Taking my cue from Lou Plummer’s post today, I Am Not Proud, and talking about what I take pride in. And it isn’t necessarily my appearance in the way some do. I am happy to wear comfortable clothes, have never done fashion (*sorry folks, I just have the wrong body shape*) and am not interested in following the latest trends. Believe me, you don’t want to see me in a crop top, lycra, spandex or a bikini. I’m not interest in competing with anyone either, whether that’s in dress, debate, or otherwise. I’m so over dealing with fools and idiots. Especially in today’s polarising climate where everyone feels the need to be extreme in their views.

I simply don’t have the time, energy or care to get into with anyone these days. What little time I have left I want to spend with people who care as passionately about nature and the world we live in, more than political parties, overblown personalities, and the latest thing as prescribed by some dumbass online influencer.

My life just doesn’t revolve around inane asinine people. It never has. Even as a kid growing up. And that’s probably due to the era I come from and being a military brat hauled from one posting to another with my parents. Parents who set my morel compass for me long before I knew what one was or what it was for.

What I take pride in are the little acts of kindness I can do for others, on any given day. Whether it’s a kind word to a stranger, or someone I know online. I think this is why I love the people over on Mastodon so much, as Lou says, we’re here for the kindness of the community. It’s all about taking pride in adding to that diversity.

Bang … bang … BANG!

It started just before 10 am and hasn’t stopped since. I thought, at first, dopy sod that I am, “who’s setting off fireworks in the middle of the day?” especially as it’s peeing down out there (again). But as the banging continued I began to realise it probably wasn’t fireworks in the rain, but something else. And, taking a break from writing, made myself a brew and went out onto the balcony to listen.

Turns out not two blocks from here there’s a worksite in full swing with two maybe more, pile-drivers pounding away at the foundations for a new building. And that’s what I’m hearing. Well, the echoes from them bouncing off all the surrounding buildings. Throw in the constant Beep Beep Beep of onsite vehicles backing up and, you have a cacophony of noise that has become annoying to the Nth degree.

I can only hope that at noon they’ll break for lunch and give the neighbourhood a much needed break. But then again, it’s Wednesday, it’s bin day and at 1 pm almost to the second a dump truck is going to turn up and empty several large containers at the back of our complex. Oh joy of joys …

Damn but we live in a noisy world. I need some noise-cancelling headphones.

It’s the fourth day in a row that the rain is steadily falling from a slate grey sky, and I’m tripping down memory lane remembering how my parents, my mother in particular, use to keep us—us being six kids—occupied during rainy days at home. Not that all six kids were together all that often. The older ones I always remember being at school or at friends houses, while me and my two younger brothers (*the second batch as my father referred to us*) were more likely to be together. There was a considerable age difference between the oldest, my sister, and the youngest, my brother, by 15 years.

On those odd weekends when we were all at home, and because of and despite the rain, my father would take us like a herd of sheep, and walk us to the library. A favourite place to wile away 2 or 3 hours on a Saturday morning, and a way of keeping us occupied reading or, at the very least, listening to story time. My dad got a break and could read, pick up several fat books to take home, and also, give my mother a few precious hours to herself to do, well, whatever she did.

On other rainy days, when it was just us three little ones, I remember my mother getting us involved doing jigsaw puzzles, or quietly reading, while she herself read. Or sometimes, building sheet forts under the dining room table, with old sheets, curtains, and cushions. The best time of all was when she read to us, her lilting Scottish brogue lulling us to mute listeners as she created characters out of sound. The sound of her voice something I thought would always be with me, forever.

Even now I can almost hear her reading us Winnie the Pooh, or Alice in Wonderland, for the millionth time.

It’s funny how a rainy day can bring back so many happy childhood memories and bring a simple joy into my heart. I’m also forever thankful to my parents for giving me such a love of reading.

Now, if you will excuse me, I just might go and read J. M. Barry’s Peter Pan or Lewis Carroll’s Alice Through The Looking Glass one more time.

I was woken at a few minute past 1 am this morning to a bright white light filling the room. I thought the Angels had finally come to take me. I sat up in bed, with a start, and not a little terrified.

Thankfully, no, it wasn’t the Angels, for one thing, there was no heavenly choir singing. It was the damn iMac updating because, guess who forgot to do it during daylight hours. Yes, that would be me. Despite sticking a post-it note to the mac to remind me to do so. I got side tracked and, having passed through a doorway, totally forgot to come back and do it.

Hence the heavenly bright light.

Got up and made a brew instead and went back to bed at around 2 am, grumpy as hell. And no, I ain’t in a better mood this morning.

Bah humbug!

Having talked about what my dad did for a living for most of his adult life—and yes, while it’s true he once kicked a bomb, the truth is he worked as a Master Armourer in the military. My mother, on the other hand, was the homemaker. Partly because having six kids meant my mother was never going to have a career beyond fabulous baker, great cook, and amazing wrangler of three kids too many.

But things could have been so different if her life had taken another course, and her mother had been more supportive of opportunities offered my mother. And, as a young women, if the war hadn’t come along to derail everyone’s lives when it did.

My mother was 15 when she started working in the jute mills in Dundee, Scotland. It was during her time after work that she was discovered to have a natural talent. She had a fabulous singing voice. And while she was supposed to be too young to be in a bar (pub) it didn’t stop my mother from singing there, even at the tender age of 16.

And no, before you ask, she wasn’t discovered by the usual vocal scouts of the day looking for the latest pop singer. Don’t forget this was just as war in Europe was breaking out. The person that heard her sing was from the Scottish Opera and saw her talent. He approached her thinking she was probably 18 or older, and was both sad and happy to discover she was much younger. This meant involving the parents, and getting permission to have her audition with a view to a possible career singing in the Opera.

Sad to say that within the six months that things were happening for my mother’s hoped for new life, Britain was dragged into Word War II and her own mother refused to let her audition let alone consider a life in the opera. However prestigious that path might have been.

What could have been was a crushed dream. And, instead of that life, or even continuing to work in the mill, my mother ran away from home at 17 and joined the WAAFs to become an MT driver.

She told me that, in the end, she had no regrets at the way things turned out. Instead of a life singing on stage for others, she sang for the sheer joy of it, in a life that was, as she says, full to the brim. And in a way she could never have imagined as an innocent 16 year.

All the what could have beens are just that, she made a life for herself and made the most of that life right on through to the end. And she did it her way, always singing, right on through to the last note.

As a child growing up I use to tell friends, “… my dad kicks bombs for a living.” when asked the inevitable stupid question, ‘what does your dad do for a living.’ One because I was never sure at first what it was my dad did actually do and had overheard him talking to someone, one time, and say, “I kick bombs…” and giggling to myself though, oh, that’s cool. Never once, at whatever tender age I was at the time, realising what kicking bombs for a living actually meant or, entailed. And two, because I loved the look on the other kids faces when I told them that.

It wasn’t till much later it all made sense when one of my older brothers explained to me and, having a half ass explanation, had gone and asked my dad what exactly it was he did. By this point I was about 8 years old and we were living in Singapore, and I vaguely knew he worked putting bombs on planes. Though why they needed to carry bombs in the first place was still a little beyond me.

Continue reading →