend in the Limburger town of Valkenburg. Tony was already there. Along with about 5 of his friends in their late teens and early twenties they’d all qualified for the Red Bull Crashed Ice, World Championships. Ice hockey players from all over the globe had withstood a number of qualifying heats to participate in this internationally infamous event. Luckily they’re all padded up in their hockey armour and helmets. Sounds easy enough though,  doesn’t it? Until of course, one gets a glimpse of the “piste”. A man made downhill slalom course. The start line was at 150 foot high, the first part of this being a horrendously steep hill, with wave like bumps at the bottom, then a very sharp curve to the right, an uphill u-turn, more waves and on it went for what seemed like miles until the last few meters when a nasty looking obstacle called ‘the teeth” saw the end of this ice-covered danger.

 At least that’s what I saw. Tony and his team mates saw the challenge of a lifetime and prepared themselves thoroughly, by partying all night and every night of the event.

Tony and His buddy, Tommy were knocked out in the first qualifier but his other pals were through to the second heats. We all waited by the side barriers of this impressive structure, the freezing and damp  air penetrating our clothes and assailing our tear ducts as the atmosphere gradually increased to a frenzy of excited gasps. The first 4 contestants were in place. Craning our necks we strained to see if “our” boys were in the first group. Slowly the news filtered through. they had been allocated heats 21 and 52. Good grief, how many heats were there and how long did we have to stand here in this invisible ice-bath. Suddenly a collective and excited whooping began as gates opened and the first of these ice-hockeyers flew past in a flash of colour and a spray of ice. They fell, the stumbled, they landed on their knees and jumped straight back up. they somersaulted, they slammed against the boards and then they all got up again. Amazing! We waited with trepidation for Jordy, Sander and Erwin, T’s mates to pass. Barely glimpsing them, as they too whizzed down this slope, sometimes stumbling and falling but determined to make it to the end. Jordy and Erwin qualified for the following day. Hot Damn and huge grins all round –  as realization that two of our own Leiden Lions were though to the final, sank in. They’re both about 19, slight of build, dwarfed by giant athletes of international status but wow, did they make an impact.

Excitement over, we popped back to the athletes village and crashed for a while in the boys’ cabin. Passing the cabin windows, a steady stream of athletes made their way back to their digs for the same. Our company looking outside, were flabbergasted by the amount of limping and sling bedecked young men who passed by. One lad had lost his helmet on his way down. He was thrilled that we had a film of it happening. In fact it seemed to be his cherry on the icing on the cake! Bless him.

Saturday and a definite buzz in the air. Tony and his friends had been partying the night before and had very kindly taken Gareth with them. It’s great to see these kids interact. They’re all varying ages and absolutely different characters yet it all works somehow. A team indeed. Gareth opted to spend the day with his peers, so Pat and I took a stroll in the busy little town centre. Very few shops and an awful lot of bars – Heaven’s above, it was Holyhead with a Dutch accent!

And then, it was evening.

We didn’t see Erwin before the event but we saw his Mum, Ellie. She was probably more nervous than her son and the pride was palpable.

The boys had organized tickets for the VIP area for all us parents. Unlimited red-bull products and lots of snackage provided the base for distraction from the pending two hour interval.

We waited for May, Jordy’s mum, who had stayed with her young athlete, providing support and calming his nerves and when she arrived we delved into the free buffet. It’s a good life being the parent of an athlete, indeed it is. May and the boys had made a banner for Jordy, it looked great and stood out wonderfully against the crowd. Unfortunately some over-zealous jobsworth made them take it down because it was distracting. Obviously having no knowledge of the focus required to make it up, down and over that course. Perhaps he assumed the banner would cause Jordy to take notice, stop dead and want his photo taken on the downward turn as his competition flew by? <-- sarcasm alert.

I’m no hero and it got too cold for me, not to mention the very tall people all around impeding my view, I went inside and took full advantage of the wide screen, ginormous tv’s showing the race from start to finish.

Boy did those kids do well. Erwin and Jordy still teenagers and flying the flag for Holland. The crowd went wild as the compere announced their names – this Welsh Mam had a bit of a yell too. Both boys did very well but unfortunately didn’t get into the finals. The finishing athletes were all of the Russian, Canadian, Polish and Czech nationality and all a lot older and more experienced than our young Dutchmen. Everyone realized what a massive achievement they had made and you know what, they all want to go back next year.

I’m always so proud of my boys and Tony is such a warrior to get as far as he did. I’m also so very proud of "our” boys – Jordy and Sander Boulnouar, Tommy van Beek, Erwin Knoester and all the wonderful, brave young men who faced the overwhelming challenge of Crashed Ice, completed the course and left there with a smile on their faces.

After the after party, of course. And the After, after party. And the After, after, after party.

Long Live Adrenalin.

“The reward of a thing well done is to have done it.” 
Ralph Waldo Emerson

Locked out, Loved up and Living it large.

Wow, the last time I blogged was November. How can this be? There isn’t even a feasible excuse for this tardiness, bar character and the winter blues.

In the meantime we’ve had Christmas, 2011, my 46^th birthday and an ever frustrating job search.

Where on earth do I begin?  The current addiction to facebook might be a start. I seem to be on this site constantly, wherever I am, whatever I’m doing – the day starts with a browse of my profile page. The excitement of possible comments on your status and a barely contained competitive streak whilst repeatedly playing Tetris, or Zuma, quite frankly, make me a tad embarrassed.
I’m a woman in her 40’s with a house to clean, a teenager to control and a job to hold down, yet can easily while away an hour doing absolutely nothing except cursing my opponent and inappropriately gloating when a win is announced.  “In your face” and “Ha – beat that” have been heard to echo from the cubby hole we call a pc room.

Not that I’d ever admit this, of course.

Christmas was pleasant. That’s it really.  Gifts were exchanged and too much food eaten. A skirmish broke out over the quality street. A heated discussion about whether or not the youngest was responsible for the depleting levels of Baileys and Amaretto, was laid to rest with beers all round.

New Year’s Eve. Having successfully lied to and hidden from the boring neighbours who’d suddenly decided they were coming to our house for the evening, we settled down to an evening of decadent tv watching and wine drinking. Of course the kids had other ideas and taking pity on their aged ‘rents decided to pop in and out all evening
. …sigh…
After midnight we took a stroll to watch the city erupt in a passing imitation of Beirut and Hell. All mixed up in one explosive, sulphurous cloud. Of course I assumed that my (by now) very drunk husband had keys on him or had locked the door. He hadn’t, on both counts. 

Gary had though. Bless his conscientious little heart.

We arrived home in the freezing drizzle to a locked house and no means of breaking in. Naturally, that’s a good thing but not at 1.30am on New Year’s Morn when the world and his Auntie are celebrating. Luckily the car wasn’t locked – Pat again? I refused to move  from the passenger seat. Because of course, it was all his fault and  left him to wander alone in the search for a friendly, relatively sober and awake neighbor with a phone.  He finally called Tony who, partying just around the corner, was still functioning to some degree of normalcy. Laughing heartily, T turned up with our friend the housekey, let us in and lectured me about not being too harsh on his Drinky Aul’ Daddy. Cute isn’t he !

My 46^th birthday…..46?  Nuff said aye.  Although I did have a small party with some wonderful people who spoiled me, helped me through this traumatic event by drinking and laughing the night away and shamed me into shrugging off my hormonally imbalanced sulks. 

Why am I unable to find another job?   I wish I knew. The applications, whereas not exactly fast and furious are steady and true.

 Unfortunately, without success. 

After a recent meeting with an employment agency, my cv was fine-tuned and modernized. Having nicked the super-dooper template of son nr1, added a photo and removed a lot of detail, I felt very good about the job application that seemed made for me.  My new, prospective employers didn’t agree and I never made the cut.

Although, I’m on the hold pile.The hold pile?

For the first time in my life, I phoned to ask if they’d received my application and what the status of the position was?

 Now, I was miffed to hear the bad news but her reaction to my accent puzzled me slightly. Or lack of accent. I should explain that having lived in Holland for 20 odd years, I speak very good Dutch. Accentless – if that’s even a word – fluent enunciation by a person with a decidedly British name and nationality seemed not to compute and Ms. Vlek asked me to repeat my name, twice.  This might clarify why I’ve been rejected so often lately. A lot of ex-pats, whilst bragging about speaking “fluent” Dutch, actually sound dreadful and are difficult to follow. I suppose everyone can say they speak a foreign language, yet it needs to be proven to be believed. I intend to phone after submitting my CV in future. 

Ha - in your face selection committee. 

This morning however, my world took on the warm glow of Valentine Surprise. Pat’s had to go to Paris for work and although we don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day to the expected hyped degree (He says he loves me all year round and prefers to show it for more than one day … Awww) we are usually together. When, feeling slightly dejected I went to my bicycle bags this morning and found a lovely heart shaped box of chocolates, I felt all girly and happy again. He has a box of red velvet cupcakes, made with love and buttercream to brighten the advent of the gloomy “Peripherique”.

Gosh, what a lot of reading I’ve given you. I haven’t even mentioned the "Red Bull Crashed Ice" World Championships or my pending operation.

Probably,  because I’m trying to ignore the pending operation.

Watch this space.  Although, not too closely – I’m notorious for being a fair-weather blogger and it is only February after all.

"Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony". ~ Mahatma Gandhi. 

Happiness is when what you think, what you say, and what you do are in harmony. ~ Mahatma Gandhi

Beautiful Blessings and My Big Boys.

Gosh, I have to get used to this regular blogging. I keep forgetting to document the insanity that follows my every step. I know, I’m a bit dramatic but we’ve already discussed that.

I’ll start this new blog by telling you about my kids. I have two sons, aged 22 and 17. One intellectual and one realist.
Both gorgeous, both bright and empathic, both ADHD.
Our eldest son is currently studying for his Bachelors in Commerce. Literally one of the people gifted with the gab, he could sell sand to the Arabs and make it seem like he’d done them a favor.
For three years he was in a relationship with a very pretty and extraordinarily gifted manipulator.
All of a sudden out of the blue, she finished it.
The boy was devastated. His Dad and I were thrilled and had the hardest time not showing it. Having observed how this girl functioned within her little web of manipulation, I suspected that more was to come. This “dumping” was an exercise in control as opposed to a genuine intent on being single. Bingo, before two weeks had passed she was texting him with all sorts of minutiae, culminating in confessions of fooling around with another guy. Of course he reacted badly and called her a rather unacceptable name. Bless his heart, he then texted back and said sorry.
Now, I’m a bit too direct for some people’s tastes and this emotional interlude in my child’s life was one of the times when I had to bite my tongue, sit on my hands and any other relevant cliché. What to do, when your 22 year old so depressed that you can hear the loud snap as his heart breaks? You give him to his Dad.

“Son, she’s your ex. She’ll be doing more than kissing. You know what though, that means so will you”

Click, click went the wheels of hormones.

“Oh Yeah. There’s a new contingent of freshmen girls in our Student Org too.”

A few more words of borderline sexist wisdom from Pat and our lad was all set for a Friday night of womanizing. Amazing. Wonderful. Um….a tad disturbing 

Currently we’re 6 weeks further and you know what, my boy’s back.
That carefree, happy young man, who enjoyed every new experience and made friends so easily, was just hiding. Only temporarily cowed by criticism and the judgmental, closed opinions of his ex. I’m so relieved and so happy to see this re-emergence and look forward with curiosity at the choices he makes from here on.

Next we’ll approach the human conundrum that is my 17yr old. He’s a beautiful boy. It lifts your heart to look at those bright blue eyes ringed with dark and long lashes. A gorgeous, wicked smile and a dry mischievous sense of humor. Constantly involved in some scrape or another, he always gets caught. Possessing certain cockiness, he will literally strut into a room and heads always turn to look at him. Yet contrary to this outer display of nonchalance, he has trouble with shyness. I must admit he does a sterling job of hiding it but sometimes, he’ll say or do something that makes it obvious. These are the moments I realize that for all the bravado and “whatever” moments, he’s still an uncertain, 6 foot tall, little boy.

Having gained his scooter license at the age of 16, the current choice of after school job is delivering take-away food for local restaurants. We’re fond of telling people that G is on a culinary tour of Leiden because he’s worked for so many different “countries”. At the moment he’s flavor of the month (pardon the pun) at a popular Greek take-away in the city centre. Before this he worked for a Chinese restaurant and whereas he sometimes found it tedious, he didn’t really complain. One rainy night, having left an hour or so previously, he came home battered, bruised and bleeding.

“I’ve had a bit of an accident”

Immediately morphing into overprotective parent mode, I patched him up whilst giving him the consecutive third degree. The moped he’d been sent out on should have been fixed the previous week. The boss, ensuring him that it was now roadworthy sent him on a delivery. Driving along a narrow street (bear in mind it’s peeing down) he spots a woman step onto a zebra crossing. He brakes…..He screams “get out of the way, my brakes have failed” as he careers forward. Trying to avoid her, he veers to the left and of course, skids dramatically onto the wet road. Luckily the woman was fine, apart from an achy arm. My boy was cut up and shocked. The police removed the moped for inspection. It’s been returned, deemed a danger and provided the Chinese Rest with a few hundred euro fine. Our boy may also be fined for the accident because by Dutch law, once he stepped onto the moped he became responsible for it. Beggar’s belief doesn’t it!
His Boss at the time told him to take some time off and call when he was going back. “Err, you’re not going back darling” …”Fair enough, Mam”. The easy capitulation was enough indication that he was scared to venture out on their ramshackle bikes again. The following (voluntary) kiss and hug proves that sometimes, even big boys are grateful for bossy Welsh Mams.

As I mentioned earlier, both our boys have ADHD. From an early age they’ve faced criticism from different sources. Some primary school teachers have even gone as far as public humiliation. Can you imagine how difficult and damaging it must be for such small kids, who already know they’re different, to be ridiculed in front of their peers? When I hear about kids with this condition being unmanageable, I’m not surprised. I am however, often saddened.
As a result of some obvious and some obscure goings on in their lives, our lads set some stressful challenges for us to meet. Eventually, we discovered that the only way to deal with these trials was to keep the lines of communication open…. and oil them with a good dose of humor.

Now, we sit back and reap the benefits. The challenges are still there, they’re just different and more obvious. Our boys have wonderful communication skills and are such empathic young men; I often feel my heart will burst with delight and pride. In hindsight, this condition has been a curse but without it maybe they wouldn’t be the people they are today.
They still have to deal with ADHD and the accompanying stigma, but they do just that – They Deal With It.

You know what? It’s made me a better person too.

Adversity has the effect of eliciting talents which in prosperous circumstances would have lain dormant.
- Horace

Wrexham - reunions, raves and reverie.

I’ve just been to Wrexham. Where? It’s a city in Wales which was home to the army regiment The Royal Welch Fusiliers. A few years ago and to the disgust of many ex-comrades, the regiment was amalgamated with another welsh regiment to become to Royal Welsh. For the last few decades, every September without fail, Wrexham hosts the largest military reunion in Europe. Ex Royal Welchmen of all ages don their regimental ties and proudly set off to participate in the many activities provided by the Comrades Association for their amusement.

As well as getting banjaxed on the unavoidable wave of beer.

Why was I there? Well, you all remember my husband Pat? He actually had a life before me and when he was a tender teen, set off for a military career and joined the Royal Welch. Pat had a wonderful 7 years in this regiment and during his time ”in” made some of the best friends ever. It’s an experience indeed to be a spectator to this camaraderie. Men who haven’t seen each other for many, many years, greet each other heartily amidst the banter and friendly insults. Some have changed beyond recognition, some have slightly aged but are easily identifiable as the young lads they were. It’s a special time, a time that keeps you laughing until the tears of hilarity flow unrestrained but also instills an innate respect for these men. They’ve lost colleagues as the years pass, some have been through personal trauma and are currently experiencing some harsh and sad realities, yet they support each other. They hold each other up and even though they’re not on any muddy and bloody battlefield, they’re in the middle of life’s combat zone and it’s easy to see how much they value the presence of their “mates”, even if only for a short time. To know that kind of friendship and trust is a gift a lot of us will never experience. To see it manifest in this comical yet significant force, is a gift to the layman.

Having set off for the A company reunion, Pat and I got no further than the door of the local hotel before he was beset with greetings and catcalls. Mostly, relating to his still naturally brown hair color. The grey’s there though, it’s just not as easy to spot. Pat’s also still quite trim and I will never tell if he spends weeks at the gym or enhances his locks with anything artificial…so stop asking…or buy me copious amounts of booze. I’m ashamed to say I kept getting everyone’s name mixed up. So many people who still identify each other by their military numbers and nickames – well that’s easy for them to do but for the civvy, who incidentally feels a bit daft referring to someone as “43” or “47” ..or even calling a 40 something man “Shagger”, takes some practice. Finally the ladies present (yes, I am included in that) opted to use christian names. Wouldn’t it be great if I could have actually got their names right. Sorry “lads”.

The one name I will never forget and believe me, I was determined to find him; my wonderful friend Richard Donovan. I met “the Hon Don” many years ago when we were members of the original Royal Welch forum and used to enjoy meeting up with many others in the chat rooms. These days the chatrooms aren’t as popular, but my mate Hon Don is still one of the (new) forum stalwarts. We were at the pub aptly named after the regiment and I was just about to demand Pat take me to the memorial hall so that I could find RBD, when…he walked around the corner. Talk about perfect timing. Having informed Pat that I’d “pulled”, Don and I had a quick catch-up. For me, seeing him again was the icing on the reunion cake…or the froth on the reunion pint? Arrderchog.

Far too quickly it was suddenly Sunday. Having set a cell phone alarm for an uncivilized 08.30 am, I proceeded to kick and drag a still slightly drunk Pat out of bed. Making coffee and getting the bacon on for a hangover curing breakfast, I was horrified to look at the wall clock and discover it was actually 07.30 am. Ooops, which silly Sharon hadn’t changed her phone to British time? Pat never said a word, just turned around and crawled straight back into bed.
The lack of wordage felt a tad surreal, although my consequent giggling didn’t seem as funny to him as it did to me.

Eventually, we set off for the memorial hall and the preparation for the march into Wrexham town, ending in a memorial service at St. Giles’ church.

I must admit to having a lump in my throat at the sight of so many ex comrades and veterans, suited, booted and proud in their flash and hackle. Bryn Davies was the first person we saw as we approached the hall. Bryn was in the band with and is a great friend of Pat’s dad. He actually used to babysit Patrick... all those moons ago. Always turned out meticulously, Bryn looked fabulous in his military regalia and Pat, as always was thrilled to see his “old mate” looking so well. Slowly but surely, the company grew and finally they fell in, facing the war memorial.

This has to be one of the most moving sights for a “civvy”. Old men, young men and middle aged men, standing side by side as they paid their respects to the fallen. Marching to the church, age and infirmity forgotten, they lifted their chins, squared their shoulders and stepped out.

The church service over, they fell in once more. This time marching back to the memorial hall, for well earned relaxation, catching up time and the yearned for “pint”.

It will probably be a few years before I go to Wrexham again but I hold these memories dear. Even now, eager for the next time I can be a spectator to one of the most impressive displays of camaraderie a layman can experience.

Coughing into the Caucasus

Well Hello Blog, it's been a while.

I seem to have bypassed August somehow. Not surprising though, August was a rough and busy month. It started with a bout of the common cold which eventually developed into sinusitis and lost me three weeks of life, sanity and breathing without effort. Then, after all the congestion and heavy breathing, I rediscovered the wondrous and addictive attraction of nose spray.
Oh Dear!
A few years ago I was prone to frequent bouts of sinus infections and eventually caved to the relief provided by said nose spray. After a few months of prolific use, I had to admit that yes, I was addicted. I knew it. I would look at my reflection and speak the words out loud and yet, was unable to stop sticking that little tube up my nose and inhaling the chemical mix that eased my beleaguered breath. I’m ashamed to admit that it went on for months, possibly more than a year. Finally I felt able to stand up to the evil that lives in the tiny bottle, and stop. It was quite easy to be honest. After that I swore I would never become its victim again. I convinced my mind; unfortunately my body follows its own path in life. Aaah, dreaded nose spray, I may have become your temporary victim once again but I assure you, it’s not for long.
I hope.
August also gifted us with a lovely family holiday. Packing up our sunscreen, swimsuits (nose spray) and flip-flops, we jetted off to Turkey for lovely, relaxing week in the blazing sun. This was our fourth time in Turkey; we always go “All-in”, mostly due to the fact that we’re a lazy lot and usually hang around the pool enjoying the 30 plus heat and refreshments. This time we chose Kusadasi, in the shade of the Turkish mountains. Much fun was had by all and we made friends with two young Dutch girls staying in our hotel. Unfortunately, these two stunningly attractive girls appeared to be a magnet for unwanted attention from the waiting staff. One day, the girls asked our advice with a dilemma. A man claiming to be reception staff had phoned their room, he proceeded to insist that the girls accompany him and a friend to the local night clubs that evening. Full of shock they declined, he continued to insist; eventually they hung up on him. Advice? Well, that’s a no-brainer isn’t it? Call the manager and inform her that her staff are pestering her guests and infringing their privacy.
Enter Manageress. Those of you with kids will know the series “Rug Rats” or for the Dutch amongst us “Ratjetoe”. I kid you not, this woman was the image of Tommy Pickles' Mama, complete with bright red curly hair and thick rimmed specs. Having got over the initial shock of being confronted with a real life cartoon character, we helped the girls explain in English what had happened. Initially shocked, the manageress seemed disinclined to believe the girls’ story and explained that her receptionist was recently married and she found it difficult to believe he would do this. “Well somebody did” …. Eventually she agreed to look into it and get back to us. By this time I was pretending to be the girls Aunt as a means to protect them fro unwanted attention and interfere to my hearts content within the sensation eruption. An hour or so later, she returned and said nobody on her staff had admitted to calling the room. Erm....No kidding, Sherlock? She did however tell us to contact her should anything untoward happen again.
Guess what, it did!
During lunch one day (and after numerous catcalls in Turkish with accompanying wolf whistles by the pool) the girls were presented with a napkin by a waiter. Written on this, in a bad mix of English, Dutch and German was a request for a date….surprise surprise!
They refused. The waiter(s) kept insisting and aggressively trying to persuade them. Eventually, the girls just walked away. We’d been for a morning out and when we got back they asked for our help to speak with Mrs.Pickles. Pat said he’d rather speak to the boys himself and warn them off but the girls felt they’d feel safer and happier reporting it. Which they did. That evening, during dinner they pointed out the offending waiter, who was then fired on the spot.
Ooops.
Mrs. Manageress informed us she’s run her hotel with a rod of iron and this behavior would not be tolerated by her staff. Yes dear, this would be the same “staff” who denied all knowledge when you first confronted them, would it? Is someone’s nose out of joint here perchance? Whereas I felt the punishment a tad harsh to fit the crime, there was nothing to be done apart from get on with our sunshiney retreat.
The girls joined us for a game of “who am I” one evening. You know the one where a post-it is stuck on your head and you try to guess who’s on it. All was going quite well, apart from Gareth’s repeated protestations about the “stupid game” and the constant interruptions as we all popped to the bar for (much needed) alcoholic refills…then someone picked “Nelson Mandela” - the girls were a tad confused. Who’s that then?…I know the name but...
Realizing that Nelson was a bit beyond them, Pat chose Barack Obama. Repeating…"Who’s that then?" and both looking a tad blank. I kid you not, they really were, Gary explained in his permanently disdainful tone “Are you serous, the President of America?” …”Oooh, I know”, one of them yelled excitedly “It’s George Bush” …big grin...silence...a little less confidently “Isn’t it?”.
Game Over!
Later on, after the girls had made their fragrant way back to their (now safe from unwanted attentions) room, we asked Gareth whether he was as still enamored of these blonde beauties as he'd first seemed. Again with the disdain, coupled with some bemusement “ Yeah Right” shake of gelled quiff ”Barack Obama, seriously?“
On a mischief roll I said “Yes, but they are lovely girls”
“Fair enough” shrugs Gar “but dead thick outweighs beauty you know, Mam”

Gotta love Gareth’s “Holyhead” turn of phrase, as well as his wonderfully deep insight. I was very proud of Gar that evening.

Next blog – “Wrexham – the Reunion Report”

Too much work, and no vacation,
Deserves at least a small libation.
So hail! my friends, and raise your glasses,
Work's the curse of the drinking classes.
~Oscar Wilde