Apparently the men of Switzerland are stuck in a 1940s timewarp and, when out and about in town, regularly wear hats.

Good to know.  

This blog post was submitted for the weekly gallery over at Sticky Fingers. This week’s theme was “one day in August“. We were tasked with taking a photo anytime on Sunday 29th August 2010.

The fall of the emperor

“Her mind is definitely twisted. She got the Mercedes Benz….”

His voiced drifted through the bathroom door. Another notch on the oh-my-god-this-man-annoys-me scale. His constant failure to admit a mondegreen was just another thing on the list of attributes which added to her increasing floccinaucinihilipilification of their relationship.

Julian Emperor and Sally Oliver had been together for five years and engaged for one. They had met in Pittsburgh’s East Side where he attended university. She was on her gap year and missing England terribly. She had made her way to the promisingly-named Heinz Field in the vain hope that there’d be some baked beans there. Instead, she found a large group of padded men running around in helmets. And him. Julian. Or, as his teammates knew him, Caesar.

They had spent happy years in a rundown old apartment in London. She had worked, he hadn’t (“it’s just too hard to get a job playing football here honey”). Sally didn’t mind too much – he paid his way…just not with money.

When the news of the engagement finally emerged it was all Mazel Tov! Fantastic news! and she was excited too. Weddings meant dresses and parties and champagne (not as catchy as raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens but still a few of her favourite things). She threw herself into the organisation of what was going to be the biggest party of their lives. However, as the day grew nearer, the rot had started to set in. Things which she’d never noticed before now jumped up and down in front of her, screaming.

Their fundamental differences in politics had started causing arguments – his passion for antidisestablishmentarianism grated with her view that, actually, church and state should be separate. After all, it’s not up to the state to decide how one worships, is it? Try telling that to possibly the only Republican to hail from Pennsylvania.

What, at first, had seemed like quaint sayings now rattled her – “I like my eggs dippy”. “I’m always getting hosed” “I got a jagger in my finger”. She was petrified that he’d teach their children weird phrases which would lead to ceaseless bullying. “You’re not going anywhere until you redd up your room” he’d bark. No, she couldn’t have that. It just wouldn’t do. Not in Notting Hill.

Her friends had noticed it too. “Poor old Sol” they’d say over a glass of wine ”he’s a bit of a loser, isn’t he?”  They would remind her of that time when Caesar was pants-adverse for a year, that time when he had proclaimed that France was the capital city of Italy.

She sighed as he finally emerged from the steamy bathroom. Now followed the next annoyance – his fashion show parade up and down the bedroom. Hotel California had been replaced by I’m too sexy. Sally wasn’t sure how the habit started but now, each morning without fail, he made his entrance into the bedroom with nothing but a towel round his neck. He’d flex his arms (those that used to reduce her to a quivering wreck) and point his toes. Then, the pièce de résistance – he’d make “the noise“. She admired his dirty flange - even after a shower, she could still smell that very Julian, very musky odour. Not exactly something to smack your lips about. How had she ignored these faults for so long?

“Caesar”, she began. “Caesar?” No answer. He was still waggling his (admittedly still rather pert) bum in the mirror. Focus Sally. “Julian” she barked.

He turned. Eyes wide, eyebrow raised.

“Look, it’s not…” she paused. Not what? Not me, it’s you? Not working? Not our time? Not the best idea to iron trousers when they’re still on? All of the above were true. How was she going to break this to him? Short and sharp was the way.

“It’s not working, ok? I don’t know what it is and I don’t know whether it’s always been but there it is.”

Caesar was shocked. This was a turn-up for the books. He thought he had brainwashed her a little better. He’d been using his good looks and charming Americanisms to great effect for years. He was the dumper, not to the dumpee. He’s have to salvage this somehow.

He wracked his brains for something suitable to say. He was onto a good thing here, he wasn’t going to give up his meal ticket without a fight. He thought back to what his father taught him: “Always tell a woman what she wants to hear, son.” It must have worked for him, he’d had five wives.

What was that poncy film Sol liked so much? Stupid trashy thing with that bloke who was a bit too good looking. He had a line, a line which made Sol sigh with pleasure and made him puke up into his mouth. Ah! That was it.

He opened his eyes a little wider – the puppy dog look never failed. “But Solly Olly, you can’t just give up and leave me. I’d miss you too much. To be honest, I… I think I’d miss you even if we’d never met. Sol, we were made for each other.”

He open his arms, expecting a softly weeping Sol to fly into them. But hang on a second. Was that Sol rolling her eyes? This wouldn’t do.

“You’ve been listening to your friends Sol, they hate me, they always have. What have they been saying about me? What lies have they been spreading?” he was desperate now, and she knew it.

“Your enemies are not always wrong, Julian” she said, reaching for a pre-packed bag. She didn’t look back as she walked out the door.

He stood there for a second, watching. Then he turned back to the mirror.

I sat there, going through photos that I’ve taken and I couldn’t choose just *one* photo I was proud of (and by proud I’ve taken the meaning to be something I take pleasure in, not necessarily satisfaction/pride).

So anyway, I picked three four. Because I’m greedy.

Picture number one: Diani beach. I took this on our last holiday down to the coast. I love the curve of the wall I’m standing on which leads your eye from the beach to the sea. Ok, who am I kidding? I didn’t think about the curve when I took this photo – I just thought about how lovely the beach looked with no one on it. Although it looks warm I seem to remember it wasn’t. It was the middle of June and therefore winter – prone to sudden thunderstorms and cold weather (and by cold I mean about 25 degrees, so no, not freezing). Despite this, June is a fantastic time to go down to the coast – there’s no one else there which means you get the run of the beach. It also means that there’s no one in the hotels which means the fisherman always called round at our house first.

Picture number two: Samburu elephants. Ok, I think I could have framed this a little better but, as it was, I was just pleased to capture it at the point I did. Baby drinking, chap in the middle looking a little pissed off, fellow on the left looking particularly disinterested. The conservation work they’ve done in Samburu is fantastic however sadly, two years after I took this photo, flash floods ripped through the park and devastated buildings, equipment and cameras. Thankfully, no one was killed. It has, of course, completely changed Samburu not only in the way in which is looks but the way in which the animals and people there live. Nature’s an amazing thing.

Picture number three: the old man. I love this photo of my father. It was taken at the Safari Sevens a number of years ago. It was stinking hot and he’s quite content watching the rugby, White Cap by his side. All around him it’s manic but for me this is a picture of calm. I think it’s the hat.

Picture number four: Samburu airport. We were in the middle of the bush waiting for our little plane to bounce its way down the runway and take us back to Nairobi. The ladies, the lucky things, had a concealed long drop. The “gent” had to go in the bushes.

This blog post was submitted for the weekly gallery over at Sticky Fingers. This week’s theme was “A photo I am proud of”.

The Ignorant Historian has a great regular post where she asks her readers to submit a word into her comments and she’ll make it into a post.

I’m going to go one better (because I’m competitive like that). I’m going to ask you to choose a word, or phrase, that you’d like me to get into a post. It can be anything you like (although I reserve the right to delete anything I don’t like*)

Give me a chance to have a think and then sometime next week, I’ll get something up for you.

You’d better comment otherwise I’ll be so depressed that I’ll resort to making up fake accounts and looking through the dictionary. And it won’t be pretty.

So c’mon. Thinking caps on

UPDATE: lines are now closed. Story to be published by end of the week.

This photo was taken sometime between 1990 and 1994. I was between 8 and 12 years old and this was *my* bed at boarding school.

I think we were in St Nicholas’s dorm room – it held about 10 girls. We each had our bed (with obligatory bunk drawer), one of those horrible cheap orange chairs to put our clothes on and a bedside table.

This photo was obviously taken in the summer – the blue and white stripped dresses give that away.

My duvet cover tells of years of pestering. Everyone had a “Snatch the dog” duvet cover (an unfortunate name, now I think about it). Everyone had one, so I had to have one too. Slightly ironic that neither of my bed-mates apparently gave into this peer pressure.

I’m reminded by an old school chum that the dog on the bed was called Rupert. The dorm bought him for the princely sum of 15p and he was shared between all the girls. I have no idea what happened to him after we all moved on. I like to think that he’s still at the boarding house, being loved by the future generations of 8 year olds. I doubt it somehow.

The slightly dirty cushion at the top of my bed was my equivalent of a comfort blanket. I think it was one of those things that I just picked up. It was obviously a real cushion at one point (at which I have to question my mother’s taste in material) but, over time, it had become so soft and worn that I couldn’t go anywhere without it.

The chest of drawers to the right of the picture is mine. It looks so bare in comparison to my bedside table now (which is host to a teetering tower of books). All I have there is a travel clock my grandmother gave me (since lost in the dustbunnies of the attic I think) and a picture frame with my mother and father in it. I still remember the pictures. My mother (on the left) is squinting slightly into the sun (it was taken in Egypt) and my father is in uniform (also taken on his tour of Egypt)

It’s the end of term apparently. Trunks, bags and clothes are scattered around the room. I’m not sure why the curtains are closed – it’s obviously still bright outside. If I think about it hard enough I can still remember who slept in which bed (mainly by remembering their duvet covers, isn’t that odd?)

These photos bring up mixed memories for me. They remind me of the fun times I had at boarding school and then, later, when I think about it a bit more, I remember the not so fun times. I remember midnight feasts (held at 10 o’clock), I remember catwalk shows and dancing parties (well, what else do pre-teen girls do for fun when they’re stuck in a boarding house!) I remember telling my house mistress that the local village boys were sneaking into the school to meet with the 6th formers. I remember Saturdays out in the village and the route we used to take around all the local shops – heady days of freedom, well before we were allowed to go to the nearest town. I remember being caught by the headmaster walking across the grass to the quad. I remember laughing about it for the next year. I remember planning to escape and plotting where we would go. I remember the tyre swing in the garden. I remember our “stables” in the small wooded area at the bottom of the garden.

I remember growing up.

 This blog post was submitted for the weekly gallery over at Sticky Fingers. This week’s theme was ‘A Memory’. You can see all of this weeks entries >>> here <<<

E and R worked together and had been friends for a couple of years. When E split up with her boyfriend, R wasted no time. He made laid his cards on the table and made his suit known (just to overdo the gambling metaphor a bit)

E and R’s relationship moved quickly. About a month after they first got together and a couple of weeks before he was due to leave, E confided:

“…he has said he wants to marry me  I think he wants to wait until he is back rather than rush into asking just because he is going away. Knowing him he will make it pretty special when he does!”

I bit my tongue, it’s not up to me to lecture people on how quickly they move in their relationships (especially since my parents were engaged within 3 days – but that’s a story for another day). She had fallen, and fallen fast. So, apparently, had he.

R left the UK in October. While he was away, I wrote to him every week. Ok, so I didn’t actually know him (I was round at E’s house for a girlie supper in front of Strictly when I first met R. Genial chap, a tad on the short side (for me!) but all round intelligent and personable fellow. We talked a little bit about the upcoming tour – having been an army brat and, like Blonde, having had many a friend visiting hot and dusty places, I have a fair idea on what it’s like being the one left behind. We talked for maybe half an hour) but I had promised, and I delivered.

Although R could never write back (Switzerland not being one of the countries that the BFPO recognises apparently) I always heard through E how he was doing. Well, she said. He was homesick and tired but enjoying his time out there.

R got back from his tour a month later than originally scheduled. I had already made my move by this point so I emailed E and saw how she was getting on.

…had a big fight with R yesterday.  Have found it hard adjusting to him being back as he has changed quite a lot and isn’t quite as caring or saying the things he was when he left and while he was away so has made me question whether he still feels the same.  Is just all a bit unsettling as we had talked about moving in when he got back and he now wants to postpone this until he feels more settled.

As the months passed, it didn’t get any easier:

…things are not great at the moment to be honest, the whole moving in together is on hold and he wants us to spend a bit less time together and have more space.  Really gutted after all I went through while he was away that he is now being quite distant … I just feel a bit like it is game playing and I never thought it would be like that with him… Anyway I do love him and want to see if we can work things out but I’m not going to be treated like a doormat so I need to be getting back what I put into a relationship. 

I really do hope he still does love me as I do him and after everything we have been through I hope we can get through this but if it does continue like this for much longer and he doesn’t start to respect me more than I’m not going to put up with it as it just isn’t fair on me and I think I’ve already been through enough!

We have had some chats, feel a bit chatted out about it, think we just need to have some time to have fun and see how it goes, I find when I bring some of it up he tends to switch off at the moment.  I think wait a few months and see if things start to improve before I bring up where we are and what we want to do.

And so it continues. Four months after he left War Zone, his work out there is still affecting his every day life. He is by no means alone and this story is one which is repeated day after day, across the country. When loved ones come back from something like War Zone it can be difficult for those left at home to comprehend why everything isn’t the same.

It’s not the same. It won’t be the same.

They have changed. They’ve seen things and done things and been places that are new, scary, exhilarating, amusing, unshareable, have to be shared, familiar. All of these.  Their perspectives have changed, their experience has changed and, possibly, what they want in life has changed.

You’ve changed. You’ve been on your own without them. Things have happened and you’ve had to cope, on your own, without their support. You’ve relied on friends, family, work colleagues – people who weren’t close may have become closer. People who were close may have become more distant.

The relationship will never pick up exactly where it was left. You’ll have to work at it. You’ll have to start all over again and effectively begin a new relationship… or not.

Being apart gives you lots of time to think. The absence won’t cover up the holes that were there before you parted. The time away may make it worse. If your relationship was strong, you should be able to recognise the good bits from before and use them as the basis for this new relationship you’ve started. If it was weak then the initial bump from their return may sustain it for a while but ultimately, it won’t cover up all the cracks.

You’ll both need time. Both of you will need to have time to get back to “normal”. This may take a while. It may never happen.

The threat of what might happen tends to exacerbate things. E and R might have been taking it too fast. The main reason for this was probably the overhanging threat of R’s deployment. Similarly, if the relationship doesn’t work out on return, this isn’t a failure on either of your parts. It probably would have happened anyway – the situation you’ve found yourself in has just speeded up the process.

Don’t forget to talk. Granted, they might not want to talk about the nitty gritty but that doesn’t mean you can’t discuss the overall picture. How you’re feeling. How they’re feeling. How to move forward. If you suffer in silence, you’ll do exactly that. Suffer.

You’re not alone. There are plenty of people out there who’ve a) been through this and survived and b) want to help. Seek them out. Rely on them. There’s nothing to be ashamed or scared of. Lots of people go through this and get through this.

More advice:

The (British*) Army, Navy and Air Force have extensive information on dealing with a loved one’s return from deployment. Well worth a read:

• Army (links on the right hand side)
• Navy
• Air Force

• travelled over 15,000 km for work (most of those miles were here)
• spent two sunkissed weekends on the shore of Lake Geneva drinking wine, eating food and (innocently) playing around with young men
• failed miserably in my whole “I so have to get fit before ski season starts” attempt. However, I am starting the week with renewed vigour and excitment. Honestly.
• heard from the crush - he emailed and texted me last night (and yes, this morning) to let me know he’s still alive. He’s not out in War Zone yet but is preparing for yet another tour. Sigh. I didn’t really ask about the last month of no-contact. If he wants to tell me about it, he will.
• found a new blog which really appeals to the Grammar Nazi in me
• discovered a great new band, Redline Addiction. They haven’t made it big yet but I have good feelings about this one
• read a number of good books. Some trashy, some classic and some just interesting. I would recommend them all.

Ok, so my life has been dull. Apologies.

I’ll try and do something stupid in the next couple of days to amuse y’all. Ok?

My whole weekend was spent playing. Playing on the water, playing in the water, playing around in boats, playing at being an adult, playing at being a kid again, playing at pretending I didn’t care, playing at confidence, playing cards, playing with boys,  playing around on the grass, playing with the dogs, playing with seaweed, playing at flirting, playing, playing, playing, playing.

The sitting room… my love, my darling, my place of rest. Big fat comfy sofa, big fat TV, books, plants, random bits of furniture. I love this place.

So… what do we have here. The sunflower (fake, naturally) sits in a demijohn I found at the tip which, coincidently, is the perfect size for spare change (please take note if you ever come and visit). Sadly for me, I keep raiding it for my bus fare and therefore it’s never very full.

The coffee table was crafted by my own dear hands (sort of). A friend of my parents gave it to me – it was in a pretty ruinous state so I got to work with the stripper (the varnish stripper, not a random woman who likes to take her clothes off who happened to be passing) and the beeswax and I now have a lovely “distressed” looking table. I call it distressed. Other people might call it old and battered. I love it though.

Bookcase is, of course, full of books. I’m At eye level I put all my classics. I hide the Jilly Coopers and other trash that I actually read further down. This ensures that anyone who glances at my books thinks I’m a well rounded and brilliantly intelligent individual. Which I am, promise.

Down the end there, you’ll see my “dining room” (although room is a bit of a stretch….

You’ll notice the table is up on wooden blocks. Yes. It used to have four wheels at the end of its legs but evidently my father got fed up of chasing his supper round the kitchen and lopped two of the legs off. I think it adds to its rustic charm. To the left you can see Montgomery (the plant) and Wellington (the dog – who you’ve met before). Nelson is also still alive.

Just to the right of this picture is a door leading out to the balcony (which you can also get to through the spare room). Shall we go and see?

Ah there we are. Balcony, complete with view of houses across the way (the mountains were hiding on the day I took this. If you sit in the right hand chair, you’ve got a direct view of their gorgeousness).

And thus concludes the tour.

Whatcha think?