Thank You Ma’am for Your Service

2 British Monarchs and 2 Prime Ministers in 3 Days

Queen Elizabeth II the longest reigning monarch in British history, passed away at Balmoral Castle on Thursday 8^th September 2022 aged 96.  Her last official public engagement was on Tuesday 6^th September, when she received the outgoing Prime Minister Boris Johnson, and his political successor Liz Truss, who was formally given notice to form a new government by Her Majesty. The official photograph from the proceedings, profoundly shocked me, as I realised how frail and physically shrunken the Queen seemed. Immediately I thought “oh dear, this is the beginning of the end for her” as I’d long wondered if the Queen would make the end of the year. Little did I realise my “sixth sense” would come true only two days later!

My beloved Granny born in 1898 knew of six monarchs (Queen Victoria, Edward VII, George V, Edward VIII, George VI and Elizabeth II) in her lifetime. I’ve only ever known one monarch, until this week. The late Queen came from a bygone era, part of a generation (1919-1935) born between two wars, whose numbers are in rapid decline. Children whose characters were all moulded by the effects of living through WWII, with the general population deeply affected by the depression, and the Royal Family rocked by the abdication. The Queen and her peers, ALL possessed this can do, just get on with things attitude, epitomising the notion of giving service with good cheer and quiet fortitude. As a 21 year old, Princess Elizabeth as she was then, promised to serve the nation her whole life, whether it be long or short. And she kept her solemn vow to the day she died.

As an avid royal watcher from the age of two, Her Majesty always seemed to me to symbolise strength, dignity and diplomacy. By example she demonstrated the importance of the crown as a symbol of stoicism and dependability, in an ever changing world of power dynamics. Her constancy as a head of state (she presided over 15 Prime Ministers) gave the nation a sense of stability, particularly important in times of political turmoil in government. Over the last few days, I’ve heard many say, the Queen was a unifying presence between the four nations of the United Kingdom. No politician could ever claim that mandate. And as a mark of respect, and a sign of the esteem held for Queen Elizabeth II, the late monarch’s death also brought about the temporary cessation of nationwide strikes by multiple unions. Government delegations in talks with the unions have seemingly only inflamed the situation.

Queen Elizabeth’s smile was full of warmth and would light up a room. Her fashion sense was distinctly her own, graceful, immaculate and noticeably bright so she could be seen in a crowd. It was utterly timeless from a decade point of view, yet with a slight old fashioned tinge as well, the handbag a classic style reflecting another era. The Queen Mother dressed in the same way.

Formal ceremonies were carried out to bring the late monarch’s body back from Balmoral to London. There were moments that felt like an arrow straight through my heart, the Princess Royal’s curtsy to her mother’s coffin as it was carried into Holyroodhouse, and the grief stricken face of King Charles III, as he and his siblings stood vigil in St Giles Cathedral, deeply moved me. The Queen’s children repeated their vigil at Westminster Hall, and for the first time, the monarch’s grandchildren paid homage a day later as well. Aged 14-44 all eight stood together in a silent vigil, and the sight of young James, Viscount Severn, as a tear fell from his nose, was heart breaking.

Then the procession from Buckingham Palace to Westminster Hall, and that first mournful toll of Big Ben’s bell and the gun salute, as the gun carriage carrying the coffin first appeared, resulted in an audible gasp as a well of emotion surged through me, and I blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. A brief moment during the BBC coverage along The Mall, made me shiver, as a camera panned toward the Queen Mother’s statue, behind her a statue of King George VI.  Both seemed to be welcoming the queen home to them, silly I know, but that was my immediate thought.

At the end of the Westminster Hall service, as the Queen lay in state, the royal family were led out by King Charles III.  I noticed the figures of the Duke of Gloucester (who had walked the procession route), the Duke of Kent and Prince Michael of Kent leaving, just behind Peter Phillips (QEII grandson) and the Earl of Snowdon (QEII nephew). Seeing these elderly cousins of Queen Elizabeth II, all representing an ever dwindling generation really got to me, as I recently lost my Dad who was of a similar age.

Queen Elizabeth II, whose dignity, grace, fortitude, steadfastness and dedication to duty, showed the best of the British people, has gone. 1936 is known as the year of the three kings (King George V, King Edward VIII & King George VI). Edward’s abdication seemed unthinkable in 1936, yet under the circumstances of his short reign, abdication was a conceivable concept. But truly 6^th-8^th September 2022 can be deemed unprecedented, marking the time when Britain had 2 Prime Ministers and 2 Monarchs, in the space of three days.

God bless you Ma’am, thank you for your service, you were an inspiration to us all. We will never see your like again. Your passing is a sombre time for our nation, and heralds in a new beginning in uncertain times. Rest in peace.  God save the King and the Queen Consort.

Spectacular Summer of Sport

Reality Suspended For Eight Blissful Weeks in 2022

No less than seven major sporting events occurred between the 27^th of June and 21^st of August 2022.  Together they provided me, and I’m sure other sports fans with a lot of pleasure, and for a little while, some much needed “mental insulation” from the harsh realities of life.

It started with this year’s tennis extravaganza at Wimbledon (27 June-10 July) in London England, where British player Cameron Norrie reached the semi-finals, defeated by Novak Djokovic who became men’s champion for the eighth time. The women’s final was historic in a different way, both finalists Ons Jabeur (Tunisia) and champion Elena Rybakina (Kazakhstan), were each playing a first Grand Slam final, both for themselves AND their respective countries.

Hot on the heels, came cycling’s iconic road race the Tour de France (1-24 July) beginning in Denmark, before traversing through the French countryside, to end in Paris. I’ve adored watching this spectacle on TV for as long as I can remember. A particular highlight was when British rider Tom Pidcock making his Tour debut, became the youngest rider to win the l’Alpe d’Huez stage.

From (6-31 July) the delayed 2021 Women’s European Football Championships took place, at multi venues around England. The host nation was victorious against Germany in the final, winning 2-1 after extra time. What I really like about the women’s game is the seeming lack of cynicism in their play, although I did detect this unsavoury approach during the final.

Eugene, Oregon USA hosted the delayed 2021 World Athletics Championships (15-24 July). Highlights for me include the unexpected GB gold for Jake Wightman in the men’s 1500m, the first British win in 39 years since Steve Cram’s 1983 victory . Anna Hall’s delight securing a personal best score to win USA bronze in the women’s heptathlon, and Sweden’s Armand Duplantis taking gold with a world record effort in the men’s pole vault.

UK athletes only had a four day turn around before gathering in Birmingham England for the 2022 Commonwealth Games (28 July-8 August), a multi sport event with participating nations from the British Commonwealth. I like seeing non Olympic sports like lawn bowls, squash or netball get into the international spotlight, and I delight in witnessing the flags of smaller nations raised, when their athletes win a medal. Alastair Chalmers winning bronze in the men’s 400m hurdles, to give Guernsey its FIRST EVER Commonwealth medal, springs to mind here.

Only three days after the Commonwealth Games concluded, Munich Germany hosted the 2022 European Championships (11-21 August) featuring nine different sports. Athletics, cycling (track, MTB, BMX freestyle, road), artistic gymnastics, rowing, beach volleyball, canoe sprint, sport climbing, table tennis and triathlon all featured. Gymnastics highlights for me include Jake Jarman’s vault gold medal after becoming a last minute replacement, and Joe Fraser becoming the first British gymnast to be crowned overall European champion, before taking gold in the parallel bars as well. He had only recently recovered from a burst appendix and a broken foot!! Another sporting first for Britain came when Tom Pidcock secured European MTB mountain bike cross country gold. Already an Olympic mountain bike champion, men’s cyclo-cross world champion and Tour de France stage winner, Tom has shown what an exceptional talent he has been on two wheels, over the last twelve months.

At the same time Rome Italy held the 2022 European Aquatic Championships, featuring swimming, diving, artistic swimming and open water swimming. British participants came second in the overall medal table, behind both European Championship host nations Germany and Italy, a fantastic achievement. The diving was the highlight for me with multiple medals for Team GB, especially seeing 17 year old Andrea Spendolini Sirieix adding to her amazing summer haul of medals from the 10m diving platform. She is certainly a name to watch in the future.

So for eight weeks I thoroughly enjoyed the sporting feast on TV, which offered a complete distraction from the awful news these days. The war in Ukraine, the ramifications of climate change, the rising cost of living, and the energy crisis are individually enough to make you want to hide from the world. Add in the horror of Boris Johnson tendering his resignation as UK Prime Minister on 7^th July, and you really just wanted to cry in a corner, because it triggered a hideous and utterly pointless leadership campaign lasting weeks. 

The choice of new Prime Minister was decided through an archaic system, where around 160,000 Conservative members completely controlled the end result, which was announced on 5^th September.  Liz Truss was named Johnson’s successor, despite never being the lead candidate over five rounds of MP selection voting.  Her rival Rishi Sunak had always come out top, having the mandate of his Conservative parliamentary peers. Yet, despite that ringing endorsement, Sunak didn’t win over the Conservative membership. So Liz Truss the new UK Prime Minister was elected by approximately 0.6% of the British voting population? And because I find the domestic men’s football campaign these days to be as back biting and petty as politics, there was no sporting respite on offer to me, from this unpalatable “democratic” truth.

Looking Back Through The Years 4

 25 Years Ago Diana, Princess of Wales Killed in Car Crash

In the early hours of August 31^st 1997, Diana Princess of Wales tragically passed away in Paris, as a result of injuries sustained in a fatal car crash. Of the four occupants in the car that night, only one was wearing a seat belt, Diana’s bodyguard the sole survivor. The news of Diana’s death had a somewhat seismic effect on the British public’s psyche. I can remember exactly where I was when the news broke, a phenomena known as a “flashbulb moment”. A peculiar combination of personal circumstances at that time heightened my awareness even more.

1997 was a bit of a landmark year for me, because in early January I’d undergone emergency surgery, to deal with the ravages of eight years undiagnosed Crohn’s Disease. Until that point, I’d only been born in hospital, so my body seemed to decide to give me a lifetime’s worth of ill health in three weeks! So although the surgery was successful, I developed shingles, pleurisy and pneumonia and flat-lined as well with congestive heart failure. So it’s a wonder I made the summer of 1997 at all to be honest. Before all this medical mayhem ensued, I’d booked myself into a volunteer Cathedral Camp at Westminster Abbey, running from 27^th August to 3^rd September. Having been on a camp at the Abbey the year before, I was looking forward to another one. However, as the months went by, and my physical frailty wasn’t particularly improving, I had to concede that I wasn’t strong enough to carry out the demanding tasks volunteers could be given. So with great reluctance I gave up my place.

My husband had booked us Prom tickets for August 30^th as I knew volunteers had the Saturday night off. The programs highlight was “Faure’s Requiem” a particular favourite of mine. The hotel and tickets were booked well in advance, so although I didn’t feel able to attend the Cathedral Camp, there was no way I was missing out on the Royal Albert Hall and Faure. So Rob and I travelled down to London on Saturday August 30^th 1997, for an overnight stay in a Kensington High Street hotel. It was a stone’s throw away from Kensington Palace, and only a short walk to the Albert Hall. The Prom that evening was wonderful, and I went to bed that night very happy, with the Requiem music swirling round my head lulling me to sleep.

Next morning, my day began as always (in a hotel) propped up in bed with a cup of tea in hand, and a switch on of the TV for some news. I’d discovered early on that hotel TV’s could have access to a wider/ more interesting variety of channels, as they tried to keep their international guests happy. And I delighted in finding old favourite TV shows dubbed into another language, or watching international news programs.  The BBC news came on and the sombre mood was instantly obvious, and I thought “oh dear something bad has happened”. I quickly realised the Royal Family were involved in some way, and immediately thought the Queen Mother had died. I flicked onto BBC2, then ITV and again the same solemnity of news reporting, though I still had no idea what was going on, other than someone had died. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the death wasn’t expected and wondered if the Queen had passed away instead! Being a Royal fan, I was going through every name (of a certain vintage) I could think of for about five minutes, until I switched to Channel 4. It was then I heard the words, “Diana Princess of Wales killed in a car crash in Paris”. That was not the answer I expected to hear, her name hadn’t even entered my head, with her being a relatively young vibrant woman. Along with a sense of shock, I was also hit by an overwhelming sense of my own mortality, considering how 1997 had started for me.

We were one of the first people to lay some flowers, in respect for Diana and her passing at Kensington Palace that morning. Literally we were on the scene, as crowds gathered and TV crews from around the world descended on this corner of London. It was rather surreal witnessing firsthand both the very palpable public grief on show, and also the media circus frenzy, which seemed to grow and mutate by the minute. We were glad to be leaving London that day, because even in those first few hours the vibe of the city had changed, and not for the better either. Much later, I realised it was the vibe of hysteria I’d found so unsettling.

So in the last few hours of Diana’s life, I was in Kensington London for a Prom’s performance of Faure’s Requiem, staying in a hotel not far away from her Kensington Palace apartment.  But for my own ill health in 1997, I’d also have been in London participating in a volunteer camp at Westminster Abbey, where Diana’s funeral took place a week after her death. I’ve often wondered if the volunteers were told to go home early, or if they helped prepare the Abbey for the funeral alongside the professionals? Who knows, but I do feel a strange circumstantial connection to Diana and the day she died.

Earlier this month (August 2022) I enjoyed a visit Kensington Palace, taking a good look round the state apartments, and seeing an excellent photo exhibition ”Life Through A Royal Lens”. One particular picture of Diana on display had never been published, something I instinctively knew. As I looked at it, I remembered I must visit the sunken memorial garden (opened 2021) in the Palace grounds before leaving. The weather was glorious, and I sought shelter from the sun under the shaded canopy that surrounded the area. Sitting in quiet contemplation behind Diana’s statue, admiring the peace and beauty of the area, I was shocked to realise the 25^th anniversary of her passing was coming up. It seemed right that I’d visited the Palace and sought out her memorial garden, to pay homage to her memory. I offered up a silent prayer and with a lump in my throat bid Diana farewell.

Diana’s Memorial Garden Kensington Palace. Image credit abmj

Diana’s Memorial Garden Statue Kensington Palace. Image credit abmj

Platinum Jubilee Celebrations

Feeling Proud & A Little Emotional

HM Queen Elizabeth II celebrates seventy years on the British throne this year, and public celebrations for this momentous milestone are being held over four days 2-5^th June 2022. At the time of writing, three events have been held and two more will follow (palace concert & Jubilee pageant). 

Vice Chancellor Sir Klaus Moser & HM Queen Elizabeth II at Keele Chapel Oct 1999. Image credit abmj70

The Trooping of the Colour started things off on June 2^nd the official birthday of Her Majesty, and the 69^th anniversary of her coronation in 1953. It was lovely to have the full scale Colour event in the heart of London once again, with crowds lining the streets, after two years of a much reduced ceremony held in the private grounds of Windsor Castle. The British do pomp and ceremony magnificently, no one else can really touch us. Although the Queen did not attend the ceremony at Horse Guards Parade, she was well represented by Prince Charles, Prince William & Princess Anne all on horseback in their official royal/military roles. Before the ceremony began, several other royals arrived (I noted “in line to the throne” order) in a procession of carriages. I didn’t pick up on any Kent representative, and wondered if the Duke of Kent might be with the Queen for her balcony appearance. To my delight, the young Cambridge children were with their mother and the Duchess of Cornwall, with George looking a little pensive (just like his father at that age), Charlotte taking everything in her stride, and Louis waving enthusiastically. Later on, as the ceremony unfolded, other youngsters could be seen watching the proceedings, as well as the Duke and Duchess of Sussex.

The spectacle/music/solemnity of the occasion wasn’t lost on me and I felt very proud and deeply moved, knowing Her Majesty is Head of the Armed Services, and the Trooping of the Colour is a fitting tribute given by the military to their monarch. Through Queen Elizabeth II the royal family military link is even more embedded than ever. Remember, in WW1 the Queen Mother as a teenager tended wounded soldiers at her ancestral Scottish home Glamis Castle, and King George VI seen battle with the navy. In WW2 the Queen herself joined the army and her future husband seen naval action as well.  Three sons and two grandsons joined the military, with son Andrew and grandson Harry seeing action in the Falkland Islands and Afghanistan respectively. And at least a good few cousins, second cousins and a great nephew of the monarch have seen military service too.

As the Queen took to the balcony to watch the troops ride past the gates of Buckingham Palace, she was joined by the Duke of Kent. I was biting back some tears, as the elderly Duke stood upright and saluted the servicemen below, and passed comment to the Queen. I became VERY AWARE that this moment in history will NEVER be seen again. The Queen and her cousin are from a generation that put service to the Crown & Empire above all else. The Queen during her reign has relied heavily on her extended family to represent her across the globe, but that concept virtually does not exist in today’s world. The Empire is gone; the extended family ever diluted in relevance to the crown, have made their own way in the world. So it was most of the Queen’s immediate family and working older Royal cousins who appeared on the balcony. My heart melted seeing the interaction between the Queen and her great grandson little Prince Louis in his adorable traditional sailor suit, enjoying himself and asking questions.

In the evening after the Trooping of the Colour, beacons around the British Isles were lit in celebration. I was a little perturbed when I realised some were not the good old fashioned mini bonfire type, but more environmentally friendly modern light technology beacons instead. However, that made things a lot safer, when the Queen set things going at Windsor Castle. It was announced the Queen had much enjoyed the celebrations of the day, but that after feeling some discomfort, she would not attend the Thanksgiving Service at St Paul’s in the morning. Not a surprise, considering it’s only recently the Palace has finally admitted the monarch’s advanced years have taken an obvious toll.

The emotion I’ve felt whilst watching events on TV stems from the realisation that it’s my Golden Jubilee of royal watching. Ever since I received a 25^th wedding anniversary coin aged two, I’ve followed the Royal Family. And whilst viewing the Thanksgiving Service at St Paul’s Cathedral it literally felt like I was seeing old friends again, although with a certain amount of poignancy added too. You see, as I mentally rattled off names to faces seen (before any TV commentator got a word in), I realised a good few were of a vintage age themselves and looking physically, just that bit more frail now. Of course they were all impeccably dressed with that tell tale bolt upright stance of royal training. Then as the children/grandchildren of these more senior (in age) royals (Kent’s, Gloucester’s especially) appeared, I thought “crikey I’ve watched them grow up, and they have teenage/adult kids themselves”. I knew many of their full names, birthdays etc, better than I know my own family. My emotions were heightened even more when the cathedral choir started singing “I Was Glad”.

The Duke and Duchess of Sussex having stepped away as senior royals over two years ago, attended the  service and had a military attaché escort them to their seats. A seasoned BBC commentator questioned WHY they were not going to be part of the main formal procession before the service began. I couldn’t help thinking his late father who provided commentary of the Queen’s coronation, would have boxed his ears for what I considered such a stupid query. Thankfully, his co-presenter gave a moderated reply along the lines of “the Prince of Wales would normally have greeted and then processed ahead of the Queen, but as her representative today, the two heirs presumptive will proceed together”. Thank goodness, otherwise it could have turned into the Harry & Meghan show instead.

The sermon was littered with horse racing terminology which raised quite a chuckle amongst the congregation. I couldn’t agree more with the phrase “we are so glad you are still in the saddle”. When the Duke of Edinburgh passed away in 2021, I did wonder if Her Majesty would reach her platinum Jubilee. I’m so very glad she did, the occasion gives the country something to celebrate. I like many others have only known one monarch, and the Queen has been a constant presence in the nation’s life. Her Majesty has truly been steadfast in her duty to the country, a trusted hand on the tiller steering a steady course through the choppy waters of international relations and diplomacy. Her role may only be constitutional and symbolic without any real power, BUT considering the behaviour of government elected officials, Queen Elizabeth II is a much needed antidote.

Throughout the celebrations so far, I can’t shake off the feeling that the Prince of Wales definitely looks his age, and frankly rather emotionally vulnerable. I’m wondering if he knows something more about the Queen’s health issues, and the consequences that means for him. After all he has waited a lifetime for a job he never asked for, one he will fully inherit on the death of his mother. The enormity of what lies ahead of him is immense, and Charles looks like that weight is already on his shoulders. Of course, for many the notion of hereditary power and prestige in a democracy is distasteful, although you will never hear any such criticism from Royal correspondents!

Two generations of second sons reigned (George V, George VI) before Queen Elizabeth II was crowned,  by pure chance really when you consider her ancestor Queen Victoria was the only child of George III’s fourth son!!! Undoubtedly there will probably never be a British monarch on the throne for seven decades again, unless some tragedy brings Prince George to the throne at a very tender age. However, if that happened, I can see people saying the monarchy should be allowed to die away too. I do not agree, the Queen’s reign has presided over 14 UK Prime Ministers, and through her example has shown the importance of the crown as a symbol of stoicism and dependability, in an ever changing world of power dynamics. For that I sincerely say “God Save the Queen”.

Royal Party Leaving Keele University Oct 1999. Image credit abmj70

Looking Back Through The Years 3

 40 Years Ago Branded A Hooligan After My First Football Match

At the age of eleven my Dad took me to my first ever football match, a World Cup qualifier against Sweden at Hampden Park. It was in September of 1981 and Scottish football grounds had recently introduced an alcohol ban in all stadia. So my Dad felt it was safe now to take me along for the experience. I eagerly boarded the supporter bus parked in the local town, and noticed I was the only under 18 there and the only female too. A sweepstakes was held as we sped along the motorway to Glasgow. My Dad paid for me to pick a number for the first goal scorer. I was delighted to get number nine, my hero Joe Jordan who came from my home village.

The atmosphere at Hampden Park was electric and I had never seen so many people in one place before, there were thousands of tartan clad supporters. The roar of the crowd as the teams took to the pitch was resounding, and I felt the swell of national pride take over me. I heartily cheered myself, especially when Joe scored the first goal with a header. My Dad looked at me and muttered something about beginners luck in winning the sweep. At half time I happily devoured a Scots pie where the grease dripped down between my fingers and slurped on Scotland’s other national drink, Irn Bru.

At full time the score was Scotland 2 Sweden 1, and Scotland was well on the way to qualifying for the finals in Spain the following summer. On the bus I collected my winnings which I shared with my Dad, and then to his horror I began singing Sydney Devine songs all the way home. In Scotland this artist was either loved or loathed with a passion rather like Marmite, and my Mammy had brought me up listening to his records. Sydney Devine like Joe Jordan also comes from my home village of Cleland. Maybe it was the fact that I had fleeced these older gents of their money, or they had no musical taste, but my singing performance didn’t go down well.  My mortified Dad offered apologies to the organiser as we left the bus, saying the wife had a lot to answer for! The organiser replied that I seemed a nice enough wee lass but “singing SYDNEY DEVINE songs was the most blatant form of hooliganism he had ever witnessed or heard, so it would be best if I didn’t come back again”. So aged eleven I was branded a hooligan for singing from the wrong songbook. But I am unrepentant.

Cleland Heroes Influence My First Football Match. Image credit abmj70

Earlier this year thanks to the internet, I found a program for that momentous game and bought it for a small sum. My Dad bought me a Scotland rosette all those years ago, and it’s about somewhere in the flat, but it’s in hiding just now. But then I remembered I had an old photo of it, taken on another World Cup Qualifier night four years later. By then I was a fifteen year old new big sister to my three month old baby brother Paul. I pinned my rosette onto his babygro for a photo before the match against Wales started in Cardiff. Scotland needed at least a draw to go into a playoff game for Mexico 86 qualification. They did enough to secure that opportunity, which led to Scotland participating in their fourth consecutive World Cup in Mexico. But that autumn night, September 10^th 1985 would go down in Scottish football history as a bittersweet harrowing evening. For the team manager, a giant of a man, Jock Stein collapsed and died with a massive heart attack just before the final whistle. Jock was just short of half way through his Scotland manager tenure, when I got my rosette. It was photographed for the only time that fateful night, and unknowingly ended up symbolising both the end of Jock’s life, and the start of my brother’s, becoming a photo with true historical significance.

Big Sis With Little Bro Wearing Scotland Rosette. Image credit abmj70

Looking Back Through The Years 2

Losing My Granny 45 Years Ago

Today (13^th September 2021) is the 45^th anniversary of my beloved Granny Bowes passing. I was in the school playground that morning, when I spotted my mammy talking in hushed tones to my teacher Mrs Marshall, who nodded solemnly as she glanced in my direction. I helped Mrs Marshall a lot that day, being allowed to put out new chalk and clean the blackboard too. Excited at being so helpful at school, I went home cheerfully oblivious at the devastating news that awaited me. By teatime my six year old self was left utterly bereft.

Granny’s health for most of her adult life was somewhat torrid to say the least, and really it was a miracle she lived to the age of 78. One story I often heard was about a stomach operation she had, until then only ever performed on a whippet, and the surgeon apologising “I’m only sorry it has to be a woman with a young family being operated on”.  So it’s a wonder that me, as her youngest grandchild (in her lifetime), ever had the opportunity to know and love her. Great grandchildren began arriving six weeks after I was born.

I’ve always had the ability to sleep very soundly and stayed over at granny’s a lot. So I didn’t hear her get up in the night and collapse with a stroke. In the morning I found her on the floor, freezing cold, unable to move, with a strangely twisted mouth. She was trying to talk but didn’t make any sense, and I rushed to awake my Uncle Allan who lived in the house too. I barely roused my hung-over uncle (a FREQUENT occurrence), who muttered “leave the old b*****d there, she can die for all I care”, then went back to sleep.

Running back to Granny six-year old Angela went into action, hauling the candlewick bedspread off the bed and wrapping it round her, in an effort to keep her warm. I dialled 999 for an ambulance giving all the details I was asked for, then got a drink to dab my Granny’s parched mouth and cuddled round her as best I could to offer some comfort. I let the ambulance men in and watched forlornly as they took my best friend out of the house on a stretcher. My uncle had rallied by then, and as the ambulance drove away I heard him on the phone inviting his son over to celebrate “the house being effectively his now”. Then the door was locked as I wasn’t welcome in HIS house, and I sat on the doorstep in my pyjamas and slippers, until my mammy came to collect me from work at lunchtime. She went mental, at Allan’s blatant disregard for Granny’s or my welfare. From that day until my uncle’s passing 21 years later, I think I set foot in the living room I knew so well only twice.

Granny clung onto life for several days, enough for me to have a single visit to the hospital. She was surrounded by some of her children & adult grandchildren, none of whom had darkened her doorstep since my Grandda’s funeral 12/13 years before. That angered me deeply and I vented my fury at them all, on the day of Granny’s funeral. Mammy took me into the back bedroom and acted like I was getting a telling off for being rude, but was quietly praising me for saying out loud what she was thinking herself.

That awful time is forever etched into my psyche and I recall it like it was yesterday. My Granny’s collapse for me was like a seismic event, the very foundations of my existence shaken to its core, the solid ground I depended on becoming more like shifting sand.  Her subsequent death I realise was like a following tsunami, a wave of total desolation that completely overwhelmed me. I had never known pain like it and I didn’t want to hurt like that ever again.

My entire early childhood in Cleland was surrounded by elderly adult company, as my mammy kept house for Granny, ran messages for Jim & Cathy Bryce at no.12, and kept Nellie Neill company whilst I played with her grandson. All of them were gone by the time I was eight, and I literally shut down building a wall around my shattered heart, mentally keeping people at arm’s length. However, through the years some people had got close without me fully realising it. The shock news of a near fatal canoe accident involving a school friend (who survived unscathed) when I was 21, opened the floodgates, and the wall I’d so carefully built around my heart came crashing down. In a way this epiphany helped pave the way to a new beginning for me, starting university, making new friends, making my own way in the world. I even preached a sermon in a student led service on “Frailty of the Human Heart” based on this event.

When the first pandemic lockdown began in the UK in March 2020 I began to really delve into the memory banks, and from those musings I created a new hospital radio show called Beautiful Sunday. Granny has always been with me, I knew that, but her influence on me has been profound as well. Visualising her living room and telling stories about it, made me realise WHY I loved classical sculpture, and just HAD to visit the bull-fighting museum when in Madrid. WHY when Miss Dunsmore said everyone had to create a project book, I drew my adored maps, the first being New Zealand, a much admired map decoration on Granny’s wall. Reading of a friend’s new home with a pantry, I was in Granny’s handkerchief sized kitchen standing in the doorway to the walk-in pantry, gazing up at the brightly coloured tins housing cake, biscuits and teabags. Is that why I have a penchant for tins? There was a coal hole next to the pantry with a heavy metal frontage half way up the wall. You had to make sure the window was open and the pantry door was closed when the coalman chucked in his delivery. Just a word, pantry, but a flood of memories came with it, just like Madeira cake and lemon curd jam.

Since May 2020 off the top of my head 12 people I know of have died, most in 2021 and 6 of them with Cleland connections. Over half I felt very close to, and although many were the wrong side of 80 or 90, the news still hit hard. One was only six months older than me, in the year above at school, who I first met aged two at Sunday school. That’s when things really started to feel a bit too close for comfort. Add in the collapse of a Danish footballer on the pitch during a European Championship game, just 24 hours after I heard the news of another Cleland death, and I’m six again. Feeling powerless to help my stricken Granny, the guilt I didn’t wake sooner, the terror I STILL don’t know any first-aid.  Just like when I was that wee girl, my Cleland connections have changed irrevocably, the foundations I relied on growing up are shifting sands once more. Other changes are happening elsewhere too.

No wonder I feel so rattled and have cried more in 2021 than I have in the last thirty years.  I recently told a friend that grief has no time limit, because I understand I’m still grieving for my Granny. Just the other day I came across a quote from Rose Kennedy, the mother of President John F Kennedy & Senator Robert F Kennedy which says everything:

“It has been said, time heals all wounds. I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone”

My protective scar tissue has been torn by circumstances and that very vulnerable inner six year old has been resurrected. But in writing this blog I hope to give her some peace and understanding. And of course, regardless of the passage of time, I still love Granny very much.

Me & Granny

Looking Back Through The Years 1

My Graduation 25 Years Ago

Today (9^th July 2021) is the silver anniversary of my graduation from Keele University in Staffordshire England.

My dual honours degree was in subjects I never envisaged studying from a university I didn’t expect to attend, in a country I’ve lived in for more years than my native Scotland. And along the way I picked up a husband as well, who as an academic was involved in the degree ceremony I attended, and beamed at me from his seat behind the Vice Chancellor Sir Klaus Moser who said a few words to me. I got my much coveted degree and the photo I wanted so much for above the mantelpiece (which I still don’t have).

For as long as I can remember I wanted to go to university. As a pre-school toddler I had shared the idea of maybe being a vet when I grew up with my beloved Granny. She patiently explained that would need a lot of hard work at school and beyond at university, a word I was familiar with because we watched University Challenge together.  After our discussion, I proudly announced to my mammy when she returned from her bingo session “me going to go to ooniverity to get a degree”. My enthusiasm was met with scorn and the immortal words “if it wisnae fur ma ears and his temper, I’d swear the hospital gave me the wrang wean”. Then Granny got a telling off for putting ideas into my head, but mammy met with a scathing rebuke in return. Granny was born in 1898, a time when working class kids in general were lucky to get a basic education to age 11, and women didn’t have the vote either. If I, as the youngest grandchild had it in me to get to university, then she saw no reason why I shouldn’t go.  This blessing and ringing endorsement was all the encouragement I needed, and so in my young mind I was already heading toward tertiary education. And I hadn’t crossed the threshold of the primary school gates yet!

I was clever, but not the straight A student required for vet school, and I wasn’t sure I had the stamina for the job either, or the money for such a prolonged course. But another lifelong passion is a deep love of maps and anything related to the physical world. So I applied to study geography at Scottish universities. But as I explained in my trilogy of blogs “25 Years at Keele” written in 2016, things didn’t quite work out the way I expected.

Thanks to the worldwide pandemic crisis both the 2020 and 2021 graduations have not taken place, though there is a hope a combined set of ceremonies can happen at Keele in April 2022! Online learning has been the mainstay since the spring of 2020, with only the most mandatory aspects such as laboratory work requiring face to face interactions. Traditional exams have been replaced by online open book assessments which Keele appear to be keeping until at least summer 2022 (if not beyond). It shocked me to realise that those students who entered a three year degree in the autumn of 2019, with the exception of exams in January 2020, could graduate next year without having endured/experienced the ordeal/delights of traditional finals exams. Many will only “know” their lecturers/fellow students through their computer screen relaying various learning forum feeds. I feel so sorry for them having missed out on so much real life interactive student experiences. In my blogs trilogy I explained just WHY these were so important to me, and how I desperately needed the security blanket of campus life to help me grow.  That personal development nurtured through social interactions and experiences accompanied my studies throughout.

My degree certificate states a level of INTELLECTUAL academic achievement in various subjects, but without doubt it was underpinned by the SOCIAL aspect of student life.

Graduation Day 9th July 1996

Off The Beaten Track 10: To Armenia With Love part 2

 Personal Reflections of Being an International Football Manager

The all England Champions League final between Manchester City and Chelsea this year, was a classic example of today’s modern game. Being a football manager must feel more like dealing with a multi-faceted international team these days, due to the number of foreign players (and managers) participating in the domestic league. I can appreciate the difficulties in this task through my own football manager experience.

I had always wanted to go abroad to do something useful, and in the summer of 1993 I went on a month long volunteer work program to Armenia. An international group was going there to help rebuild areas devastated by the 1988 earthquake. I quickly discovered I was the only non-ethnic Armenian in the group, and with my scant linguistic skills thought this would be an interesting experience to say the least! I was in a camp with the only other two women from the group and the North Americans. At least I got the English speakers and the French women had perfect English too. Most of them spoke fluent Armenian as well, so I told myself I should be ok, fingers crossed.

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  Being a Navvy in Gogaran. Image credit abmj

My team were located in the mountainous region in a small village called Gogaran. I became an accomplished “navvy” making up cement, shifting earth and digging, quickly becoming one of the boys. The other two women initially took part in the building work, but drifted off to work with the children of the village instead, although I noticed they only seemed to deal with the girls. I asked them why, and found out they had no idea how to deal with these energetic boisterous boys, who were really only crying out for attention. On my way to work the next day I spotted an old tennis ball and kicked it, only for it to be returned to me by a smiling eight year old lad. We continued our passing game all the way to the work site and he and his friends were waiting for a return match when I finished. An idea came to mind and using my interpreters I asked the boys if they liked football and boxing. The resounded answer was yes, so I decided to put my years of sport watching to good use. There wasn’t much equipment around, a few tennis balls and eventually a well worn football appeared and a skipping rope. I got the boys into a little training regime with boxing and football practice.  They could use the skipping rope to develop their coordination and footwork, and shadow box to use up some excess energy and be more aware of body positions. I wouldn’t let them hit each other because there weren’t any medical facilities for miles.  They could practice their football by passing, dribbling, shooting and working on their close ball control, while I was at work. In the evenings they showed me what they had been doing and I offered some coaching advice, and padded up my hands with socks and gardening gloves so they could box on target. From then on I was ambushed every morning and evening by a combination of shadow boxers and football fiends. But the reward was seeing the boys’ blossom now they had something to do and someone taking an interest in them. Very little was ever said directly between me and my boys because of the language barrier. But through gestures and leading by example I got my message across, and for any complex team talk I brought in my interpreters. This shows perfectly why sport (and particularly football) is a universal language

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  Boxing Ambush in the Mountains. Image credit abmj

At the end of my stay I persuaded the men in the group to agree to a few five-aside football games. Team “talks” with my lads involved much sign language, fresh water that flowed down into the village from the mountains, and barley-sugars I had stashed in my case. I’m proud to say my team acquitted themselves very well, against much bigger opponents. The tournament wages were packs of chewing gum, and my top scorer was awarded my coveted football club baseball cap. I was a Scots lassie who led an Armenian football team to victory, and I wouldn’t swap the experience for the world.

I Wasn’t There Google Maps!

Technology is wonderful when it works, and a bit of a devil when it doesn’t.

Just the other day, I had an email from Google Maps Timeline with an automated update of places I’d supposedly been to in the last month. I’ve only checked these on odd occasions before, but because I’d been to a couple of new places for a very specific reason, I thought I would take a look.

Frankly I was aghast, for although the two new areas were listed, a host of others were mentioned as well, places I’d NEVER been too. I quickly realised they ALL related to areas my husband Rob had visited. We have radically different phone models, however I know our mobile numbers are VERY close, BUT the anomalies were ridiculous. Was the confusion because of the near proximity of our phones on a daily basis, who knows? I muttered my surprise and dismay at this discovery to Rob, who checked my phone to find my Google Maps seemed not to have been activated at all? He wondered if the app may have piggy backed onto information on his phone instead. But the few times I had checked the Google Maps Timeline emails, information did seem correct. And to my knowledge I hadn’t switched it off (or on for that matter) either.

Considering some areas around Britain had far more strict Covid travel restrictions than others, this kind of technological discrepancy could have resulted in people potentially being wrongly accused of rule breaking. One example of my phantom travels had me visiting a brewery In Stone Staffordshire about 20 miles away, whilst I (and my phone) was home! I’ve NEVER been in the town of Stone, or the other places (Bath, Bristol, and Sheffield) that flicked up in my apparent historical travels agenda. My lecturer husband on the other hand in the past has clocked up those entries; Stone (Lymestone brewery visit), Bristol for Bath (PhD viva), Sheffield (external examining), Birmingham University (research visit). Even Rob’s visit to the local village pub for a couple of hours peaceful work (builders in our block of flats AND the chemistry department) was registered as in my name?

Finding out Google Maps has placed me in areas I’ve never visited is a tad disturbing, and Rob suggested if it bothered me that much I could edit the entries. But that’s NOT the point, especially when the errors are numerous, and an edit appears to delete the place name for the alternative “gone past” entry. Wrong, I wasn’t anywhere near several places Google Maps, I wasn’t there at all. The Big Brother eye may be metaphorically watching me but it seems your technological knickers are in a distinct proverbial twist!!!

Covid Vaccine Lottery

My husband Rob made enquiries to our local doctor’s surgery regarding the Covid-19 vaccination programme, in the first week of February. He was told they were administering the vaccine in an age related/extreme need basis, and although he would have wait his turn, they were anxious to get in touch with me due to my “vulnerable” status. Having no idea how to get in touch with me, they asked him for my phone number so the surgery could call me. Within an hour of his enquiry, I had my first vaccine appointment made for three days later.

Last year I had no idea of my considered “vulnerable” status for weeks, due to the official letter notifications being dropped into the wrong numbered post box. The flat was unoccupied, and I only got TWO letters when our old neighbour came along to clear the pile of mail that had accumulated. Reading the letter incensed me, because I felt it was written in a way to “scare the living daylights out of someone”, and felt that if you carried out all the advice given (difficult living in a small flat), the inhalation of disinfectant fumes wafting around 24/7 would get to you before Covid. I was also deeply annoyed, in one way I could understand the reasoning, but in another way it made no sense. Having checked the website for the condition I have and answering all the detailed questions, I was considered no more at risk than the general public at large. I trusted this information far more than my surgery, considering a year can pass with them paying NO ATTENTION to me at all. I have to remind them of my annual flu jab requirement (which I had to fight for), and prescriptions are still hard won at times, so it was a bit much they suddenly seemed to remember I exist!

When I took the call from the surgery I answered all the questions put to me, and was told to come along on the morning of Friday February 5^th. Just before my conversation ended I enquired “you do know I succumbed to the beast in the New Year?” The surgery manager had no idea I’d tested positive for Covid, and made hurried enquiries regarding the suitability of my appointment, because she said vaccines should only be given after 28 days of a positive test. I was ok by six days, but no one at the surgery had any awareness of my test result, it not being on my medical records after almost five weeks.

I read up on what to expect for the jab and I was reassured that you would be given your second appointment, at the same time as your first vaccination. I’d seen TV footage of people having their vaccines, without fail usually sitting down comfortably during the process, with possibly some quiet time afterwards. On arriving at the surgery, it became obvious the appointments were one minute apart, and literally I went from front door to surgery back door in that time. No airs or graces, a quick march, vaccination standing up (the only time an injection was actually only a little scratch), and out the door with the next patient hot on your heels. As I was given my paperwork I asked “what about the next appointment?”I was told they would be in touch in the future, but I wasn’t overly convinced.

Within a week of my first vaccine, I’d had an offer of one from the hospital where I volunteer. I sent an appreciative email saying thanks but I was ok and to please offer the chance to someone else.  I also received an official national letter saying I could book my vaccination at an approved centre. Clearly this letter was in the post when I had my appointment. But I got another two of them in week three and five, and a reminder text in week seven! There was no way of stopping these notifications, and was a prime example yet again of health bureaucracy NOT being joined up.

My husband received an official letter saying his age group were now being offered their first vaccine. He enquired at the health centre, but they were not ready to start his group at that time. The online approved centre he was recommended was a two bus/almost two hour journey, with short walk to attend (our car was out of action). This reminded me of the early days of vaccinations, when elderly people who had been shielding, were offered a similar impossible choice. Yet a friend of mine got her vaccine barely two weeks after Rob in the collage of the local town, a 20 minute bus ride & 5 minute walk away. Big difference, and highlighted the fact the official vaccine booking system online, seemed to NOT know about/recognise local vaccine centre options.

When the government decided in the New Year, the two vaccinations should be administered within twelve weeks, rather than the recommended three weeks, I immediately realised a whole lot of trouble could be brewing as a result. So I wasn’t surprised in March, when the alarm bells went off regarding difficulties in procuring vaccine doses, coinciding with the need to provide a huge influx of people with their second vaccination by the end of April (me included). Rob had just got his first vaccine and had been given his second appointment at our GP surgery. The news was reporting that unused appointments were to be cancelled, priority given to those needing a second vaccine, with first doses being potentially put on hold. It was now exactly six weeks since my first vaccine, so I thought I should make an enquiry, considering the news headlines, and the fact Rob did have his second appointment date. I had no luck what so ever, “we will get to you in due course!” Two weeks later, I got a text from the surgery, saying that any adult sharing accommodation with those in the shielding category (technically me) should immediately book their first vaccine, if they were still waiting. I called the surgery again to check the status of my second vaccine appointment, the reply “we will get to you soon, no idea when, but soon”. Eventually I got a call & text confirmation of my second appointment, 9 ½ weeks after my first vaccine, for a date just two days before the twelve weeks deadline. This seemed a non-negotiable option, and thankfully I could make the appointment.

The TV news has constantly heralded the information “people in this age category” are now eligible for their first dose. BUT this edict assumes every one of the four home nations, are at the same point in their vaccination programmes. They are NOT, and frankly that news reporting is at best, I think, deceitful. Different vaccine centres, even within a small town, could be at radically different points in vaccinating the age group tiers. Add in the age bracket statistics for a region and some in their thirties have now had their first dose. So it truly is a lottery in what vaccine you get, how, when and where you have it.