Veterans For Peace

my photo of a resilient tree in the Dartmoor winterFor several years now I’ve had an uncomfortable relationship with Remembrance Day. The normal thing. While pausing to remember innocents slaughtered in wars, and also several friends of mine who died while (or after) I was serving, I deplore the British arms industry and their politician puppets, and I despise the political fetishism that’s taken over Remembrance Day and turned it into Remembrance Month.

My highest/lowest point was attending a local service in a wheelchair with a white poppy pinned above my medals. Seemed a good idea beforehand, but even during the ceremony I decided it was prima donna-ish of me.

Also, I have no respect for the British Legion. So.

Today, at eleven o’clock, I went online and joined Veterans For Peace. That’s better.

Flu? What flu?

Oh, that flu. It’s gone. History.

Which is to say, I’m through its active phase. The ME fallout from it might last months, or maybe only a week. We shall see.

I’m easing myself back into writing new Sky Train words. Still loving this space western story. The characters are getting deeper all the time and I’m also making notes for the sequels as ideas occur.

Right now, though, I’m having a nostalgic moment.

3 Anniversaries and a Birthday

3 Anniversary Cakes

Tomorrow is my birthday. Which I suppose is the anniversary of my arrival on Earth, so that’s four really. But I’ll keep things simple and call it a birthday plus three anniversaries.

 

The first event happened on the evening before my eighth birthday. We’d only been in the new-built house for five months, so my mother was furious when I got lost in a book and forgot my bath was running until screams from downstairs pulled me back into this world. The bath had overflowed and hot water was pouring through the floor into the kitchen below.

Furious that night, and she stayed livid for some time afterwards. The 18th of January has never lost its association with our kitchen ceiling coming down.

The second event was when on the morning of my thirtieth birthday and the morning of the next day, I had to sit two four-hour criminal law exams. I passed them well, but I still call that a cruel and unusual punishment.

And the third event was exactly a year later, when I was in the West Country waiting for Janette to go into labour with our third daughter, Bev, in London.

I had a deal with my employer that my arranged two-week leave would start when she went into labour, but I had to rely on my mother-in-law to get the word to me and frankly I didn’t trust her to bother.

Also, we’d sold our car in preparation for us all moving out to Gibraltar together to take up my new two-year position as soon as Bev was four weeks old and safe to fly. That’s why Janette and the girls were in London while I worked out my last few weeks in my old job.

Also, also, there was no direct rail route between us. It wasn’t going to be a quick and simple journey from my office to the maternity hospital.

So I called my mother (in yet another part of the country, still in our family home with the kitchen ceiling five months newer than the rest of the house) and asked her to phone my place of work first thing the next morning and say Janette was in labour.

Which she was, actually, only guess what: she’d trusted her mother to phone me but her mother hadn’t bothered.

So I made it to hold Janette’s hand during all three of our daughters’ births, despite difficult journeys and difficult people, and that’s my happiest association with this date.

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