Well, things have been up and down and up...such is life.
Phase one of returning to work was a disaster. Falling into the hands of a Boss who treated his workers like slaves was misery. I braved it out for a while and then beat a retreat, thankfully into the waiting arms of the most wonderful publishing company, where I am loving every minute whilst producing academic journals, the contents of which I don't understand. Being happy at work is a liberating experience and it should be against the law to be otherwise.
Hebe and Hugo are cared for in my absence by the World's best dog-sitter. No you can't have her name, she's ours!
Steve has spent plenty of time in Blighty. Whilst with a career each there isn't a great deal of time for much else, it is so lovely to be able to see his beautiful face every day.
My Grandfather died. He was 95 and entitled to shuffle off but he still left a hole in a lot of lives. His funeral was held in a charming old Church in Devon. There was rousing singing of 'Jerusalem' and not a dry eye when The Dambusters March was played (he was RAF 617 sqn.). I hope he's living it up in Heaven with Nanny.
The big 'down' is that my best friend is drawing closer to the end of her life. She has been ill for nearly two and a half years and is getting more and more frail. She has no Mother, Her father is quite understandably in denial about the imminent loss of his only child,nor siblings, so I am the listening ear, and my God it's hard. I am not the easiest person to know. I am secretive, judgemental, proud -and I don't give my feelings away easily, but she 'gets' me. She has always 'got' me. She is joyful, beautiful, kind and utterly, utterly good. It seems such a waste to rip her away from us when she has only spent 46 years on the planet. I have a devotedly happy marriage and a close family but she is the one person who I have been able to say things I thought no one else would bear to hear. From drunken days on bar stools, to wild dancing, to heated debate, every minute with her has been a joy. Much of my adult life has been spent knowing that whatever befell me she would be there. The rest of it will be without her. That fucking sucks.
In which I return to work
I have been a bit reluctant to go back to work. Principally I think because of the dogs. Being involuntarily childless has been a hard road to travel and having my beloved Hebe and Hugo has filled the potholes. However, there is at some point a house to be purchased so I am strapping back on my high heels, shaking out my shoulder pads and re-joining the workforce.Wish me luck!
Today has been hard. I am usually the 'stiff upper lip' type but Steve disappeared off to somewhere dangerous, to do something dangerous yesterday and little Boo, my darling pussy cat, has chosen this time to start the process of dying. I know she is a thousand years old and I know that she has had a wonderful life but my heart is so heavy. I have tried to distract myself with College homework and Hebe, bless her keeps licking the tears from my face but I can't get away from it. Boo is leaving and Steve is gone and I feel so utterly alone.
I have been reading the blogs of other Army wives. Oh dear! There is a lot about quilting, copious mentions of Jesus, and some complicated recipes. I note they have lots of 'Followers' and I am as yet, unfollowed. I suspect the only comments I get will be hate mail.
I came to this kind of life late. My previous existence had included a career, an Audi TT and lots of time in the wine bar with 'the Gang' - more of them later - and then I fell in love with Steve, and was precipitated into a life in which I spend much of my time alone, wearing muddy jeans and trying to avoid coffee mornings.
It's lonely being married to 'Brass'. I am not saying that to elicit sympathy, it just is. I had NO idea that there was a World out there where one's identity was cloaked by one's husband's job. I tried joining Army wife websites but I am an oddity. I wasn't born to velvet hair bands and flower arranging and I didn't get married at 17 and shout 'Hooah!' or cover my car in bumper stickers proclaiming 'I love my Soldier!'........ Being a pacifist doesn't help.
I came to this kind of life late. My previous existence had included a career, an Audi TT and lots of time in the wine bar with 'the Gang' - more of them later - and then I fell in love with Steve, and was precipitated into a life in which I spend much of my time alone, wearing muddy jeans and trying to avoid coffee mornings.
It's lonely being married to 'Brass'. I am not saying that to elicit sympathy, it just is. I had NO idea that there was a World out there where one's identity was cloaked by one's husband's job. I tried joining Army wife websites but I am an oddity. I wasn't born to velvet hair bands and flower arranging and I didn't get married at 17 and shout 'Hooah!' or cover my car in bumper stickers proclaiming 'I love my Soldier!'........ Being a pacifist doesn't help.
How did that happen?
What I want to know is how I got from there..... to here.
Someone has just sent me a staggeringly fancy invitation, bearing a crest, raised gold ink et al - addressed to Colonel & Mrs. SP XXXXX. Now I don't even have a name I am just the Mrs. part of SP. I want to write back to this person, pointing out that I exist in my own right and that my dad was a Printer and could have made that invitation - oh, and the 'SP' bounced around the bedroom in his Tigger pants last night - but that is not what they want to know. They want to know if Steve & I will truss ourselves up like chickens and look gracious for a couple of hours at their banquet.
I used to wet myself with excitement when these invitations turned up and in my head I'd do a 'Sally Field' - 'ME, you REALLY like me?' but now I realise it has nothing at all to do with me, and everything to do with Steve turning up wearing Mess kit &; spurs to decorate their 'do'. I am the '&; Mrs.' who has to go along and entertain some boring fart whose wife 'insists you come for dinner, and DO ask Steve to wear decorations'.
One day we are going to be found out. They'll figure out that Steve was born on a run down council estate and that I am partial to a fag and rather too much wine than is good for me.
Someone has just sent me a staggeringly fancy invitation, bearing a crest, raised gold ink et al - addressed to Colonel & Mrs. SP XXXXX. Now I don't even have a name I am just the Mrs. part of SP. I want to write back to this person, pointing out that I exist in my own right and that my dad was a Printer and could have made that invitation - oh, and the 'SP' bounced around the bedroom in his Tigger pants last night - but that is not what they want to know. They want to know if Steve & I will truss ourselves up like chickens and look gracious for a couple of hours at their banquet.
I used to wet myself with excitement when these invitations turned up and in my head I'd do a 'Sally Field' - 'ME, you REALLY like me?' but now I realise it has nothing at all to do with me, and everything to do with Steve turning up wearing Mess kit &; spurs to decorate their 'do'. I am the '&; Mrs.' who has to go along and entertain some boring fart whose wife 'insists you come for dinner, and DO ask Steve to wear decorations'.
One day we are going to be found out. They'll figure out that Steve was born on a run down council estate and that I am partial to a fag and rather too much wine than is good for me.
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