A Mother's Story: Thursday August 20th
I have set up my other blog as a diary of the days since August 19th. If you would like to read my first entry, have a look here A Mother's Story: Thursday August 20th.
Hugh, 28th August 1979 - 19th August 2009
When all this first happened, last week, I was sure that I would not want or be able to mention it at all on this blog. Now, however. I feel ready to do so.
August 28th thirty years ago was such a happy day. It was the day I gave birth to my second child and first son, Hugh.
August 28th this year was very different. It was the day of his funeral.
Last Thursday morning, I had a phone call from Elder Daughter, Kathy, to tell me that Hugh had taken his own life during the night. He was due to go to Afghanistan in September and had a bad feeling about it and, to tell the truth, so did I but more important than this, he had also been undergoing a lot of problems with his ex-partner and the struggle to gain access to his son, Paul. Because of the break-up, he had also incurred a lot of debt and his house was about to be repossessed. He was suffering from depression and I also believe that the PTSD he suffered twelve years ago after his tour in Kosovo had never been properly dealt with because he was unwilling to undergo adequate therapy at the time.
Whatever the reasons, although he had all the support possible from family and friends, that night, he decided that nothing and no-one could help him further.
He had a full military funeral yesterday. The army did him proud and the huge numbers of friends and colleagues bore witness to the esteem in which he was held.
I have been keeping a record of the days since his death which I will post on here over the next few days.
August 28th thirty years ago was such a happy day. It was the day I gave birth to my second child and first son, Hugh.
August 28th this year was very different. It was the day of his funeral.
Last Thursday morning, I had a phone call from Elder Daughter, Kathy, to tell me that Hugh had taken his own life during the night. He was due to go to Afghanistan in September and had a bad feeling about it and, to tell the truth, so did I but more important than this, he had also been undergoing a lot of problems with his ex-partner and the struggle to gain access to his son, Paul. Because of the break-up, he had also incurred a lot of debt and his house was about to be repossessed. He was suffering from depression and I also believe that the PTSD he suffered twelve years ago after his tour in Kosovo had never been properly dealt with because he was unwilling to undergo adequate therapy at the time.
Whatever the reasons, although he had all the support possible from family and friends, that night, he decided that nothing and no-one could help him further.
He had a full military funeral yesterday. The army did him proud and the huge numbers of friends and colleagues bore witness to the esteem in which he was held.
I have been keeping a record of the days since his death which I will post on here over the next few days.
Hugh was a complex person and not an easy child but I loved him very much and my heart is breaking to think that he's gone. I can only hope and believe that he has found peace at last.
All over within a year?
The poem is not an example of great literature maybe, but more importantly, was obviously written from the heart by a soldier who wanted to express his feelings about the current situation in Afghanistan. Staff Sergeant Andy McFarlane, 47, wrote it while flying home from there with some of his comrades who had not been as lucky as him, having paid with their lives. His poem, entitled Repatriation, tells of an anonymous 'hero' being driven through the town of Wootton Bassett in Wiltshire, where crowds now regularly turn out to pay their respects on these occasions.
You will notice that one verse refers to the conspicuous absence of ministers from the now regular repatriation ceremonies.
This is the full text of the poem:
The leviathan of the sky does land
In England's green and pleasant land.
Its cargo more precious than gold
The body of a hero, bold.
Once the giant's engines stopped
The cargo ramp is gently dropped
Carried by six on shoulders true
The hero is saluted by the crew.
The coffin draped in Union Jack
Is slowly carried out the back.
Out of the dark and into light
Slowly down the ramp and to the right.
The six approach the hearse all black
And place the hero gently in the back.
The six then turn and march away
Their duty has been done this day.
Politicians usually have much to say
No sign of them near here this day.
They hide away and out of danger,
Much easier if the hero is a stranger.
The hearse with its precious load
Moves slowly out on to the road.
The floral tributes line the route
While comrades snap a smart salute.
At the edge of a Wiltshire town
The cortege slows its pace right down.
The streets are packed, many deep,
Some throw flowers, most just weep.
The crowd have come to say farewell,
The church bell rings a low death knell.
Regimental standards are lowered down
As the hero passed through the town.
The cortege stops and silence reigns
The townsfolk feel the family's pain.
The nations' flag lowered to half mast
Our brave hero is home at last.
So unimportant does our soldiers' sacrifice appear to be to our politicians, that we have Gordon Brown choosing not to interrupt his holiday to attend the opening of a centre for troops injured while on active service even though he was only seventeen miles away. What a positive message that must send to them.
As the mother of someone about to be sent out to Afghanistan next month, I'm distinctly unimpressed by the lack of will on the part of the government to ensure that our troops are properly resourced and by the lack of knowledge and intelligence of Defence Secretary Bob Ainsworth, who would have us believe that this war could be won within a year and that the troops have everything they need.
"Everything will be fine, lads. It will all be over by Christmas." Does that sound familiar?
You will notice that one verse refers to the conspicuous absence of ministers from the now regular repatriation ceremonies.
This is the full text of the poem:
The leviathan of the sky does land
In England's green and pleasant land.
Its cargo more precious than gold
The body of a hero, bold.
Once the giant's engines stopped
The cargo ramp is gently dropped
Carried by six on shoulders true
The hero is saluted by the crew.
The coffin draped in Union Jack
Is slowly carried out the back.
Out of the dark and into light
Slowly down the ramp and to the right.
The six approach the hearse all black
And place the hero gently in the back.
The six then turn and march away
Their duty has been done this day.
Politicians usually have much to say
No sign of them near here this day.
They hide away and out of danger,
Much easier if the hero is a stranger.
The hearse with its precious load
Moves slowly out on to the road.
The floral tributes line the route
While comrades snap a smart salute.
At the edge of a Wiltshire town
The cortege slows its pace right down.
The streets are packed, many deep,
Some throw flowers, most just weep.
The crowd have come to say farewell,
The church bell rings a low death knell.
Regimental standards are lowered down
As the hero passed through the town.
The cortege stops and silence reigns
The townsfolk feel the family's pain.
The nations' flag lowered to half mast
Our brave hero is home at last.
So unimportant does our soldiers' sacrifice appear to be to our politicians, that we have Gordon Brown choosing not to interrupt his holiday to attend the opening of a centre for troops injured while on active service even though he was only seventeen miles away. What a positive message that must send to them.
As the mother of someone about to be sent out to Afghanistan next month, I'm distinctly unimpressed by the lack of will on the part of the government to ensure that our troops are properly resourced and by the lack of knowledge and intelligence of Defence Secretary Bob Ainsworth, who would have us believe that this war could be won within a year and that the troops have everything they need.
"Everything will be fine, lads. It will all be over by Christmas." Does that sound familiar?
Homeserve? Huh!
There must be very many households in Britain which have emergency cover with Homeserve in case they wake up one morning and find a pipe has burst or the boiler has broken down. They probably think they can relax secure in the knowledge that, should such an occasion arise, all they have to do is pick up the phone and help will be on its way - well, within two hours, according to their website.
WRONG!
If Dad's experience is anything to go by, there will be a lot of blood, sweat and tears involved and no capable workman will appear on the doorstep at the end of it, which leaves Dad and me wondering why he is paying over £10 per month for no help when it's needed.
On Thursday, Dad discovered a leak in the kitchen under the floor, so he rang Homeserve. "Ah," said some bright spark at the other end of the phone, "we can have someone with you on Saturday morning."
"But it's only Thursday," Dad pointed out. The call centre operative couldn't disagree with that. "We'll ring you back in an hour and let you know if we can provide someone sooner."
An hour and a half later, Dad, tired of waiting, rang them back and spoke to someone else. "Ah yes, we are sending you someone on Saturday." So he explained patiently that he had been told that strenuous efforts were apparently being made to provide someone before that and that someone should have rung him with that information over half an hour previously.
There followed a series of conversations with different departments and different people, all of which prefaced the conversation with, "Ah yes, we have you down. We're sending you a plumber on Saturday."
In the end, he told them not to bother, that he would see to it himself.
"Are you able to do that?" they asked, hopefully.
"I'm a time-served engineer," he informed them, and asked his nephew to come and help him sort it out.
When he told me about this on the phone that evening, I pointed out to him that he was paying for a service and that service should be provided and immediately set about ringing Homeserve myself.
"Well, the customer did say he could do the repair himself," said the man on the phone. I pointed out that Dad was paying for a service that they had been unable to provide, that he is 86 and has recently had a hip replacement so, although technically he can do the repair, physically he would find it difficult (to put it mildly) to lie on the floor effecting the said repair and were they really prepared to leave him without water for two and a half days?
More promises ensued, with the result that a few minutes later, Homeserve rang Dad to tell him....
That they couldn't provide a plumber before Saturday.
What makes it worse is that, a few weeks ago, he had a cracked soil pipe and went through exactly the same rigmarole, which ended in them promising to ring him back within the hour.
Yes, you've guessed it. He's still waiting.....
So, Homeserve, if anyone from there is reading this, please be advised that Dad is cancelling his cover with you and that letters of complaint will soon be winging their way to you and to Trading Standards.
WRONG!
If Dad's experience is anything to go by, there will be a lot of blood, sweat and tears involved and no capable workman will appear on the doorstep at the end of it, which leaves Dad and me wondering why he is paying over £10 per month for no help when it's needed.
On Thursday, Dad discovered a leak in the kitchen under the floor, so he rang Homeserve. "Ah," said some bright spark at the other end of the phone, "we can have someone with you on Saturday morning."
"But it's only Thursday," Dad pointed out. The call centre operative couldn't disagree with that. "We'll ring you back in an hour and let you know if we can provide someone sooner."
An hour and a half later, Dad, tired of waiting, rang them back and spoke to someone else. "Ah yes, we are sending you someone on Saturday." So he explained patiently that he had been told that strenuous efforts were apparently being made to provide someone before that and that someone should have rung him with that information over half an hour previously.
There followed a series of conversations with different departments and different people, all of which prefaced the conversation with, "Ah yes, we have you down. We're sending you a plumber on Saturday."
In the end, he told them not to bother, that he would see to it himself.
"Are you able to do that?" they asked, hopefully.
"I'm a time-served engineer," he informed them, and asked his nephew to come and help him sort it out.
When he told me about this on the phone that evening, I pointed out to him that he was paying for a service and that service should be provided and immediately set about ringing Homeserve myself.
"Well, the customer did say he could do the repair himself," said the man on the phone. I pointed out that Dad was paying for a service that they had been unable to provide, that he is 86 and has recently had a hip replacement so, although technically he can do the repair, physically he would find it difficult (to put it mildly) to lie on the floor effecting the said repair and were they really prepared to leave him without water for two and a half days?
More promises ensued, with the result that a few minutes later, Homeserve rang Dad to tell him....
That they couldn't provide a plumber before Saturday.
What makes it worse is that, a few weeks ago, he had a cracked soil pipe and went through exactly the same rigmarole, which ended in them promising to ring him back within the hour.
Yes, you've guessed it. He's still waiting.....
So, Homeserve, if anyone from there is reading this, please be advised that Dad is cancelling his cover with you and that letters of complaint will soon be winging their way to you and to Trading Standards.
A day out
I managed to drag Keith out for a wander around north Wales today. At least, that was the plan but by the time we got going, it was lunch time and nearly everyone else in the universe had had the same idea, so traffic was almost down to a stand still in places. What also didn't help was that the unusually summery weather had obviously had a strange effect on some people's brains. There was the woman quite happily parked on the exit from a garage, totally oblivious of the fact that she was blocking everyone else's way, followed seconds later by the two cars who decided to go the wrong way up a one way track to get onto the main road.
Slightly scarier was the police motorcyclist, coming at great speed in the opposite direction, who was overtaking three cars and narrowly managed to squeeze back onto his own side of the road before meeting us head on. And that's not to mention two other cars coming round a bend, also in the opposite direction, who had apparently forgotten that in Wales, we drive on the left, just like in England.
All in all, I was quite relieved to get home.
Slightly scarier was the police motorcyclist, coming at great speed in the opposite direction, who was overtaking three cars and narrowly managed to squeeze back onto his own side of the road before meeting us head on. And that's not to mention two other cars coming round a bend, also in the opposite direction, who had apparently forgotten that in Wales, we drive on the left, just like in England.
All in all, I was quite relieved to get home.
Service with a smile again
Today I spent yet more hours going through my accreditation application with a fine tooth combe prior to printing it out. If I get anything wrong or provide insufficient evidence, it will be 'deferred' and I will have to pay another £70 to resubmit it. In true Sod's Law fashion, the printer was playing up yesterday and a frantic phone call was necessary to order more toner, which arrived this morning - much to Keith's relief, as he wasn't looking forward to more stressing from me.
So off I went to the post office with a 39 page application plus two copies (117 sheets in all), to post it by recorded delivery.
"Is it worth less than £30?" enquired the man behind the desk.
"Well, a lot of blood, sweat and tears have gone into it," I replied with a smile.
"But is it worth less than £30?" he asked again, without a smile.
I wondered if it was the fact that North Wales is not going to be involved in tomorrow's postal strike that had put him in such a bad mood.
Anyway, watch this space, because it will only take the powers that be until the end of November to decide on my application...
So off I went to the post office with a 39 page application plus two copies (117 sheets in all), to post it by recorded delivery.
"Is it worth less than £30?" enquired the man behind the desk.
"Well, a lot of blood, sweat and tears have gone into it," I replied with a smile.
"But is it worth less than £30?" he asked again, without a smile.
I wondered if it was the fact that North Wales is not going to be involved in tomorrow's postal strike that had put him in such a bad mood.
Anyway, watch this space, because it will only take the powers that be until the end of November to decide on my application...
Night-time fun
Aha! Thought that title might attract some attention. Now for the disappointment. It's all about Paddy and it really wasn't fun at all, for him, for us or for the unfortunate object of his attention.
The bedtime routine is that I send Paddy out into the back garden to do what he needs to do before settling down for the night and usually, this works fine - except when he becomes aware that the garden is host to night wildlife, some of which he almost certainly has never encountered before. I can only assume that this is the reason why I went out to investigate a sudden bout of frantic barking to find him poised over a hedgehog, doing what hedgehogs do best and curling himself up into a nose-destroying ball. Being Paddy, of course, he just had to test that out for himself, for no way in the world was he going to give up and walk away.
Hence I had to drag him forcibly back into the house while I turned my attention to the poor hedgehog, who was not so poor actually, as he seemed quite happy curled up, patiently waiting for the mad dog to go away and leave him in peace.
It seems that Keith has a lot more sympathy and compassion for hedgehogs than he does for cats (he's very much with Paddy on that one), and he scooped up this little fellow in the dustpan so that I could take him down to the little lane nearby and release him into comparative safety. Because Keith likes hedgehogs, he made it very clear to Paddy that he had been way out of order, an offence compounded by the fact that, in all the excitement, he had torn the lining under the pebbles, so painstakingly laid by your truly some weeks ago and the poor dog was sent to bed in absolute disgrace, nursing his sore nose.
But he still crept onto the bed in the early hours, as he always does. A dog's memory is short!
The bedtime routine is that I send Paddy out into the back garden to do what he needs to do before settling down for the night and usually, this works fine - except when he becomes aware that the garden is host to night wildlife, some of which he almost certainly has never encountered before. I can only assume that this is the reason why I went out to investigate a sudden bout of frantic barking to find him poised over a hedgehog, doing what hedgehogs do best and curling himself up into a nose-destroying ball. Being Paddy, of course, he just had to test that out for himself, for no way in the world was he going to give up and walk away.
Hence I had to drag him forcibly back into the house while I turned my attention to the poor hedgehog, who was not so poor actually, as he seemed quite happy curled up, patiently waiting for the mad dog to go away and leave him in peace.
It seems that Keith has a lot more sympathy and compassion for hedgehogs than he does for cats (he's very much with Paddy on that one), and he scooped up this little fellow in the dustpan so that I could take him down to the little lane nearby and release him into comparative safety. Because Keith likes hedgehogs, he made it very clear to Paddy that he had been way out of order, an offence compounded by the fact that, in all the excitement, he had torn the lining under the pebbles, so painstakingly laid by your truly some weeks ago and the poor dog was sent to bed in absolute disgrace, nursing his sore nose.
But he still crept onto the bed in the early hours, as he always does. A dog's memory is short!
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