Things That Make You Go "Ooh"...

So now the festive season has been and gone and another new year is upon us. I'm still trying to fathom where the last twelve months went, to be honest, and now I find another twelve looming large before me...I always used to laugh when The Parents said that time went quicker the older you got but, as it turns out, they were right. Who knew? But now Ye Olde Festive Merriment is no more and now we're all left surveying the leftover turkey, stale Christmas cake (seriously, why do we all bother making/buying one? No one ever eats it) and dying Christmas tree and wondering how it all went by so fast. I hope you and yours had a suitably jolly festive season; personally I err on the Grinchy side of all things Christmassy, but even I managed to raise a smile or two in the spirit of the season this year, which is surprisingly shocking. But then again I managed to get myself into the festive spirit a tad early this year by doing A Good Deed (http://www.amnesty.org.uk/content.asp?CategoryID=10673&gclid=CO-grpuHuq0CFVQLfAoduBR4AA) and this made me realise that, even though I am technically Katy Grinch, I have plenty to be thankful for at this time of year...

First there was Yule, which of course necessitated the yearly 'tah-dah!' present from the GBF. This year it was an education for a young girl in Africa, giving her a head start in life and hopefully going someway to help her break out of poverty by getting an education. From such tiny acorns great forests grow and, as always, I thank Lee from the bottom of my jaded heart for not only knowing me inside out but for also being there whenever the dung hits the whirly thing. Even though you have left me for Scouseland, I am terminally grateful for having you in my life. You do, in fact, Rule. (Now please come back from Scouseland because I miss our Duvet Day DVD Marathons!! :P)

Secondly, there was Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Boxing Day. This necessitated being en famille, and I am deeply and profoundly grateful for the whole bloody lot of them. I know full well that I can be the world's biggest pain sometimes, but they are always on my side, always supportive and always there for me no matter what; they say you can't choose your family and frankly I don't want to. There was a slight emotional hiccup, as there always is, but the family I did have around me are too wonderful for words and I love them all deeply. Words can never be enough. It was also wonderful having new family around, as we went to my brothers for Christmas Day; it was great to spend the day with him and his girlfriend, as well as her family, and hopefully this will be the first of many.

Thirdly, there were my friends. I am blessed to have some incredible people in my life who actively choose to associate with me - I keep waiting for them to see the error of their ways but so far common sense seems to have eluded them. I won't force the issue as I adore them all too much to lose them and remain humbled, honoured and incredibly lucky to be the recipient of their friendship. If I only make one resolution this new year (which I tend not to do as I fail miserably at keeping them), it will be to do my utmost to be there for my friends whenever they need me. I'm rubbish at keeping in touch and I can go for days without touching technology, but my friends are often the reason I keep going when the world looks too bleak and, without sounding too much like a Hallmark card (I hope), each and every one of them has touched me and changed me in a number of ways. I have laughed with them, cried with them, screamed at half-naked cellists with them and not a day goes by when I don't think of them.

So yes, there were many reasons to be thankful during the Winter Festivities. And perhaps that pre-Christmas letter-writing spree to try and bring a little hope and solidarity to the lives of others not as fortunate as I am was the catalyst I needed to remind myself that, no matter how dark I think the road ahead may be, I have an incredible family and wonderful friends to support me, a roof over my head and a bed to sleep in, and food and medical treatment to keep me alive. There are dark days out there, and there are emotional wounds that may never heal, but maybe I'm learning to become better at seeing the good instead of the bad; at finding the light instead of the dark. The people I wrote to offering my solidarity have witnessed the most unspeakable acts of man's inhumanity and cruelty to man and they have done so with a strength and a courage I can only imagine. Their struggles serve to remind me how fortunate I am, and so I make them all - the AWN, Fatima Hussein Badi, Natalia Estemirova, WOZA, Inés Fernández Ortega and Valentina Rosendo Cantú - my last reason to be cheerful. Their stories gave me perspective when I would usually be immersed in a sea of selfishness and Grinchyness, and for that I will be forever grateful...

We Will Remember Them...

Only one of my grandads served in the army during the Second World War. My Mum's dad was only a child, so he was evacuated, but my Dad's dad fought for his country in the heat and dust of Egypt and in the bloodbath that was Monte Cassino. That's pretty much all I know because apart from the occasional almost-jokey story (scorpions in your boots being a favourite of mine as a child, and the one about Grandad almost dropping an artillery shell on his foot - he was in the Royal Army Service Corps, I believe, supplying the frontlines with ammunition - never failed to amaze me) my Grandad, like so many of the brave men and women of his generation, never spoke about what he did during the war. Sadly, by the time I was old enough to want to know, he was too ill to have the conversation with and as I didn't want to upset him I never really brought it up. It's one of the many things I regret not asking him when he was alive, but it makes me no less proud to stand up at 11am on Remembrance Day and think of him and his courage, because I don't care what anyone else says - serving your country during a conflict, knowing that you might end up making the ultimate sacrifice, is a very brave thing to do. Of course my Arhoo, and any other service personnel for that matter, would see it differently, but that's what makes them so special.

A friend of mine currently serves in the army, although happily not for much longer as he will be leaving at the end of the month and returning to Civvy Street. His battalion have lost several men, some of them barely older than boys, in their tours of Afghanistan. I was born in the middle of the Falklands war, when 257 British military personnel lost their lives. My stepdad's father served in Burma; a friend's father fought in Korea, both often forgotten conflicts. The futility of war has been well documented; others continue to sing its praises and yet wherever and whenever you are in time there is a war raging somewhere in the world.

The men and women of the British Armed Forces, both past and present, have had to be incredibly strong, brave and resilient. They risk their lives for Queen and Country, fighting in every corner of this earth in an attempt to uphold Right and Justice and to keep us ordinary folks free and safe. They fill me full of admiration and intense pride, and on this Remembrance Day I will be thinking of all of them. I'll be thinking of Rob and the things that he has seen, thankful that soon he'll be home and safe. I'll be thinking of the friends and comrades he leaves behind, and of those he has already seen fall. I'll be thinking of the men and women serving in Afghanistan; of those who have fought and in many cases died in this and many other conflicts throughout the world. Most of all I shall be thinking of my Arhoo and the quiet dignity and courage of a man who served his country yet never spoke of it.

At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them...

A Walk Between The Worlds...

So today is Samhain, the Witches New Year and a celebration of all that is past; when the last of the harvest has been gathered and our ancestors looked forwards, no doubt with some trepidation, to the winter ahead and trying to get through it in one piece. I'm kinda hoping that the next 12 months are slightly better than the last 12 (although there have been some seriously wonderful moments), but although I'm feeling all reflective this is not going to be one of those 'oh do you remember when we...?' posts. Instead, as the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest point tonight and the realms of the living and the dead become intertwined, I'm going to honour my own dead...

My first experience of death (human death, that is; I'd already witnessed The Passing Of The First Goldfish) came when I was 10 years old and my beloved Nanna, my dad's mum, died. She had been 'not well' for a very long time but the end, when it came, seemed to me at least to be very sudden: one day she was in hospital, very ill, and then a few days later she passed over. My Nanna was one of the kindest people I have ever been fortunate enough to know; all my memories of her are of laughter and joy, which push away the ones of her being ill, and to this day I only have to see certain objects or smell certain perfumes and I'm immediately reminded of her. And if I ever happen to see an older lady doing her shopping in her slippers, I have hysterics because my Nanna did that more than once! She was a one in a million, my Nanna, and I'm forever grateful for the early memories of love and laughter that she gave me.

Even after she passed over, however, and as devastated as I was, I knew that she was still part of me. She lived on in my memories, yes, but I knew her spirit was still there as well, watching over us. In fact when my Arhoo, my dad's dad, passed over after a long illness, just before I turned 21, I strongly believe that she was there to take him across. I can't explain it in words, but when I went to see my Grandad in hospital just before he passed, I'm sure she was there because he looked t something or someone that wasn't physically there and he smiled. My Nanna and Grandad were very close, so I'm not surprised that she came for him. I was privileged to have wonderful grandparents - on both sides of the family - and Arhoo was a great practical joker. All the memories I have of him, rather than being of the last time I saw him in hospital, are of a kind, caring man who took great delight in stealing my breakfast and writing me out a bill after a week's stay at their house. What can I say; no wonder I'm broke! There's also the story about him dropping an artillery shell almost on his foot during the war...don't ask. Burying him on April Fools Day was a bittersweet experience, but I know that he's at peace now and that is what sustains me. I was always amazed growing up that so many people in Rochford knew my Grandad and thought so much of him, but as I got older and learnt about his work as the local undertaker it all made sense. Knowing that people whose families he had buried, and the district nurses who'd helped care for him in the last years of his life, were at his funeral is testament to the sort of man that he was, and I am so proud to be able to say that he was my own beloved Arhoo.

My other Grandad, my mum's dad, passed when I was 14 and in that very self-centred 'stroppy teenager' phase. He had been ill for a long time and I think I was in complete denial that he was going to die. I'd already lost my Nanna; to my mind there was no way my warm, funny, adorable Grandad who let me kick ants and drown his precious plants when I was 'helping' to water them was going to die as well. Of course, the Universe never asks us what we want and I found his passing probably the hardest of all. I adored all my grandparents because they were such warm, wonderfully caring people, but we'd lived with my mum's parents since I was 7 and so I'd grown up with my Grandad. He had the patience of several thousand saints, which was tested to the limits when he tried to teach me my times tables, but he never complained about any of the ridiculous games my brother and I asked him to play with us and was exactly the sort of grandfather I would want any putative child of mine to have. In fact I wish every child could have the grandparents I did; all four of them were (and still are, in my Nan's case) among the kindest people I've ever met and even a smidgen of the love and affection that I got from them could go a long way towards helping other children turn their lives around. My Grandad never judged me, even when I was the most obnoxious little cow imaginable and, although he had passed over when my obnoxious little cow phase was at its worst, I know that he was still there: his spirit stopped me killing myself when I was 15. But I owe him more than just my life; I owe him my ability to (sometimes) work out what seven eights are, my delusional belief that my violin playing was completely extraordinary and an unhealthy obsession with digging potatoes out of the earth with my bare hands. His belief in me even when I doubted myself was above and beyond the call of any familial ties, and I know deep down that, when I really start to think I’m a failure or I can’t do something, all I have to do is close my eyes and think of him, and I’ll find the belief that I need.

Just over a year ago I also lost my Great Uncle Ronnie and my Great Auntie Rose, my Grandad’s older brother and his wife. I didn’t know Ronnie and Rosie as well as I knew my grandparents, but whenever they came down to us for family get-togethers or to stay with my Nan and Grandad they always took the time to play with me and enfold me with the same warmth that they extended to their own grandchildren. Again, they were both extremely kind and loving people, and to have had them in my life – even momentarily – has been a blessing.

So tonight, as the walls between the worlds fall away and the ancestors return home for their brief, fleeting visits, I want to honour the people that I have loved and lost over the years, and thank them for their role in shaping the child I was and the woman I am becoming. To my beloved grandparents Margaret and Aubrey Pipe and Denis Ward; to my Great Uncle Ronald Ward and my Great Aunties Rose and Violet, who passed over several years ago.

There are others, too; ancestors whose names I may know but whose stories are a mystery, and all those who stretch back beyond the records we have found to the beginning of human life. Their blood flows through my veins still, and I thank them for it.

To Marie, who passed over when we were still at school and made all of us realise how fragile life could be, I wish peace at last.

And to all of you who may be reading this rather rambling, shambolic thing that I call my blog; to all of you who have lost loved ones, I send you my love and will whisper a silent wish to the winds that they are also at peace. Samhain is a time to look back and honour those who have gone before us, but it is also a time to look ahead to the turn of another year and all the promise that it holds. Happy Samhain, everyone, and may the new year bring you all joy, good health and good fortune. xx

Yes, It's Fucking Political!!!

Sometimes the world is a wonderful place, full of magick and abundance, when butterflies dance on shafts of light and there is music and mystery in the babbling brooks and on the gentle breezes. And sometimes the world is like the playground bully who steals your lunch money, punches you in the guts and then, for good measure, kicks sand in your face before running off laughing with your best friend.

When this happens, there are two strategies you can adopt. The first is to scream obscenities in the general direction of the All-Powerful Force of the Universe, shaking your fist and screaming how unfair the whole thing is before collapsing in a sobbing, hysterical heap on the floor. The second, always advocated by the hippy-dippy or ultra-religious lot, is to Count Your Blessings; the idea being that even in the depths of your ultimate despair you'll still be able to summon up the oomph to thank whichever Power you believe in that you aren't a starving African child or a victim of the Haitian earthquake. Clearly those people have never been in the depths of a depression so powerful that actually being a starving African child is preferable to your own miserable existence. Unless it's a starving African child adopted by Angelina Jolie or Madonna; then I think I'll stick with the pit of depression.

I, however, favour a third way. Although I try and count 3 good things that have happened to me each day and chronicle them in my notebook (I know; I'm such a hippy), there are always other things that I know I can count on when the going gets really, really tough...

1) My family, specifically my mum. Even when I have been the most unbearably awful child imaginable, shrieking in hysterical hypochondria or just generally being a complete cow, she is always, always there for me. I wish that everyone could be so lucky to have such a mother; however, no matter how much I love you, you cannot have her - she is mine and I won't do sharesies!!

2) My friends. They are all so different and yet all so dear to me. 'Nuff said, really.

3) Books. Opening a book is like opening a door into another world. There is always something new and wondrous to discover and sometimes you need to be taken out of the craptacular real world for a bit and play somewhere else.

4) Music. Ahh, music. Now this is always guaranteed to make my day because there is quite literally a song for every occasion; something to make the mood and the moment feel more intense. Music soothes the savage beast, it is the food of love and it's the best thing to get you through the good, the bad, the indifferent and just about anything you can think of. A few examples of my own personal soundtrack to life...

* Songs for expressing your righteous anger at the scumbags that somehow pass as politicians these days, with their smug smiles and their silly Eton haircuts: Yes, It's Fucking Political by Skunk Anansie; Take The Power Back by Rage Against The Machine; Fuck You by Lily Allen.
* Songs for being a general pain in "The Man's" butt: anything by Rage Against The Machine, really, but Killing In The Name Of goes down well...or not!
* Songs that remind me of my friends: Trash by Suede; Rasputin by Turisas; Escapist by Nightwish and (for Lee) Don't Stop Movin' by S Club 7. Remember lunchtimes in the pub, Lee-Lee? Ahh, happy days...
* Songs for getting over a break up: A Child That Walks In The Path Of A Man by Angtoria; Fighter by Christina Aguilera; A Rancid Romance by Diablo Swing Orchestra; Liar by Emilie Autumn; Smoke and Mirrors by Paloma Faith.
* Songs that take me right back to my teenage years: Weak by Skunk Anansie; Trash by Suede; Stupid Girl by Garbage; Yourself by the Manic Street Preachers; Bohemian Like You by the Dandy Warhols; Paint Pastel Princess by Silverchair; Local Boy in the Photograph by the Stereophonics; Smells Like Teen Spirit by Nirvana.
* Songs for a bit of a 'feminist' moment: She's Like Thunder by Doro; Return of the Mother by Nina Hagen; Bitch by Sarah Jezebel Deva; That's What the Wise Lady Said by Angtoria; Why Didn't You Call Me by Macy Gray.
* Songs for my 'girlie fae' moments: What If, Rapunzel and Juliet, all by Emilie Autumn; Queen of the May, Wytches, Pagan Born, Heartbeat of the Earth, Midnight Queen, Beltane and pretty much anything by Inkubus Sukkubus.
* Songs guaranteed to reduce me to tears: Unintended and Sing For Absolution by Muse; Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley; Name by the Goo Goo Dolls; Feint by Epica; Bother by Corey Taylor; Piece of my Heart by Janis Joplin; Peace is Free by Black Stone Cherry; This is Yesterday by the Manic Street Preachers; Breathe by Abney Park; Faraway Vol. 2 by Apocalyptica.
* Songs that are better than Prozac: Drumming Song by Florence and the Machine; National Express by the Divine Comedy; The Ballad of Tom Jones by Spaced with Cerys Matthews; She Bangs by Ricky Martin; Love Machine by Girls Aloud; Airship Pirates by Abney Park; Wild Dances by Ruslana; anything by Lordi and anything by Motley Crue. Oh, and Du Hast and Pussy by Rammstein. Pussy also fits into the "songs that are not appropriate for singing in public as I found out to my eternal shame" category, along with 'The Devil is a Loser' by Lordi. Ahem...

So yeah, there you go. Quite a mixed bag, and that's only the stuff I've listened to recently or the categories that have been most appropriate recently. There are, of course, a million million more songs for both all of these categories and any other category you can think of. I honestly can't imagine my life without any of these four things, to be honest; if 'Heaven' is a place without my mum, my friends, my books and my music, you can keep it. Ooh, now there's a topic for a musical playlist...

This Was Their Finest Hour...

Today marks the 70th anniversary of the Blitz. Naturally, and quite rightly, the Beeb has been mentioning it at every available opportunity. I'm actually really glad they have, because - thanks to the oh-so-reliable One Show - I have learnt something. Apparently, there is no official memorial to the brave men of Bomber Command.

Just think about that for a teeny, tiny second, please. These young men, over half of whom never returned home, were flying deep into enemy territory and, although we can look back with the luxury of the distance of years and some safety and shudder at the terrible bombings of Dresden, Berlin and the rest, they were only following orders. Just because Churchill himself distanced himself from his own commands at the end of the war (kinda ruins the 'saint Winston' image otherwise), the memories of the fallen shouldn't have to suffer; nor should the quiet heroism of the survivors be allowed to slide into obscurity. Apparently, a memorial to the dead of Bomber Command has been given the go-ahead this year - at long last. So as we look back at the heroism and stoicism of the British people during the Blitz - not just in London but all over the country - and at the daring-do of the pilots of the Battle of Britain, let's not forget the quiet men, the forgotten heroes. Their bravery and sacrifice must not be allowed to be swept under the carpet any more. Let us shout from the very rooftops of St Paul's - this was their finest hour, so here's to the Boys of Bomber Command!!

And of course whenever I think about the RAF and the Second World War, there are two family stories that always spring to mind. The first is that of my beloved Great-Auntie Rose, who tragically passed away last year. I loved my Auntie Rosie; she had an absolutely shocking life until she met my Great-Uncle Ron and the rest of his family, but it never made her bitter or resentful. She really was one of life's truly sweet and gentle people and I completely adored her. That said, we did always have a giggle over some of her exploits - her sense of humour was legendary within the family, and she once joked that she was going to get a motorbility scooter "so she could come down and see us". The thought of her bombing down the M25 on her scooter simultaneously made me shriek with laughter and want to warn the traffic police! During the war, while my Uncle Ronnie was was away fighting, Auntie Rosie worked in a factory making Spitfires, and the family always joked that it was amazing we managed to win the Battle of Britain with Rosie making the planes!!

The second family story is the one that makes me fiercely proud of my ancestors, and also goes someway perhaps to explaining my own personality. According to the story, my great-grandmother was walking home one day when one of the Luftwaffe's finest Doodlebug's flew overhead. Never one to back down from a challenge, Great Granny brandished her umbrella in a particularly menacing manner, shook it in her clenched fist at the departing German drone and shouted, "come on then, you buggers!!!" Great Granny versus the Luftwaffe? Please, no contest. If Churchill had sent some of the women of my family in to Germany, Hitler would have whimpered and rolled over within a matter of weeks. You don't mess with my bloodline...

That said, I now need to go in search of a Galadriel dress. My beloved Baby Forumbat and adopted daughter Gemma turns 18 in November, and is having a fancy dress party to celebrate. We all have to go dressed as something beginning with G. Owen is going as Gimli, from Lord of the Rings, and Ryan is going as Gandalf. When I heard that, I immediately dismissed all thoughts of 'gerbils' and 'gooseberries' from my mind and announced I would go as Galadriel. Cue much excitement from the others, and much scratching of my own fair head as to how and where I can transform myself into the luminous Cate Blanchett in two months.

Maybe I should go as a germ after all...