Wedding Blessing

I thought that you might like to see a few photos from our wedding blessing on Friday. Yes I am delighted to declare that even God has now recognised our union. 

It did feel a bit odd to get my sparkly dress out again and be re-newing our vows to each other. I'm delighted to say that Tris was still keen to be married to me!

Well - it would have been rude not to wear the dress again!

Beautiful big sis.

Tris read through the order of blessing in the car on the way down and declared after five minutes that he was fully prepared. 'I do, I do, I will'! He said proudly - his bit learned.

The service went really well, with dad trying to out do me and my sister in a lovely gold embossed cape. We wondered where he was going with his address when he started talking about Ronald Reagan, but he managed to pull it round in the end - impressive!

Unfortunately it did lash it down (what do you expect on an English bank holiday), but I was fine, I had a bridal brolly, which kept me both dry and stylish when I went across the church yard to put my bouquet on mum's grave. 

Out done by my dad!

We had a lovely reception in the Wishing Well pub in the village of Dyke, which was followed by a beer festival in a marquee in an adjoining field. The beer festival was nothing to do with us - purely by chance - but made the males in our party very happy. In fact when they were summoned by their ladies, the message came back that the entrance had collapsed and they were trapped inside, being tended to by the East Anglian Mountain Rescue. 

Party rocks, while husband is stuck in collapsed beer tent.

When a Head Teacher tells you this, you tend to believe her! Off I went into the field in my sparkly frock, at full pelt to help liberate my husband from the collapsed beer tent, to find them all happy as Larry getting as much real ale down their necks as possible and trying to persuade the land lord to make it an annual festival - Dykefest!

Tris also told me about how, as the first people there at the start of the beer festival, they had all been interviewed and photographed by the Bourne Local (newspaper) - wedding suited up and  proudly holding their pints of Old Speckled Pig (or whatever). I was very impressed and promptly put in an order for a copy with my dad. 

That was a wind up too - Tris, I'm sad to say is not doing very well in terms of the 'honesty' part of his wedding vows! Unlike one little girl who, high on a cocktail of fizzy swizzles love hearts and parma violets (she managed to accumulate practically everyones favour boxes) decided to let me into a little secret. 


'Did you know that daddy has a pair of gold sparkly ladies knickers?' She said.


I have to say I didn't - but I do now!

The happy couple - ahhh!

So - this will probably be the last update for a while - we are off tomorrow to have a 'wonderful' honeymoon in Boston, New England and New York. I'm looking forward to lots of amazing adventures which I'll be sure to fill you in on when we get back. Ax

Stalking Hurricanes

The news is reporting that parts of New York are being evacuated (including Manhattan), with a state of emergency issued as far north as Cape Cod, which looks like it's going to be battered by Hurricane Irene tomorrow. 

Hurricane Irene

I wrote a couple of days ago that whenever I go to the US I always seem to end up dodging disaster (read I don't BELIEVE it! ). 

Well, I am avidly watching the news reports again at the moment. We fly out to Boston on Tuesday and travel around New England before finishing up in New York. We are supposed to be camping, but I think I'll be taking a credit card and wellies in case we have to up-grade!


When I was driving today, I remembered something else. I was actually planning a holiday to New Orleans in 2005. Can't remember why, but I canned that trip and it never got booked. Good job - my planned dates would have seen me right in the middle of Hurricane Katrina!

Song of Solomon

Our wedding at Oakfield Manor, at Chester Zoo back in June was a civil ceremony, so tomorrow we will be having a small church wedding blessing, which my dad will take, in Bourne Abbey, Lincolnshire. 

 

Guests at our wedding at Chester Zoo

 

Mum and dad moved to Bourne in 2000 when dad retired. Sadly mum only lived there for 18 months - she is buried in the church yard.

 

Bourne Abbey

 

I get to wear my lovely dress again, but this time I'll be doing my own hair, make up and nails. 

 

A civil ceremony means that you can't include anything even remotely religious - tomorrow we get to have some beautiful readings, including The Song of Solomon. Even though it's not going to be a big do, I know that you'll all be thinking of us. When you read this verse, just stop, spare us a thought and wish us good luck for a long, happy and now church blessed marriage.

The greatest of these is love. Song of Solomon 2:10-13

My beloved spoke and said to me,
“Arise, my darling,
my beautiful one, come with me.
See! The winter is past;
the rains are over and gone.
Flowers appear on the earth;
the season of singing has come,
the cooing of doves
is heard in our land.
The fig tree forms its early fruit;
the blossoming vines spread their fragrance.
Arise, come, my darling;
my beautiful one, come with me.”

I don’t BELIEVE it!

There are lots of things I don’t believe today.

I can’t believe it’s been two years today since my cancer diagnosis. Bloody hell, what a week that was! On the one hand, two years seems like nothing. But on the other, when I think of what’s happened – holy moley! And I’ve managed to fit in an engagement, wedding and redundancy as well. How do I do it?

My diagnosis was actually on the day before we were due to fly out to the States for our big summer holiday. The plan was to stay with friends in Boston, then to travel around New England and finish up with a few days in New York. We had to cancel the trip with a days notice – and damn you insurance companies – we only got a fraction of our money back (Bar-stools)!

Does this trip sound familiar? Well that’s because we will be attempting it again next week, for our honeymoon. I cannot begin to tell you what an achievement it will be and how much it will feel like I’ve ‘book-ended’ this whole terrible experience. I never thought I’d see the day and I don’t want to speak too soon, but I bloody did it!

The reason I don’t want to speak too soon brings me to my next ‘I don’t BELIEVE it!’

I don’t believe that I woke up this morning to news of earthquakes (5.8 on the whatsit scale) along the east coast of America, which not only temporarily closed JFK airport but much more importantly stopped some tennis in Connecticut. This is so rare, that the TV and radio channels had to broadcast that it was actually for real. 

Check out this news report with the headline ‘What?! An earthquake? The east coast reacts with shock. 

 

Even better – there are promises of serious aftershocks over the next couple of weeks. We fly out there on Tuesday.

One news web site leads to another and it gets better. Apparently hurricane Irene is also due to hit at the weekend – for our ‘Exploring New England’ part of the holiday – we will be in a tent. Check out this lovely bit of news:

The storm is forecast to approach the coast of the Carolinas on Saturday morning. After that, the saturated New England region could be at risk from torrential rains, high winds and flooding from Irene, Federal Emergency Management Agency Administrator Craig Fugate said on Tuesday.

Why does this keep happening to me? America has been trying to kill me off for years. Whenever I come to the States there is always some drama.

In 1992 my friend Julie and I had just booked our road trip around the western states when the LA riots broke out (following the acquittal of white policemen who were caught on video beating up Rodney King, an African American). 

Sunrise over the Grand Canyon

Yikes!

Although our trip started in Las Vegas – it was due to finish in LA. We were terrified – in particular of taking a wrong exit from the freeway and ending up in the ghetto – it was before sat navs and I was in charge of navigation so the margin for error was substantial.

As it happens LA was fine but it did add an extra tension to the trip.

I LOVED Lucy! Universal Studios, LA

Then in 1999 on my next trip to the States I just missed Hurricane Floyd which was not only MASSIVE, but came ashore exactly where I was flying out to stay the next day in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina (you can read more about that trip in my ‘Finding the one’ blog).

The next trip to the states was to New York 6^th – 11^th September 2001, and we all know what happened then. I was actually in the air flying home when the planes went into the Twin Towers (you can read more about that trip in my ‘New York 9-11’ blog).

My trip to the States in 2002 (North and South Carolina) was probably the least eventful although I do remember that it was a particularly good year for tornado’s and we did have to go and hide in the storm shelter under the stairs a couple of times. If you want a good old adrenaline rush, there’s nothing like watching the tornado reports on the TV – coming closer and closer. To panic, not to panic? It’s the modern day equivalent of watching the German army advance on Stalingrad.

My last trip to the States was again to LA as part of my round the world adventure in 2007. I don’t remember anything too traumatic happening – apart from seeing Britney Spears in a shop?! (you can read more about that in my ‘Chasing Fame’ blog). But then I was flying in from Fiji that time rather than the UK, so maybe I took the Gods by surprise.

Britney (scarf & wig)

 I’m trying hard not to take it personally, and to be fair it isn’t just the States. I seem to have a knack for dodging disaster.

Christchurch cathedral, before the earthquake.

So here we go again, a weekend of nervously checking the news reports and tracking a hurricane. If all goes to plan we’ll fly out next week, an excellent opportunity for another travel blog – especially as we get to New York exactly 10 years to the day after I flew out. Not exactly September 11^th, but in terms of the day – bang on. Now that will be a bit weird.

 If not, I guess we’ll head somewhere a bit safer – Libya anyone?

First kiss

Everyone remembers their first proper kiss – and I don’t mean getting caught with Andrew Holmes in the Wendy House in second year infants.

At 17 years old I was a bit of a late starter and although I remember the occasion vividly, I’m part ashamed and part ‘get me’, when I admit that I never knew his name!

When I was in the sixth form at Northampton High School (for gals), my friend Emma had a Saturday job in Sainsbury’. For some reason, and I’m not sure why, every other Thursday evening, Sainsbury’s booked ‘Cinderella – Rockafella’s ’, Northampton’s premier clubbing experience, for its staff. 

Me, Emma and an Allegro - awesome!

Staff were allowed to take their friends along to ‘The Sainsbury’s Disco’ and Emma and I spent many an evening dancing to Run DMC and trying to get into Rockafella’s – the over 25’s club.

On the particular evening in question, I’d splurged and entire month’s pocket money and partaken in five southern comforts and lemonade (not bad for a school night) by the time the slow dances started. That end of the night ritual where the lights were dimmed and people coupled up to do the ritual ‘clinging together and moving around in a circle’ dance.

I was always a bit thick when it came to boys – in fact I’d go as far as to say I was a bit scared of them. I think it probably dates back to when I was at primary school, when we were told to find a partner for country dancing. I’d very enthusiastically run straight for Christopher Booth or Anthony Dowans, who would then promptly swap me for Lesley Booth or Debbie Mawson (who were thin). I’d then get left with either the boy with the warty hands, where we would have to dance touching fingers or with another ‘fat’ girl.

So on that evening in Cinderella – Rockafella’s, when the slow dances started, I settled back into the shadows to watch the floor show. That kind of thing was for other people – I was destined to be one of life’s observers when it came to romance.

I don’t know what made this evening different, maybe it was my new yellow t-shirt and tube skirt from Clockhouse? But that evening someone actually came over and asked me to dance. He didn’t introduce himself and neither did I and being a polite, well mannered girl, it never even occurred to me to say no.

Before I knew it, we were on the dance floor with all the other couples in a tight embrace, swaying in time to the music and moving in circles, just like everyone else. Hurrah, I was no longer a leper – I’d been chosen for a slow dance. I’m glossing over the fact that I think he was drunk!

With ‘Secret Lovers’ by Atlantic Star ringing in our ears, suddenly his hands shot up the back of my t-shirt. ‘Oh no!’ I thought, trying my hardest not to freeze. ‘What do I do, what do I do?’ We carried on moving slowly in circles. 

Here we are, the two of us together
Takin’ this crazy chance to be all alone
We both know that we should not be together
‘Cause if we’re found out, it could mess up
Both our happy homes

I hate to think about us all meeting up together
‘Cause as soon as I look at you it will show on my face, yeah
Then they’ll know that we’ve been loving each other
We can’t let ‘em know, no, no, no
We can’t leave a trace

Secret lovers, yeah, that’s what we are
We should not be together
But we can’t let go, no, no
‘Cause we love each other so

Ooh…ooh…

Still moving slowly round in circles, I could feel the eyes of my friends burning into me as my not-so-secret lover not only stuck his hands up the back of my top, but then clamped his mouth onto mine. This time I did freeze. ‘Oh no – what do I do? What do I do?’ 

I didn’t know what to do, so I did nothing and let him get on with it.

‘Please let the music finish, please let it finish’ I thought. But it went on – and on – and on, for an eternity. Still too polite to do anything else, I hung on in there.

Sittin’ at home, I do nothin’ all day
But I think about you and hope that you’re okay
Hopin’ you’ll call before anyone gets home
I wait anxiously alone by the phone

How could something so wrong be so right
I wish we didn’t have to keep our love out of sight, yeah
Living two lives just ain’t easy at all
But we gotta hang on in there or fall

Secret lovers, yeah, that’s what we are
We should not be together
But we can’t let go, no, no
‘Cause we love each other so

Secret lovers, yeah, that’s what we are
Tryin’ so hard to hide the way we feel
‘Cause we both belong to someone else
But we can’t let go
‘Cause what we feel is, oh, so real
So real, so real

At last the music started to fade and like a sink plunger, he released my face, which gave me just enough time to mutter ‘toilet’ before making a dash for the door.

It took forty minutes for him to finally give up. Not taking any chances I headed for the door, collected my coat and legged it to the car park. Emma was surprised to find me hiding there half an hour later, crouched down behind the back of her 1975, P reg, snot green Austin Allegro.

Speak to Emma and she’ll tell you that she assumed that I’d gone home with him!

17th birthday picture.

So, to my first snog, whoever you are, I’d just like to say thank you for such a memorable evening and I’m really sorry that I left you waiting outside the ladies toilets in Cinderella – Roakafella’s in Northampton in 1986. I hope you eventually managed to find someone who appreciated your very special moves.

My Manchester - Riots update

Two weeks ago today, Tottenham erupted into violence which spread not only to other London Boroughs, but two days later to Manchester. The scenes were disgusting and really shocked ‘ordinary’ Mancunians, who have a deep love for their city. I wrote a long blog the day afterwards trying to get my head around why this had happened. 

Since then, there has been much debate by people with bigger brains than me about why it happened, how to punish the rioters and how to start piecing things back together. In the mean time, people have been sharing their own personal experiences of that evening and its aftermath, and some of them are quite shocking.

For example, I met up with some girlfriends last Thursday evening for (non-Molotov)  cocktails in Manchester’s Northern Quarter. It’s an alternative, arty area with lots of narrow roads, which lie right next to the main shopping area. On the night of the riot, one of my friends, Emma was on her way into town for a viewing of her boyfriend’s new film. She said that there were literally thousands of rioters flowing down from north Manchester, through the Northern Quarter, into the centre like a giant hooded crime tsunami. 

On her way into the city, she’d actually sat with people on the bus in hoody’s with bandanas round their necks, clearly on their way to join in the trouble. She said she thought at the time ‘What a saddo, going to a riot on the bus’! But once there, she said it was terrifying and whichever way she turned she just didn’t seem to be able to walk away from it. 

She said she couldn’t believe what she was seeing – how they could trash her city – their city. Most were undoubtedly from the area, but many others weren’t. She overheard one man bragging that he’d driven up especially from Nottingham – where he had been rioting the night before. Apparently it had been great!

It would seem that an essential element of a rioter’s kit these days is a Blackberry, because they all apparently had one. This I don’t understand – if I can’t afford a Blackberry contract, how can a deprived rioter? Go figure.

First cocktail drunk – second on the way.

It would seem that for some, being part of the riot was something to be proud of and brag about in the office. Another friend (another Emma) told of how a temp in her office had been bragging in the kitchen the day after the riot, about how she’d piled on down to join in the fun. At which point someone duly reported her to management and she was sacked on the spot and escorted off the premises. No doubt complaining that it wasn’t her fault and her human rights were being violated. Stupid, stupid girl! She had a good job with one of the top companies in the North West. She doesn’t any more – good for them for taking firm action. Maybe she’ll think of the consequences of her actions next time a ‘too good to miss opportunity’ presents itself.

Second cocktail drunk – third on the way.

The identity of rioters can come as a bit of a surprise in the cold light of day. No more so than for the friend of another of my friends that evening, Catherine. Catherine’s friend (a nice girl from a nice area) had met a man on a night out a few weeks before. They had hit it off big style and had been pretty inseparable ever since. She was in ‘Leurve’!

In the days after the riot, Greater Manchester Police started releasing CCTV pictures of the culprits and can you guess who was right up there? Yes – Catherine’s friends new boyfriend, ‘Mr Wonderful’. 

‘Have you seen the local news?’ Catherine asked her friend? The friend hadn’t so Catherine went round to her house so they could watch the late news together.

‘He seemed so nice’, she sobbed as ‘Mr Wonderful’ was shown leaving court whilst swearing at the crowd and shouting at waiting camera crews. 

Poor girl, imagine thinking that you’ve found someone great, being all excited and fluttery and then finding out on Crimewatch, for all to see that he was a complete thug. Better now rather than later I suppose, but you’ve still got to feel for the girl – who needless to say dumped him on the spot.

Third cocktail drunk then off home – being as we aren’t hoodlums!

So how is Manchester looking now, two weeks on from the madness? Well, the majority of mess was cleaned up pretty much straight away by volunteers with brooms who descended on the city centre the next morning, restoring all our faith in human kind.

Thankfully the rioting only lasted one night in Manchester, in no small part because the following evening Manchester deployed it’s most devastating anti-riot weapon - the weather. Rather than hard core, it would seem that Manchester rioters are fair-weather rioters. A very poor effort as they could always have put their hoods up.

The thing that upsets me is that pictures of Manchester in riot and flames were beamed around the world, and that will be what people think the city is like all the time. Well it’s not – far from it.

I went into the centre of Manchester yesterday, and apart from the odd boarded up window, Manchester looked its usual bright and vibrant self. The streets were packed with shoppers, there was a performance arts festival with sites right across the city centre and the sun even put his hat on. 

I feel the need to re-dress the balance and help to restore Manchester’s battered image, so here are a few pictures of my Manchester, taken yesterday. 

Playground Etiquette

I don’t have children of my own, so when it comes to playground etiquette, I’m a bit of a novice. I do however have a beautiful Godboy called Sam (4 yrs) and I try my hardest to be the best Godmum I can be.

 

Yesterday, Sam’s Granny was at the doctors and his mummy had to work, so I was drafted in to help out. It was a nice day so I promised Sam that he could ride his bike to the park. It seemed like an easy babysitting gig, so he got his bike out, put on his helmet, showed me how his bell worked and off we went.

Within 100 yards, he’d declared that his bike was very hard to ride and that he probably didn’t have enough energy to make it to the park. I did try and I know I probably should have been firmer, but I caved and ended up pushing his bike all the way to the park.

I’ve not been to our local park for a while – it would seem that at 10 o’clock in the morning it becomes a speedway. I was almost mown down by a 6 year old careering out of control towards me on his birthday bicycle. Said child then cycled at full pelt into the curb and did a very impressive roll across the grass. Then followed that key moment – the one where it could go either way. Get up and dust yourself down, or howl. 

‘Who are you here with?’ I asked. ‘Your mum?’

‘My Grandma’ he replied pointing, wobbly, inspecting his grass stains.

‘Go and find her then, she’ll check you’re OK’.

Off he went on his bike, semi-sobbing, to his Grandma who looked about 25 years old. I did a double take. 

‘Impressive’ I thought, nodded and then turned my attention back to Sam, who despite his sticky front brake, was heading for the playground, making a lovely left turn signal as he cycled towards the gate. That’s my boy – very proud!

Excellent signals!

While Sam threw himself down the slide (thankfully he still had his helmet on), I nobbled a Granddad to help me fix the bike. It didn’t start off very well when I called his grandson a girl. But if people won’t cut their child’s hair, how am I to know? To the uninitiated they look very similar at 18 months old.

Actually Granddad was a bit crap in the bike mending department. He very usefully told me to take it back to the shop. I thought Granddads were genetically programmed to fix bikes? Very disappointing!

So, instead of achieving ‘easy option’ I had to actually do something about it myself. There was no way I was carrying Sam’s bike all the way back again – it was very heavy – it had stabilizers. 

Actually, it wasn’t so hard to fix – it just meant that he couldn’t use his front brake. After congratulating myself on my mechanical genius, Sam insisted that I went on the roundabout and pushed me round until I felt sick. He refused to stop – until I managed to distract him with a well timed helicopter appearance!

‘Look – helicopter’ I shouted, and while he was waiting for it to appear from behind the trees, I managed to stick my foot out, slow the damn thing down and jump off. I needed a sit down after that!

Sam wanted to go down the slide again, but this time head first. He still had his helmet on, so I figured that covered any health and safety issues. He wasn’t quite sure how to go about it though. Never having been head first down a slide myself, I probably wasn’t the best person to ask, but I managed to talk him through it and Sam duly skeleton bobbed down the slide successfully, beaming as he got to the bottom.

It’s funny how children talk to each other. Sam at the grand old age of four is clearly very grown up and sensible, so when the little boy (that looked like a little girl), tried to climb up the slide, Sam in his very serious voice, reprimanded him and told him that he was ‘too little!’ So the little boy offered Sam a crisp and Sam duly let him climb up the slide. I love his tactics.

All too soon it was time for us to go. Of course Sam didn’t want to go and called me a ‘Pinky ponky poo-poo’, but I’ve been called worse so we left the park with Sam riding ‘very, very fast’ all the way on his bike, minding that he didn’t use his front brake. We stopped just long enough for him to name the snails on the fence ‘Sarky and Farty’ – what does his mother teach him? Before getting back to his house for a well earned glass of milk and a jaffa cake.

Sam on his way back from the park.