Ever been the new boy or girl?...It's hard isn't it? Even harder, I'd say, when you move around. I suppose the more you do it the easier it gets. Or least it should if you think about the fact the amount of times in your lifetime you are going to be new girl - every time you get a new job, when you move house, if you attend a course on your own, dating a new guy and meeting his friends...to mention a few.
When you're the new girl....
Every person you happen to make eye contact with you smile at, after all they could be a potential friend.
Every person who talks to you, even if it's to repeat your coffee order back to you, you make small talk with or in the very least put on your friendliest smile...they are a potential friend.
When you join a social networking page or other group and post a message...you hope someone responds - they are a potential friend.
The point is when you're the new boy or girl you're on the outside until someone invites you in. When you're new one of the hardest things in the world to do is to walk into a room without some degree of trepidation. After all, you know no one in that room, not a single soul. If you're writer there's an exciting element to that - there's a room full of people with quirks for you to observe and plagiarise in your characters and stories. Although, I wouldn't say this is anyone's first thought upon entering unknown territory.
So, you're there, on the threshold...What do you do - stroll over to the group of the first person who happens to make eye contact with you? Or head to drinks table and help yourself hoping someone will join you there that you can strike up conversation with? Or stand to one side hoping someone will take pity on you and come over to say hello...
I shudder at all those scenarios because they are awkward and make a person feel vulnerable. They make me feel vulnerable. New girl however, is precisely what I am.
Next time you're sat there in a group with your friends, spare a thought and have sympathy for the new girl on the threshold.
Wednesday, 20 November 2013
Monday, 11 November 2013
A Different Kind of Hero
I wanted to post this snippet in homage and sympathy, I suppose, and to say a hats off to all military spouses. I didn't want to do this yesterday because yesterday belonged to our fallen heroes and I didn't want to undermine or take away anything from them.
We military spouses are a strange breed and we, like everyone, go through some tough things in life. I posted this a few years ago but recent events, like moving all over again and the isolations that comes with that starting over whilst trying to pretend you're not feeling destabilised by it, has bought home to roost certain emotions.
To that end, this..this post goes out to ALL the women of the world who are married to military personnel x
The good Lord was creating a model for military wives and was into His sixth day of overtime when an angel appeared. She said, "Lord, you seem to be having a lot of trouble with this one. What's wrong with the standard model?"
The Lord replied, "Have you seen the specs on this order? She has to be completely independent, possess the qualities of both a father and mother, be a perfect hostess to four or forty with an hour's notice, run on black coffee, handle every emergency imaginable without a manual, be able to carry on cheerfully, even if she is pregnant and has the flu, and she must be willing to move to a new location ten times in seventeen years. And, oh yes, she must have six pairs of hands!"
The angel shook her head, "Six pairs of hands? No way." The Lord continued,"Don't worry, I will make other military wives to help her. And I will give her an unusually strong heart so it can swell with pride in her husband's achievements, sustain the pain of separations, beat soundly when it is overworked and tired, and be large enough to say, 'I understand' when she doesn't and say 'I love you', regardless."
"Lord," said the angel, touching his arm gently. "Go to bed and get some rest.You can finish this tomorrow."
"I can't stop now," said the Lord. "I am so close to creating something unique. Already this model heals herself when she is sick, can put up six unexpected guests for the weekend, wave good-bye to her husband from a pier, a runway or a depot, and understand why it's important that he leaves."
The angel circled the model of the military wife, looked at it closely and sighed, "It looks fine, but it's too soft."
"She might look soft," replied the Lord. "But she has the strength of a lion. You would not believe what she can endure."
Finally the angel bent over and ran her finger across the cheek of the Lord's creation. "There's a leak," she announced. "Something is wrong with the construction. I am not surprised that it has cracked. You are trying to put too much into this model."
The Lord appeared offended at the angel's lack of onfidence."What you see is not a leak," He said. "It's a tear." "A tear?" What is it there for?" asked the angel.
The Lord replied, "It's for joy, sadness, pain, disappointment, loneliness, pride and a dedication to all the values that she and her husband hold dear."
"You are a genius!" exclaimed the angel.
The Lord looked puzzled and replied, "I didn't put it there".
We military spouses are a strange breed and we, like everyone, go through some tough things in life. I posted this a few years ago but recent events, like moving all over again and the isolations that comes with that starting over whilst trying to pretend you're not feeling destabilised by it, has bought home to roost certain emotions.
To that end, this..this post goes out to ALL the women of the world who are married to military personnel x
The good Lord was creating a model for military wives and was into His sixth day of overtime when an angel appeared. She said, "Lord, you seem to be having a lot of trouble with this one. What's wrong with the standard model?"
The Lord replied, "Have you seen the specs on this order? She has to be completely independent, possess the qualities of both a father and mother, be a perfect hostess to four or forty with an hour's notice, run on black coffee, handle every emergency imaginable without a manual, be able to carry on cheerfully, even if she is pregnant and has the flu, and she must be willing to move to a new location ten times in seventeen years. And, oh yes, she must have six pairs of hands!"
The angel shook her head, "Six pairs of hands? No way." The Lord continued,"Don't worry, I will make other military wives to help her. And I will give her an unusually strong heart so it can swell with pride in her husband's achievements, sustain the pain of separations, beat soundly when it is overworked and tired, and be large enough to say, 'I understand' when she doesn't and say 'I love you', regardless."
"Lord," said the angel, touching his arm gently. "Go to bed and get some rest.You can finish this tomorrow."
"I can't stop now," said the Lord. "I am so close to creating something unique. Already this model heals herself when she is sick, can put up six unexpected guests for the weekend, wave good-bye to her husband from a pier, a runway or a depot, and understand why it's important that he leaves."
The angel circled the model of the military wife, looked at it closely and sighed, "It looks fine, but it's too soft."
"She might look soft," replied the Lord. "But she has the strength of a lion. You would not believe what she can endure."
Finally the angel bent over and ran her finger across the cheek of the Lord's creation. "There's a leak," she announced. "Something is wrong with the construction. I am not surprised that it has cracked. You are trying to put too much into this model."
The Lord appeared offended at the angel's lack of onfidence."What you see is not a leak," He said. "It's a tear." "A tear?" What is it there for?" asked the angel.
The Lord replied, "It's for joy, sadness, pain, disappointment, loneliness, pride and a dedication to all the values that she and her husband hold dear."
"You are a genius!" exclaimed the angel.
The Lord looked puzzled and replied, "I didn't put it there".
Sunday, 10 November 2013
Remembrance Sunday
Today as I rode by,
I saw the brown leaves dropping from their trees
In a still afternoon,
When no wind whirled them whistling to the sky,
But thickly, silently,
They fell, like snowflakes wiping out the noon;
And wandered slowly thence
For thinking of a gallant multitude
Which now all withering lay,
Slain by no wind of age or pestilence,
But in their beauty strewed
Like snowflakes falling on the Flemish clay.
Thank you to all the men and women who have fought and sacrificed that others may know what it is to have freedom and liberty - you paid the highest price and are immortalised in our hearts.
I saw the brown leaves dropping from their trees
In a still afternoon,
When no wind whirled them whistling to the sky,
But thickly, silently,
They fell, like snowflakes wiping out the noon;
And wandered slowly thence
For thinking of a gallant multitude
Which now all withering lay,
Slain by no wind of age or pestilence,
But in their beauty strewed
Like snowflakes falling on the Flemish clay.
Thank you to all the men and women who have fought and sacrificed that others may know what it is to have freedom and liberty - you paid the highest price and are immortalised in our hearts.
Wednesday, 6 November 2013
A Flight of Fantasy
Back where we used to live I have a good friend, S, who completely gets my often obscure humour, when I say 'gets' I mean she's amused by my peculiarities and encourages them. I suppose someone has to.
Just before we moved and whilst we were waiting for a decision to made on where we were going to live my imagination took flight, as it is want to do and I conjured up three children for L and I. Of course, why would you not?! So we have Orson who is 5, Oberon or Obie for short who is 3 and Ophelia who is 1. I beginning to question my own sanity just hearing myself admit to this kind of thing...but in for a penny, in for a pound.
When S and I would meet for coffee I used to regale her with the fictional stories about my escapades with our 3 darling children, who are all quite a character (quite literally!) and it just became something that we did.
For no better reason than because I have a whim to do so, here is my latest chapter...
If the shoe fits....
During half term I mistakenly thought taking my 3 devil spawn children - sorry little darlings - shoe shopping was a good idea. Yup, you'd have thought I was a first time mum with an only child plus a friend's for a few hours to make that school girl error... How did I end up with all 3 in Shrewsbury town centre during half term? Daddy needed, yes NEEDED to go to a 2 hour jujitsu session so he therefore wasn't available to come with us. How convenient! If we're talking about need here I NEEDED a whole bottle of mulled wine, a massage and a therapist after my few hours with them but daddy NEEDED that two hour reprieve, sorry work out session!
It took me half an hour just to get them loaded into the car with snacks and pacifying implements: Ophelia's nose was running and Obie was whining he wanted the cola flavoured raisins, Orson didn't want to sit in the middle it made him car sick especially having to look at his sister's snotty nose etc etc. You'd have thought I'd have heeded that premonitory warning of how things were going to go and just stayed home, but apparently not.
Twenty minutes of taking the whistle stop tour of Shrewsbury to find a parking space, where some thoughtful person hadn't both got their driving licence off the back of a Kellog's cereal box and just aimed their car at a space and parked liked a twat, I found a spot. Cue fifteen minutes of wrestling snotty and now cranky Ophelia (she's not fond of the car or the pram) into her pram, whilst persuading Obie he's a big boy and needs to walk because today isn't mummy's resistance weight training day and I can't push both of them around town in a pram. We haven't even made it into town yet and my tolerance is swiftly vanishing.
Off to Clark's we go!
After what follows next I've no idea how social services weren't called...we enter Clark's and it's rammed with stressed out mothers, wailing or Olympic sprinting children, paled faced Prozac induced smiling shop assistants and bored disinterested dads. Again another warning I decided not to heed.
Orson's up first. His feet are measured and that part all goes smoothly, like his parents he has ridiculously small feet, if only that meant shoes were cheaper! Small chance. We then have half an hour of trying to find a pair of shoes to suit his majesty's refined and particular taste. Bored with arguing with my unnaturally eloquent and wordy five year old I (through gritted teeth) have him repeat his shoe size to me at least 3 times, tell him to try on whatever ones he wants in his size. In an attempt to learn from my mistakes I have Obie and Ophelia's feet measured at the same time, I already have a headache like an earthquake and it's nearing lunch time and since my swarm of locus ate all their snacks in the car I know I can expect full blown "mummy I'm so hungry my tummy hurts" at any moment.
In my preoccupation with knowing lunch time is coming I completely forget to warn the shoe fitting assistant Obie's extremely ticklish on his feet (like his mother). If this had happened to anyone else the comic timing would have had me in fits of hysterics on the hideous carpet, but it didn't. No sooner has Obie's ticklishness occurred to me and I am about to warn the incredibly patient shoe fitting assistant then smash! He kicked her in the mouth and she went cross-eyed with the impact. I've no idea where he gets his footballeresque punting from, daddy has fifty pence feet meaning the ball could literally go in any direction regardless of where it's aimed and I only regularly kick myself. Some mother's around me wince, either from what they know is going to be a smarting soon to be fat lip or from my glowing embarrassment. I start apologising profusely and scolding Obie at the same time, which then results in a torrent of tears and sniffing to contend with, why I didn't just leave and go home there and then I've no idea.
We finally manage to narrow down shoes for Orson, which he hands to me and promptly wonders off. I know, I know I should keep an eye on my children but I still had to find something for the other two! Eventually I manage to settle on a pair for Obie and a little pair of pumps for Ophelia after over an hour in the shop and I am just about to congratulate myself when I realise Orson is missing! I must have bellowed his name at least a dozen times before a frayed shop assistant kindly points out my oldest son is at the other end of the shop in the ladies department trying on shoes. Dragging a still sniffing Obie, pushing Ophelia and trying to carry three boxes of shoes (do shoes really need to come in boxes?!) I find him surrounded by dozens of shoes all over the floor in an horrific mess that is akin to a hand grenade having gone off in the room. Worse, he is parading up and down a small walk way in a pair of fuchsia pink heels instructing his rapt audience of other children just how you walk in them!
I took that to be my cue for a sharp exit, grabbed my offspring, hastily paid whilst not trying to think of remortgaging a house we don't own to pay for the 3 pairs of tiny shoes and headed for the door. We're barely fives minutes down the road before Ophelia starts crying in earnest, the kind of crying that makes every shopper turn in your direction like you're the worst person in the world. No matter how much I used my calm soothing voice to make her stop, or how often I had to tell Orson holding his hands over his ears and demanding to know why his little sister had to be loud wasn't helping, I could not get my children to be seen and not heard. Finally I went to a bench sat down turned the pram toward me as Obie pipes up with "mummy my tummy hurts, is it lunch time and I want McDonalds" to see Ophelia only has one shoe on.
Back we go looking for Cinderella's slipper....can't find it anywhere along the road. I have no option but to go back into Clark's and show my face. Oh the shame. Head bent and shoulders slumped we do just that. Cue fifteen minutes of explaining to either immensely dumb or concussed shoe fitting assistant that I've lost my daughter's shoe before she enlists the help of others just to get us out of the shop quicker I'm sure. Ten minutes later it's found having been put back on a wrack and she helpfully rams it in Ophelia's foot and guides us toward the doors. As we're leaving I deliberately avoid eye contact with the staff who are still putting the shoes back in order in the ladies department.
I must have broke more than one speed limit getting my little darlings home for a healthy lunch of beans on toast for them and a stiff drink for me. I would say never again but inevitable this traumatic experience will be wiped clean from my memory the moment I go to sleep and won't be remembered until Christmas time when I think it's a good idea to take all 2 Christmas shopping for daddy's present!
Just before we moved and whilst we were waiting for a decision to made on where we were going to live my imagination took flight, as it is want to do and I conjured up three children for L and I. Of course, why would you not?! So we have Orson who is 5, Oberon or Obie for short who is 3 and Ophelia who is 1. I beginning to question my own sanity just hearing myself admit to this kind of thing...but in for a penny, in for a pound.
When S and I would meet for coffee I used to regale her with the fictional stories about my escapades with our 3 darling children, who are all quite a character (quite literally!) and it just became something that we did.
For no better reason than because I have a whim to do so, here is my latest chapter...
If the shoe fits....
During half term I mistakenly thought taking my 3 devil spawn children - sorry little darlings - shoe shopping was a good idea. Yup, you'd have thought I was a first time mum with an only child plus a friend's for a few hours to make that school girl error... How did I end up with all 3 in Shrewsbury town centre during half term? Daddy needed, yes NEEDED to go to a 2 hour jujitsu session so he therefore wasn't available to come with us. How convenient! If we're talking about need here I NEEDED a whole bottle of mulled wine, a massage and a therapist after my few hours with them but daddy NEEDED that two hour reprieve, sorry work out session!
It took me half an hour just to get them loaded into the car with snacks and pacifying implements: Ophelia's nose was running and Obie was whining he wanted the cola flavoured raisins, Orson didn't want to sit in the middle it made him car sick especially having to look at his sister's snotty nose etc etc. You'd have thought I'd have heeded that premonitory warning of how things were going to go and just stayed home, but apparently not.
Twenty minutes of taking the whistle stop tour of Shrewsbury to find a parking space, where some thoughtful person hadn't both got their driving licence off the back of a Kellog's cereal box and just aimed their car at a space and parked liked a twat, I found a spot. Cue fifteen minutes of wrestling snotty and now cranky Ophelia (she's not fond of the car or the pram) into her pram, whilst persuading Obie he's a big boy and needs to walk because today isn't mummy's resistance weight training day and I can't push both of them around town in a pram. We haven't even made it into town yet and my tolerance is swiftly vanishing.
Off to Clark's we go!
After what follows next I've no idea how social services weren't called...we enter Clark's and it's rammed with stressed out mothers, wailing or Olympic sprinting children, paled faced Prozac induced smiling shop assistants and bored disinterested dads. Again another warning I decided not to heed.
Orson's up first. His feet are measured and that part all goes smoothly, like his parents he has ridiculously small feet, if only that meant shoes were cheaper! Small chance. We then have half an hour of trying to find a pair of shoes to suit his majesty's refined and particular taste. Bored with arguing with my unnaturally eloquent and wordy five year old I (through gritted teeth) have him repeat his shoe size to me at least 3 times, tell him to try on whatever ones he wants in his size. In an attempt to learn from my mistakes I have Obie and Ophelia's feet measured at the same time, I already have a headache like an earthquake and it's nearing lunch time and since my swarm of locus ate all their snacks in the car I know I can expect full blown "mummy I'm so hungry my tummy hurts" at any moment.
In my preoccupation with knowing lunch time is coming I completely forget to warn the shoe fitting assistant Obie's extremely ticklish on his feet (like his mother). If this had happened to anyone else the comic timing would have had me in fits of hysterics on the hideous carpet, but it didn't. No sooner has Obie's ticklishness occurred to me and I am about to warn the incredibly patient shoe fitting assistant then smash! He kicked her in the mouth and she went cross-eyed with the impact. I've no idea where he gets his footballeresque punting from, daddy has fifty pence feet meaning the ball could literally go in any direction regardless of where it's aimed and I only regularly kick myself. Some mother's around me wince, either from what they know is going to be a smarting soon to be fat lip or from my glowing embarrassment. I start apologising profusely and scolding Obie at the same time, which then results in a torrent of tears and sniffing to contend with, why I didn't just leave and go home there and then I've no idea.
We finally manage to narrow down shoes for Orson, which he hands to me and promptly wonders off. I know, I know I should keep an eye on my children but I still had to find something for the other two! Eventually I manage to settle on a pair for Obie and a little pair of pumps for Ophelia after over an hour in the shop and I am just about to congratulate myself when I realise Orson is missing! I must have bellowed his name at least a dozen times before a frayed shop assistant kindly points out my oldest son is at the other end of the shop in the ladies department trying on shoes. Dragging a still sniffing Obie, pushing Ophelia and trying to carry three boxes of shoes (do shoes really need to come in boxes?!) I find him surrounded by dozens of shoes all over the floor in an horrific mess that is akin to a hand grenade having gone off in the room. Worse, he is parading up and down a small walk way in a pair of fuchsia pink heels instructing his rapt audience of other children just how you walk in them!
I took that to be my cue for a sharp exit, grabbed my offspring, hastily paid whilst not trying to think of remortgaging a house we don't own to pay for the 3 pairs of tiny shoes and headed for the door. We're barely fives minutes down the road before Ophelia starts crying in earnest, the kind of crying that makes every shopper turn in your direction like you're the worst person in the world. No matter how much I used my calm soothing voice to make her stop, or how often I had to tell Orson holding his hands over his ears and demanding to know why his little sister had to be loud wasn't helping, I could not get my children to be seen and not heard. Finally I went to a bench sat down turned the pram toward me as Obie pipes up with "mummy my tummy hurts, is it lunch time and I want McDonalds" to see Ophelia only has one shoe on.
Back we go looking for Cinderella's slipper....can't find it anywhere along the road. I have no option but to go back into Clark's and show my face. Oh the shame. Head bent and shoulders slumped we do just that. Cue fifteen minutes of explaining to either immensely dumb or concussed shoe fitting assistant that I've lost my daughter's shoe before she enlists the help of others just to get us out of the shop quicker I'm sure. Ten minutes later it's found having been put back on a wrack and she helpfully rams it in Ophelia's foot and guides us toward the doors. As we're leaving I deliberately avoid eye contact with the staff who are still putting the shoes back in order in the ladies department.
I must have broke more than one speed limit getting my little darlings home for a healthy lunch of beans on toast for them and a stiff drink for me. I would say never again but inevitable this traumatic experience will be wiped clean from my memory the moment I go to sleep and won't be remembered until Christmas time when I think it's a good idea to take all 2 Christmas shopping for daddy's present!
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