Liebster Blog Award

The Liebster Blog Award is a way for bloggers to highlight Blog's and Bloggers that have small followings but deserve acknowledgement for their hard work, excellence and contribution to the world of Blogging. I was honoured to be Nominated by AJ Long who is one of the best bloggers out there always ready to give encouragement and advice when it is most needed.

So here we go!


The rules for accepting the Liebster Blog Award:
1- List eleven random facts about yourself.
2- Nominate eleven other bloggers.
3- Notify these bloggers.
4- Ask eleven questions that the bloggers must answer upon accepting the award.
5- Answer the eleven questions that you were asked when you were nominated.
6- Link back to the person who nominated you.

 

11 Facts about me you might not know.

1.       I have been a surfer for 18 years and still in love with it.

2.       I won a jumper once at a Christmas party for having the hairiest chest.

3.       I have wrote off one car.

4.       I have been back stage at a London west end show by accident (During the show)

5.       People are always asking me things in shopping centres as they think I work there

6.       I have a corgi – Holly and Half a corgi – Lofty (More precious than diamonds)

7.       I have slept in a phone box, the boot of a car and a bath to name only a few places.

8.       I like to collect my own fire wood, it makes the fire seem more deserved.

9.       I listen to classical music when alone, studying or writing.

10.   I spend more time on G+ than writing but this is a hobby after all and I Like G+

11.   I still can’t spell to save my life, thank god for spell check.

 

The 11 Bloggers that I would like to nominate for this award are as follows in no particular order.

Karie Thoma - http://fictionalcatterflymusings.blogspot.com
M.A. Barr - http://mabarrjournal.blogspot.com
Nikkah Lubanga - http://factperfiction.wordpress.com
Amy Galmos - http://muffinsandmetaphors.blogspot.com
Ben Roach - http://thewritingwanderer.blogspot.co.uk
Matt Ewens - http://mattrobertewens.wordpress.com
Lynn Marie Le - http://finscribeofwisdom.blogspot.com
Dyane Forde - http://droppedpebbles.wordpress.com
Francine Hirst –  Puts her posts directly on Google +

Ann Lee - http://sexyannlee.blogspot.co.uk

Bill Dove - http://billdove7.blogspot.com

It was super hard to just pick 11, I avoided picking ones that I knew AJ or others had already nominated.

 

11 Questions for the people I have nominated.

1.       Where were you when you had your first kiss.

2.       Your house is on fire what 3 things would you save (Kids and people excluded)

3.       What is your favourite blog post of your own blog.

4.       If you could switch with one person for 24 hours who would you pick

5.       What 4 famous people would you invite round to your house for dinner (Alive or dead)

6.       Your guilty pleasure.

7.       Nicest thing another person has ever done for you.

8.       Nicest thing you have done for a stranger

9.       What is your partners (Present or past) most annoying trait

10.   Greatest Fear

11.   Your new year’s resolutions from last year.

 

Here is my Answers to AJ Longs questions.

1. What was the funniest movie you have seen?
The life of Brian – hands down the funniest ever

2.What’s your earliest memory?

I remember trading my tricycle for a bag of marbles when I was 3, mom was not pleased 

3. What was your favorite school subject?

Building Technology and Tec Drawing

4. Have you EVER had a need to use algebra away from a school environment? (No, seriously!)

What’s algebra??? Only kidding, no

5. Do you understand modern art (or even know if it’s hanging the right way up?)

Understand it – no, like it - yes

6. Most enjoyable book?

Loved the first half of the stand by Stephen King, it made a great impact on me partly due to where I was in my life but then it got a bit airy fairy in the second half but still a great tale.

7. Ever spent money to buy something you really wanted, although you could hardly afford it at the time?

Yes I once got an advance on my wages to buy a surfboard I fell in love with, wish it was still with me but sadly it went to the surfboard heaven a few years back.

8. Apart from when you were a child, have you ever danced in the rain?

Yes and done a few other things in the rain as well. You should try it.

9. What country would you like to visit that you have not yet been to?

Tonga

10. What makes you grumpy?

Stupidity in all its ugly forms

12. What’s your ’Go To’ switch to make you feel better on a gray day

Lofty and Holly my dogs 100% happy all the time.

 

_______________________________________________________________________________

So looking forward to hearing back from people listed above with their 11 answers and once again Thank you AJ and everyone that I could not nominate for making the world a more interesting place to live in. 


Squid McFinnigan

Seventh and Lombard

Peg Magner and her family tumbled from a rotting ship onto the dock at Ellis Island, and thanked her lucky stars to be alive. It was a miracle they’d all survived the journey, while so many others bobbed in the waves between here and Ireland.

That joy was shattered the moment she set foot in the hellhole called The Five Points. After two weeks of that place, a quick death at sea seemed like blessing. Two weeks was more than enough to convince, Peg, that her family needed to find someplace better to live.

In the year 1872, Philadelphia was growing out of all proportion. It was turning from a waterside town, into a burgeoning metropolis. A constant flood of immigrants streamed from the harsh boroughs of New York to make their home there. Sean, Peg’s husband, was worried they would starve on the roadside before the journey was complete. However, in the end, the ragged family didn’t have to walk one mile.

Sean made a deal with a steam-boat captain. He agreed to load and unload the cargo, as well as paying a small fee, for which four miserable Irish wretches could sleep on deck among the casks of whiskey. Even though the fee was small, it represented nearly half of the family’s worldly wealth.

By the end of the loading, Sean’s hands were the colour and texture of minced meat. The day was all but gone when the boat slipped its mooring, and the smokestack belched dirty plumes into the night air. Sean staggered over to where Peg and the kids were huddled, and dropped to the deck.

“Sweet Mary above, what have they done to you?” she asked, seeing the blood drip from the ends of his trembling fingers. Peg bandaged his flayed hands with strips torn from her underskirts, and let him rest his head on her lap while he slept. The warmth rising from her body kept him warm as a stiff breeze whipped across the deck. Soon, she felt the waves raise the nose of the boat and a sheet of spray rained down on them. Peg gathered the children to her and wrapped her shawl around the tiny family.

The journey took two days and the passage was mercifully calm. The girls, both four, loved the adventure. But Peg herself did nothing but fret. How would they ever survive in this strange new world. The twins use the boat as their playground and raced between the stacks of barrels. Youth is an armour against the world. One girl was called Aishling, the other, Aine. Twin cherubs with flaming red curls and a face full of freckles.

On the afternoon of the second day, the ocean swell lessened dramatically and they entered the Delaware. It was such a huge expanse of water Peg wouldn’t believe it was just a river.

“Sean, is everything in this place so big?  Rivers as wide as the sea, land you couldn’t walk if you lived to be a hundred, and so many people,” Peg pondered, shaking her head at the water. He just made a comforting sound and put his arm around her shoulders. A few hours later, the banks closed in on them and she started to make out building behind the treeline. Soon, the buildings multiplied until there was no trees left.

A fog of smoke hung over the dock, as they moored in Philadelphia. Sean braced himself for the backbreaking task of unloading the boat. Peg had made pads from her only jacket, to cover his hands.

“Ah Peg, you’ve gone and destroyed your coat! Winter is coming, and you’ll need that more than I need these,” he said, when she presented him with the stitched woollen mitts.

“I need a husband able to work,” she said, and shoved him gently toward the gangway.

While Sean toiled, Peg and the girls went in search of lodgings. Wherever she looked, there were signs which said, “No Dogs, No Blacks, No Irish.” It was a mantra that she’d encountered often in New York. At first, she’d been shocked, but she soon became accustomed to the ignorance. She moved further and further into the city. At last she came across a segment of clapboard-houses, thrown up so shoddily, they seemed to be held up by the one next door. This teeter-totter of buildings housed dozens, if not hundreds, of people. Whole families living in one tiny room. Ten such families shared a privy if they were lucky, they slopped piss-buckets into the street, if they were not.

At last, she arranged a lease on a single room. She paid in advance for a month, and that dispensed with any money they had. They had a home, at least for a month, and that was something. It turned out that they were one of the few white families living in this part of Philly. It sat in a no-man’s land between Seventh, and Lombard Street. When Sean finished unloading the steamer, they carried all they owned on their backs, and moved into their new home.

It took a while, but Sean found work at a Tannery on the docks. He moved the stinking hides which were still slick with tallow. Every night, he washed in the freezing water of the Delaware, before making his way home. Even so, the smell of rotting flesh never left his skin.

It wasn’t all bad in their new home. Peg even found a little bit of Ireland in the shape of a small park, aptly named, Star Garden Park. The parks paths were lined with majestic trees. Someone had even hung a swing from a low-hanging bough. The girls loved to play there. Aine was a right whelp, and was always causing mischief. But Aishling was a pet.

On the last day of October, Peg and the girls were in the park, as always. Aishling and Aine were taking turns on the swing, while Peg sat on a nearby bench and fretted over the looming rent. It could have been a minute, or it could have been five, before Peg noticed the chatter of little girl voices had stopped. She looked up and Aishling was alone on the swing, gently swaying over and back.

Peg got to her feet and walked over, calling for Aine to come out of where she was hiding, but she didn’t. Peg checked all the bushes and trees, but her little Aine wasn’t hiding behind any of them. Dread filled Peg’s whole body. She grabbed Aishling from the swing and dragged her along as she searched every inch of the park, yelling herself raw. As a last resort, she ran back to the tenement, hoping against hope that Aine had come home by herself, but the tiny room was empty. Her unnatural cries of agony rang, they soon drew a crowd of black faces to her open door.

“What is it, Lady?” asked one girl.

“My baby is gone. My baby is taken,” Peg wailed at the gathering crowd. The slim young woman who had spoken ran away down the stairs. In minutes, she reappeared, shadowed by a huge breasted woman the colour of a starless night. The crowd parted before this woman like the Red Sea had done for Moses. Her face was a patchwork of long healed welts, raised by an expertly laid whip. Her eyes were brown, with yellowed whites. Her substantial lips were pursed and the flesh of her neck wobbled as she walked. The crowd fell back, respectfully bowing their heads.

“Lady, Lady,” said the thin girl, shaking Peg by the shoulder in an attempt to break through her hysterical crying. “Diss be Mama Tess, she is come to help, Lady.” The elderly woman squatted low on creaking knees. She roughly grabbed Peg’s face between two paddle-like hands. When Peg continued bawling, one hand lifted an inch, then landed a thunderous slap. The sound caught in Peg’s chest and her eyes finally registered the dark face floating inches from her own. Holding Peg’s chin, the woman gazed into Peg’s eyes. It was hypnotic.

After a second, the woman looked away, fixing her gaze on the tiny red-haired girl cowering in the corner. At last, the huge woman spoke, her voice deep and melodic; the words exotic. The thin girl translated the strange dialect for Peg’s benefit.

“Mama says it is not too late, the bond between such girls is strong. Your daughter can be found, but you must take us to where the little one was lost,” the young woman said. Mama dragged Peg to her feet with one beefy hand, while lifting Aishling into the crook of the other. Peg was shoved past the still growing crowd and down the stairs.

To begin with, her legs moved without her mind realising. What was happening was too much to cope with. But sanity returned and Peg burst into a run. This was her only hope of finding Aine.

Peg reached the swing well ahead of anyone else. Collapsing to the ground, she threw her arms around the plank of wood her daughter sat on not an hour past. A moment later she was roughly pushed aside by Mama, who placed a shocked Aishling on the seat. Mama kneeled, getting face to face with the child, then she began rocking over and back. From her huge chest a low hum of noises grew in strength until the air was filled with wild sounding words. Peg’s head began to spin. The crowd following them had swelled to nearly fifty, but none approached the Mama Tess, who they clearly held in awe. As the huge woman stroked Ashling’s cheek, her words grew in volume, and speed. Aishling’s eyes glazed over, Mama was now nose to nose with the child, peering deep into her hypnotised eyes. A second grew into two, two into an age. Peg and the crowd held their collective breaths. It was Mama who broke the spell by bounding to her feet and dashing off towards the far end of the park without even a word.

The crowd sprinted after her, like a pack of hounds on the scent of a fox. For an old woman, she was unbelievably fast. Even Peg, who was driven on by terror, found it hard to keep up. Mama Tess ran out of the small park, heading for the river. Down streets and lanes she led the still growing gang, Peg at the head of them all, with Aishling crushed to her chest as she ran.

Without warning, Mama Tess stopped at the door of a back-alley tavern. She flung it open with such force, she split one of the planks in half. Inside sat a group of rough looking mountain men. They wore untamed-beards and their clothes were made from animal pelt. Mama approached the group and pulled the one sitting nearest to his feet. He struggled in her grasp, but she had no problem holding him. She drew him close and her deep voice erupted in a fountain of blood curdling words. Her clawed hand carved symbol in the air, and the man shuddered. Her voice grew louder, foam appeared on the man’s lips, his eyes bulged and filled with blood. With a tremendous scream, Mama pushed the man away from her. He swayed on his feet, then gurgled, then crumpled to the table, dead. The rest of the mountain men were rooted to the spot. Mama Tess reached out and grabbed another man. This time her words were nearly English as she asked, “Girl chille!”

Mama Tess dropped the man from her grasp and watched him scurry to a bench along the back wall. He shoved a bench away to reveal a trap door. Mama Tess hooked the door with one meaty finger and threw it open. Inside huddled, Aine, her bright red curls shaking with fear. Peg rushed forward and plucked her precious girl from the dank hole, bedraggled, but alive.

As she cradled, Aine, she looked at the strange, Mama Tess, and knew she would never be able to repay her…never. As if reading her mind, the huge black lady smiled, then simply walked away.

The Cliff Dive

There are times in your life when going back, or going forward, seem equally impossible, but staying putt is unthinkable.

Since graduating as a fully-fledged grown-up, these situations mostly present themselves in the guise of mental dilemmas; choosing between the right thing and the easy thing. Whenever I have one of these decisions to face, I remember a time when I was truly stuck between a rock and a hard place.

I was fourteen and the summer holidays were more than half gone. I was making pocket money by doing odd jobs for neighbours and bringing in hay for local farmers. A few houses up the road lived a widow called, Mrs Ryan. Every Saturday morning, I would cut her lawn and earn fifty pence. It was only a small lawn and back then fifty pence would buy four bars of chocolate. This particular Saturday morning, when I pushed my Dads rusty petrol mower up the road towards Mrs Ryan's, I found that the normally empty drive was occupied by a brand new car with a Dublin registration plate.

New cars were a bit of a novelty, but the grass wouldn’t cut itself, and I had two more lawns to do. I pulled the ripcord and the mower spluttered into life. I was making short work of the lawn, racing up and down like a kid possessed, when I noticed her watching me. She was about my age or a year older, she stood taller than me, with shoulder length blond hair. She wore a Duran Duran tee-shirt, skin-tight jeans and white deck shoes. My heart spluttered, just like the battered lawn mower, and I was sure it was going to cut out.

I got to the end of my cut, stopping directly in front of her. A cool kid would have said, Hi, or waved, or something. I just turned and started another cut. The sweat was running down my back and my face was as red as a beetroot. I eventually got to the far end of the lawn and was forced to turn back. The excitement in my heart died, she was gone.

In the space of one strip of lawn, I’d fallen in love, ended up broken hearted, and alone. It took another ten minutes to finish the job, but she’d not reappeared. I was giving serious consideration to starting the job over again when she walked around the corner, with a glass of lemonade in her hand, and a snarl on her face.

"Gran said to give you this," she said, thrusting the glass at me.

"Thanks," I said, getting even redder.

"Is your name really Squid?" she asked.

"Yea," I said, not seeming to be able to say more than one word at a time.

"Gan said to give you this as well," she said and held out a fifty-pence piece. The tiny wage shamed me. I really wanted to say, keep it, but money is money.

"Thanks," I said, quickly taking the coin and making it vanish into my pocket. My fingertip brushed the skin of her palm and electricity jumped from my skin to my brain. It was like touching a piece of heaven. She must have felt it because she pulled her hand away like she had been stung.

"Is that your car, " I asked, finally getting my voice to work a little.

"It's my Moms. She made us come," she said with the hint of a sulk in her voice. "I didn't want to come, culchies are boring. It smells like cow shit here."

I was a bit offended but not enough to overcome the stars in my eyes. Actually, her comment just made her appear more worldly. I was quite literally, sunk.

Her name was, Denise, and she was not alone in her enforced visit to her grandmother, who seemed equally grumpy with the invasion of her house. Denise had two brothers, one older than her, one younger. It was great to have people my own age on my door step, it only took us minutes to make friends.

They were world-wise, big-city slickers, and I was the country bumpkin determined not to be left behind. The week seemed to slip by so quickly. We made a rope swings and tied it to the branch of the big pine tree at the end of the garden, we cooked potatoes in tinfoil by tossing them in a bonfire, they told me tales of the city while I tried not to stare at their sister too much. 

Towards the end of the week, Denise made a throwaway remark about how a black-tee shirt made a man look sexy. That night, I begged my mother to get me a black-tee shirt because, 'MY LIFE DEPENDS ON IT'. I’m sure she only wanted to make an eejit of the dumb cluchie, but I didn’t care, I was getting a black tee-shirt, come hell or high water.

The Saturday before they were due to leave, Denise, her older brother Daren, and myself, rounded up three bikes and headed for the ocean. Denise said she wanted to go out along the headland, it was a lovely day and Daren kept racing past, showing off. Truth be told, I wished he'd never slow down, or vanish completely. That hour, riding along beside this gorgeous girl, was perfect. For a time, she even forgot I was a culchie. Freewheeling down a hill, her hair spread out behind her in the warm summer breeze, she was beautiful.

We ended up out on the tip of the headland and abandoned the bikes to walk to the edge of the cliff. It wasn’t very high but standing on the edge, it felt high. I looked straight down into the dark green of the Atlantic Ocean and felt my toes tingle. It was only about twenty or thirty feet to the water, so we sat on the edge, letting the sun bake our already crispy skin.

"I bet you wouldn’t jump," Daren needled me.

"Neither would you, " I countered.

"Ok, I will, if you will," he said.

 My stomach bunched. I don't like heights, but I am a good swimmer. It looked so far down. Perhaps I was wrong about the height, it was growing by the second. I glanced over and saw Denise watching me. She was leaning back, her long legs dangling over the edge. I desperately wanted her to see me as something more than a geeky kid who lived next door to her Grandmother.

"Right, you’re on," I said. Daren and myself got to our feet and began stripping off. He went all the way to his y fronts but I kept my jeans on. No way I was going down to my underwear in front of Denise.

"You first," Daren said, standing back from the edge.

I inched forward, hooking my toes over the edge of the rock and looked out. My legs began to shake, I was sure I was doing something that could actually kill me. I was truly terrified; I could feel the sting of tears come to my eyes. How did I get myself into this? I was sure I was going to wet my pants. How could I get out of this without looking like a total prat?

I was frozen, behind me was a girl I was mad about, in front of me, certain death. That was when I felt a tear slip over my eyelid and escape down my cheek. That tiny tear set me free. There was no way that I would cry in front of her. I launched myself out as far as I could and plunged forever through the air.  The world was silent and even seemed to slow down. The water got closer and closer, but seemed to take forever to arrive.

Boom, it exploded around me, in a cloud of white bubbles. I vanished below the surface. At first, I sank, but when I realised, I was still alive, adrenalin coursed through my veins. I kicked for the light and exploded into the air. Two shocked faces peered down at me from above as I hollered and punched the air.

Then an amazing thing happened, she smiled at me and I was falling once more. Daren never jumped, and the climb back up the cliff was nearly as scary as the jump, but I had done it, and survived.

Then next day, she went back to Dublin. I never saw her again but that's not the point. For one second, nothing was impossible. In that look, I got a glimpse of paradise.

Blood Red Rose

My great aunt Betty married an English man by the name of James Ramsey, in 1950. It was a chance meeting during a trip to Dublin. The importance of grasping opportunities for happiness was a lesson drilled into them by the horror of war, so recently ended. After the wedding, she and James made the move to London, where there were plenty of opportunities for work. She tried to settle in England, but it was a step to far for a girl from west Kerry. Three months later, Betty arrived back, leaving James behind, a heart broken man. Our poor Betty was a ruined woman, well at least she was for forty-eight hours Two days after Betty arrived, a tall handsome man came wandering up the tractor path on Kerry head, with a battered suit case swinging jauntily from his long arm. James was home.

Don’t underestimate how difficult life was for an English man in Ireland at that time, but James was a resolute individual, who was decent to his core. It wasn't long before he was deeply in love with west Kerry, and grew more in love with Betty every single day. In the following years, even the most die-hard republicans were won over by this quiet, happy, gentleman. They went as far as conveniently forgetting his nationality, and rechristening him, “Posh James,” because of his rolling Yorkshire accent.

Stories of life on this most westerly point of Europe will have to wait for another day. Today, I wish to tell you a story of death. The death of a great man. Uncle James passed away quietly in his sleep, aged seventy-eight years of age. Betty was ten years his junior, and still in the prime of her life, according to everyone. The evening after James died, I was called to their small cottage. My mother and Betty sat beside the open fire, warding off the chill in the air. Winter still had the world in its relentless grip. 

“Harold, we need you to go with Betty, and Uncle James, to France,” Mom said.

“Why France?” I asked, skipping over the fact that Uncle James was in no state to take trips anywhere.

“It's a request in James' will. He wanted to be buried in Dunkirk Town cemetery. He's had a plot there for well over forty years. Did you know that James was part of the Miracle of Dunkirk?” Mom asked?

“No, but I read about it in school. Was James there?" Aunt Betty nodded but it was too painful to talk, she just folded her hands in her lap and let her tears fall upon them.

As amazing as the escape from Dunkirk was, my tale is not about that day either. The only reason I mention it at all, is to explain how it happened, on a miserable winter’s day, Aunt Betty and myself took off from Shannon Airport, with poor Uncle James all boxed up with the luggage, heading for the green fields of France.

When we arrived, we cleared customs and waited in a private room while the arrangements for Uncle James’s burial were completed. A hearse, and a car for us, had been arranged. When all the paperwork was in order, we were fetched by a stoic official and escorted to a side entrance. It would seem the sight of a coffin going on or off an airplane did nothing for the comfort of other passengers. Outside the weather was bitterly cold, the snow that had fallen a few days ago was now frozen solid on the ground. Even with strong shoes, and two pairs of socks, my feet were numb.

The drive to Dunkirk took over four hours in the treacherous conditions. At last, we pulled into a little graveyard on the edge of town. A substantial memorial was erected to the fallen of the Great War, many of whom lay here in final rest. A small group stood beside an open grave, the priest came and opened the door of the car for my Aunt. They spoke briefly, before the pole bearers took James on their shoulders and began the ceremony with an air of deep respect. 

The small procession neared the edge of the grave. Prayers were said with efficiency and care, Uncle James was lowered into the still frozen earth, and Aunt Betty cried as she tossed a hand full of soil on the polished wood that held her whole world. In the distance I heard singing; sad and mournful. The priest stopped in mid-prayer and looked beyond us. We all turned to see what had distracted him. Coming up the path, directly toward us, was a group of people at least a hundred strong. At the head of them all was a slight lady, who was just as old as Aunt Betty, or even older.

She was a dozen paces ahead of everyone else but none of the group made any attempt to assist her, they just followed. Every head was bowed and all were singing quietly. The old woman's white hair hung to her shoulders, around which hung a heavy shawl. Her legs moved determinedly under her long woollen skirt, but the feet which poked out from beneath were bare. Even from this distance, I could see the pink stains she was leaving behind on the ice as she walked. The frozen ground had cut her skin to ribbons. It must have been agony.

None of us moved as the group neared the grave. Step by step, the older woman approached and I could see she had tears running freely down her face. From under her shawl she produced a perfect red rose, with fully open petals. She laid the bloom in the snow at the foot of James' head stone, a monument which had been erected years ago. She touched the inscription with trembling hands, and traced the words, “Bombardier James Ramsey, 1918 –  “ the final date yet to be added. The lady spoke in a language that I couldn't understand, and caressed the name again and again. It was clear she was saying her good byes. 

At last, she turned to Aunt Betty and embraced her as if they were lifelong friends. Only then would she let anyone assist her. A group of young women came forward and lead the lady away on bleeding, agonized, feet. One by one the huge crowd came forward and embrace my Aunt with unashamed tears in their eyes. I was dumbfounded at this display of raw emotion from a group of complete strangers, until one man shook my hand and said in English. “We’ve come to say thanks for all our lives. To your, Mr James,” he said, with a huge smile.

“I don’t understand, who are you? Who is that lady?” I asked, pointing to the old woman being helped into a shiny black limousine.

“That's my Grandmother, Hattie, we're from Belgium. During the war, Mr James was shot down on the way back from a bombing raid over Germany. He parachuted out near Zulte. My great-grandparents came across him, hanging from a tree, he’d been knocked out cold. They took him to their farm and hid him in a barn. Hattie was sent to the barn with soup, when the solders came. Hattie wanted to run back to the house and fight, but James held her tight, covering her cries, as the solders tortured and killed the whole family. That day, she lost her Mother, Father and two brothers. None of them broke under torture, knowing if they told, Hattie would die too. 

When the solders left, James released his hold on Hattie and she cursed and hit your Uncle, saying that if he'd never come, her family would still be alive. She blamed him for everything. He knew they would die if they stayed where they were and insisted, they try to escape. My Grandmother fought him at every turn, but Mr James refused to abandon her. He kept her with him, gave her all the food they managed to find, and covered her in his clothes. He even gave her his boots filled with straw when hers fell apart. 

It took them three weeks to reach the French border, and another one before he found sanctuary for my Grandmother with the French resistance. The last thing she did before your Uncle left was to spit in his face and slap him hard. She knew by the look in his eyes, that he blamed himself a thousand times more for her family's death than she ever could, but her anger would never let her admit such a thing. In life, she never got the chance to forgive him, and now it is too late. The day she heard of Mr James’s burial she knew she had to make right that insult, after all, without him she would have surely died. We are her children, her grandchildren, and her great grandchildren. She gathered us and told us it was time to honour a man who was father to us all. She told us for the first time how she escaped the Gestapo. Once we heard it, nothing would keep us away. When we arrived at the square in Dunkirk, Hattie made us stop the cars. She stripped off her shoes and said if James could walk for a week barefoot in such cold, the least she could do was walk the last five miles to say sorry.”

I looked at my Aunt as she was embraced by yet another tearful stranger, and I saw her bewilderment at this amazing, heart-warming, outpouring of emotion. I felt pride swell my heart, proud that I'd known this amazing man; a man who had chosen to share so little of his greatness, but always gave his love to others without question. My Uncle James.

Christina's Journey

Every day, I take the underground from, Mile End, in east London to, Charing Cross Station, in central London. From there it's only a ten-minute walk to the fashion boutique where I'm a paid slave. Most days this involves a ten-minute dash in High heels, which is nine minutes too far. Lately, I've started bringing a pair of flats in my handbag and changing into the four-inch foot killers when I get to work. I've been here for six months, on minimum pay and extra-long days. The main reason I'm doing it is for the huge discount I get on designer clothes.

Mile End is a lovely place. I have a tiny studio apartment overlooking leafy, Mile End Park. I’ve not always lived in the city and having this little patch of green to look out on reminds me of the rolling pastures of home.

My first trip on the underground during rush hour was an experience. It was still dark at 7.40am, when I closed my apartment door and faced the cutting wind and mist. Bundled up in a thick winter coat, cut too fashionably to be effective, I clip-clopped into the miserable November gloom in my killer heels. The sounds of the city are different than you might imagine, the constant road noise forms a backdrop to everything else. What is unexpected is how little other noise there is. Hundreds, even thousands of people, walk along in silence, the occasional buzz of music from ear phones or hushed conversation, but mainly just the sound of feet on pavement.

This silent throng condenses in places like train platforms or subway stations. Silent armies stand mute, shoulder to shoulder, waiting to launch themselves at the next arriving train. The high-pitch sound of the electric motor, whirring down under breaking, followed by the whoosh of hydraulic doors springing open. At Mile End, only a few disembark but a great herd of humanity surges forward, cramming themselves aboard. The train is packed so tight, only the thickness of your clothes separates you from the next person. This orgy of morning movers, do so, in complete silence and without ever making eye contact.

Whoosh goes the doors, and everyone holds on. The carriage rocks forward and back, as the electric motor takes the strain. The whine begins low, building steadily to a welcome hum. Clickety clack, clickety clack, clickety clack. The tracks beat out the time of our progress. These are the sounds that let us know all is right with the world.

Behind me, a man's briefcase is rammed, corner first, into my rump. An arm-pit, freshly washed thank God, curls behind my ear and grasps a handrail, all around I’m hemmed in with human flesh, damp clothing, and bags. I stand like all the others; uncomplaining, unmoving, in silent acceptance of this short enforced intimacy with the great unwashed.

Ten stops and twenty minutes later, we arrive at, Charing Cross Station. The doors open and the unstoppable tide of morning workers charge fourth, it is as if the train vomited multicoloured moving creatures. I shake myself mentally, rushing toward cool fresh air, ridding myself of the touch of others. Perhaps it’s due to this unnerving, and unwelcome, closeness with strangers that I’m so repulsed by the sight of the tramp sitting on a bench with his begging cup held aloft with little expectation. I can still feel the thick vapours of unwashed humans drifting in my delicate nose. I look away and hurried past the man, like everyone else.

This twice daily baptism of humanity continues mostly undisturbed for six months. Every day, morning and evening, the dirty tramp is a permanent fixture. This morning just like all others. Working in the shop for more than six months has elevated me to the rank of senior member of staff. With such lofty heights comes added responsibility, which is the reason my trip home tonight has been delayed. A delivery coming after closing and of course, the boss, couldn’t stay to check it in herself. She passed me the bunch of keys, and the security code for the alarm, like a royal bequeath.

"The truck will be here about seven, just check off the boxes and we will do the unpacking tomorrow," she instructed. "I’d trust only you, Christina," she said, fixing me with cow-like vacant eyes. Truth was, she’d have trusted a semi-competent monkey if she had one. At six, we locked up, and I went to a nearby wine bar to wait for the delivery. Two glasses of Pinot Grigio and forty minutes late, they arrived. Ticking off the delivery was not straightforward either. The invoice was itemised individually, and the boxes were unlabelled. In the end, I was forced to open them all.

It was nearly nine when I finally entered the code into the security panel and turned the key on the steel shutters. Feeling jaded, and cheated, I treated myself to one last glass of vino before catching the late train home.

Comfortably shod in my flat shoes, I descended into the bowels of the earth to catch the tube. It was my first time here outside of rush hour, and it was eerily different. The tiled walls reflected each footfall, echoing away into the distance, with no soft human bodies to impede their progress. I reached the platform and the tramp was in his normal position but this time he had slipped to the side and was snoring openly. I walked to the far end of the platform, away from him, to wait on the train.

Around the corner came three men, all dressed in clothes way too big for them. Puffy jackets and thick gold chains, swinging in time with their exaggerated walk. Two were dark skinned, one was white, but all wore baseball hats pushed high over spotty, cruel, faces.

"Brov what have we got here? banging gyaldem," the middle one said to his minions, as he sauntered up to where I stood. I tried not to look at them, hoping they would go away and leave me alone. No such luck, he moved even closer, with the other two hemming me in against the curved tiled wall of the station. He reached out, placing his hand on the wall over my head, getting very close.

"You look like a bitch that knows a thing or two," he leered, grabbing my breast through my coat. His touch broke the spell that held me.

"Leave me alone," I screamed, slapping away his hand. More hands pawed me from all sides, grabbing at me, and my bag. I hold on tight, screaming and lashing out, but I was alone on the platform and at their mercy.

From nowhere, a dirty hand punched the middle thug, sending him flying. It was the tramp from the top of the platform. He pushed the others back and stood in front of me, blocking them.

"Brave boys, ait you, against one little girl," he said, in a surprisingly cultured accent.

"Kotch, brov. This ain't your beef. Sketch, or it be dred, in-it," the downed yob snarled at the tramp. God knows what he’d said, but I prayed the tramp wouldn’t abandon me.

"Then dred it will be," said the tramp.

He was buried in an avalanche of fists and feet. He fought back but was soon overpowered. The steel of the blade flashed bright as it arched towards his body, glinting in the cold light of the florescent bulbs high above the platform. It thumped into the soft giving body of the tramp. I screamed, but couldn’t run. I screamed, and no help came. The blade pulled back and a fountain of red splattered my legs and coat. The knife sunk into him again, its hilt covered in the ruby blood of this poor man. The high whine of an approaching train filled my ears, the hoodie scum faltered and ran.

I kneeled beside the old tramp. I was a sobbing mess of snot, tears, and blood. I tried to hold back the flow, but it came from everywhere. The tramp looked at me with clear eyes and did the strangest thing. He smiled.

"Help is coming," I told him. "Help is on the way."

"It is alright, darling. Everything is going to be alright now. I’ve made it right again," he said in a weak voice but still smiling at me. The lake of blood spread across the tiles at an alarming rate. I waited for help that would never come. I cried as he closed his eyes, and watched helplessly as the growing puddle of blood reached the edge of the platform and cascaded away.

That had been three days ago. I’d spend hours answering questions, looking at mug-shots and filling out statements. Since that night I’ve not been able to leave my flat. I couldn’t face what might be out there. Today, I watched the park from my window, and knew if I didn’t go out, right now, I’d never leave the flat again.

I walked slowly through the surprisingly quiet mid-morning streets, naturally ending up at the train station. I had let my feet go where they would. I boarded the next train and it started its journey, like it always had, but today I got a seat. Counting down the stops, I neared my destiny, and my nightmare. At last, the train slowed. I saw the signs saying Charing Cross and my skin crawled. The doors opened with their customary whoosh, and I nearly didn’t get off. I steadied myself before stepping out on the platform. I looked to the left, at the spot, but the platform was unmarked. It was as if nothing had ever occurred and a life had not been taken so savagely.

I was pulled to the spot by an irresistible force, no stains remained, no mark of a man passing, or a life destroyed. Nothing except a single shirt button nestling against the base of the wall. I collapsed to my knees and dug the button out. I don’t know if it was his, or not, but seeing that button in the palm of my hand broke the last string of control I had.

I don't know how long I sobbed, lying on the cold tiles, but the warmth of a hand stroking my hair invaded my desolation.

"There, there, darling," cooed a soothing voice. I wiped my eyes on my jacket sleeve and looked into a kind, but grief drawn face, a few years older than mine. In her hand she held a bouquet of flowers. I watched as she laid them against the wall, a card sellotaped to it said, Dad Xxx. She kissed her fingers and brushed the card with them, all the time holding me loosely with her other.

"You must be, Christina, the girl my Dad helped," she said with a sad smile. I nodded searching her face for some shadow of the tramp I’d passed time and again, but his face was a blur of sideways glances, half remembered.

"I’m so sorry, it was all my fault," I sobbed. "He would be alive if I’d gone home earlier." I said, giving words to the feeling of guilt that I was suffering.

"My Dad, died years ago," she said. "You brought him back to us at last. Thank you," she said, cryptically.

"I don't understand."

"Fourteen years ago, Dad was coming home. It had been a double shift and he fell asleep at the wheel. He woke up without a scratch, but the car had crashed through a bus stop. He killed a young nurse. In Court, he received a suspended sentence but he would have preferred if they gave him life. Dad never would, or could, forgive himself. Outside the court house was the last time I ever saw him. He took off his tie and hugged me, he told me he loved me very much and I would be fine. He said he hoped I would understand, one day. He said he had to make things 'Right Again'. I never saw him again. All he took was the clothes he was standing up in."

"He said that to me, before he died," I said, putting the pieces together. "He said, he had made it right again."

She bent over me and kissed the top of my head. She whispered in my ear, "You are his angel, you gave him peace. Thank you. Thank you from us all."

I cried again, but this time it felt different. It was not coming from such a dark place. This woman, whom I’d never met before, but who I owed so much, helped me to my feet. Together we took the first steps on my new journey, a journey to live up to a brave man's sacrifice.

Help, I'm locked in.

One day while working at reception I got a call from an elderly American lady.

"Good morning, reception, how can I help you" I said on picking up the phone.

"This is Mrs Bally in room 214 and I am locked into my bedroom, please get someone to let me out," said the irate woman. I happened to be by myself at the time and it was impossible for someone to lock themselves in so I thought I would see if I could talk her out.

"Sure thing Mrs Bally someone will be straight up but before you hang up the phone are you sure that it is not just a bit stiff," I asked.

"I am completely sure, I have been twisting and tugging at the door for the last ten minutes, it is definitely locked," she said tetchily. Just then it struck me that 214 was joined to 215 by an interconnecting door which would indeed have been locked.

"How many doors are in the room Mrs Bally," I asked.

"Three," she said.

"Have you tried the other doors," I asked.

"What do you take me for, the bathroom is behind the other door," she said.

"What about the third door Mrs Bally have you tried that one," I asked.

"Of course not, there is a 'Do not disturb' sign on it" she said. Once I got my laughter under control, I successfully talked Mrs Bally out of her self imposed imprisonment.

Gluttony

Hello friend, I hope I find you in good form today.

Did you ever have a moment that sneaks up and takes you by surprise, a moment not unlike any other but it resonates for reasons difficult to identify at the time? Earlier today I had such a moment and it took me quiet some time to figure out why it was bothering me.

On the surface it was the most ordinary of ordinary events. I was working in the bar, a man came in for a drink, he sat at the counter, opened his newspaper, ordered a pint, which he proceeded to drink while flicking through the days events. He had a second pint, finished the paper and left all within the space of 40 minutes.

Ok you say, "What about it,". It was a quiet day for a Saturday so I tried to take in his essence and here is what struck me. He was a glutton. The first pint was finished in 3 or 4 long swallows, his Adams apple bouncing as he gulped down the tasty dark beer. He flicked page after page on he paper, his eyes skimming the words someone, somewhere had worked so hard to craft into an interesting tale. What was this man getting out of all this. Was he actually tasting the beer he drank, did he get pleasure from the time he was spending on the paper. It is the question that has vexed me for the rest of the day.

I got to thinking about the nature of how we live, how I live. In the end I came to the conclusion that I, like a lot of others, was living my life without wringing the full measure out of my experiences. Not big things like seeing the Grand Canyon but smaller experiences like a lazy Saturday afternoon pint and a paper.

For some reason the image of a huge humpback whale rising from the depths appeared in my mind. The beast gulping in tonnes of krill and seawater, gushing it between enormous baleen curtains before ingesting the lot. Ask that whale to describe the subtle flavours of a krill and I am sure you will get no answer. I feel I am this whale hovering up daily experiences, racing to get more and missing out on so much in the process.

I have more than enough money but strive to make more wealth, to what end?

I have not been hungry in years but have trouble describing to you the flavour of my last meal.

I am not thirsty but still I go out to take a drink.

I surround myself with people but do I take the time to really enjoy them?

My hours pass in constant activity but rarely do I take the opportunity to fully appreciate what I am doing.


So there you have it, my little epiphany. The question is what to do about it. Am I going to embark on a  radical life changing course of action? I am not. Am I going to do anything about this situation? Yes I am.

My next meal I am going wait until I am truly hungry, then I am going to eat a very small meal, very slowly, trying to savour each flavour.

When I next read, I am going to take my time over the words, give them the attention they deserve, paint the picture the author wanted to convey in my mind.

In my next conversation I am going to stop and give all my time and attention to the person, take in all they have to give, delve deep into them and extract all I can from it.

I am going to go to bed after a hard days work, in my dry safe house and wish for no more.

I am going to enjoy my little blogging hobby where I can share my thoughts and tails with one person. To make that single connection and rejoice in it. To share with them and learn from them.

Today you are that connection and I am delighted I was you. There you have it, a tiny window into my day. I hope I have not bored you too badly and hope you will take the time to let me know what has been happening with you. It has been lovely talking to you today, I wish you all the best and look forward to meeting up again real soon.

Squid.