family

A Country Wedding

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A Country Wedding

My son was married in August. It was a beautiful wedding, and the day was perfect. Being mother of the groom is somewhat different to being mother of the bride. This is slightly strange, as obviously as a mother you have invested the same amount of love, time, energy, into raising a son as a daughter—but the relationship is slightly different when they’re adults. Plus, usually the wedding is the bride’s vision, so as a helper of the groom, the role is less clear.

The wedding was in Norfolk, and we rented a nearby house the week before so we could help wherever we were able. They had decided to book a ‘dry venue’—which does not mean that it has a roof (although it did) nor that it doesn’t allow alcohol (because it did) but rather that it is just a space. No furniture no decorations. The bride’s family are very artistic, and they wanted to create a very personal space for the reception.

My main role was making cupcakes. They had asked me ages ago if I would, and I could not think of a way to transport them safely and freshly to Norfolk, so initially I said no. But then I realised I could bake them in the rented house, if she could find me space in someone’s freezer. I don’t enjoy cooking in a foreign kitchen, and I took absolutely all the equipment I would need (even my little cup that has a good rim for cracking eggs). When we arrived at the house, the cooker was exactly the same as my one at home, which was brilliant. I tested it with my oven thermometer, adjusted the cooking time for a slightly hotter oven, and all was good. I spent several hours baking and decorating cupcakes, and they were all finished by the Tuesday before the wedding.

We helped with other jobs where we could, although mostly the bride’s family wanted to do everything. This was an adjustment for me (my family is usually the ones organising things) but I could see they were working hard, and producing beautiful things, so I tried to not get in the way.

The bride’s mother had grown most of the flowers in her garden. We had all collected jam jars for the year before the wedding, and they twisted wire loops around them so they could hang on the end of each pew. They also had milk churns—no country wedding would be complete without milk churns.

On the Thursday we had a rehearsal and met the vicar. She was very jolly, and told us all what to do, where to sit and stand. The ‘bridesmaids’ (the bride’s three brothers) and the ‘groomsmen’ (the groom’s siblings) practised walking into the church, and the bride made decisions about who would walk in first.

On the Friday we could help decorate the venue. They had rented round tables, and cloths, and chairs. We assembled everything, adding decorations like fairy lights and candles. Most people left to help with the flowers (including my younger son, which bemused me—I don’t really think of him as good with flowers). We continued to arrange things according to the bride’s plan, as best as we could. We needed batteries for the lights, so set off for the supermarket (things like that take ages). Son 2 sent an urgent message saying he was starving (obviously ignored the advice to eat an early lunch) so we bought food too. I then went home with Son 2, Husband went with the bride and groom to collect the flowers (and a lot of jam jar water, I believe) for the reception venue.

The wedding day was lovely. We arrived at the church, which was beautiful with candles and flowers. The bride walked across the field from her home, with her father and ‘bridesmaids’ and her face, smiling at my son as she walked down the aisle, is a memory to treasure. The ceremony was perfect. My daughter had written a poem, and that made everyone cry, and my youngest son had dressed as a chauffer for the ride to the reception, which made everyone laugh.

The reception began with the speeches—because Son knew he wouldn’t relax until he had given his speech and he wanted to enjoy the party. Then we had curry, which I have never before eaten at a wedding but actually went down rather well. There was dancing, and laughter, and lots of chance to chat to family and just enjoy being together.

I hope you have something lovely this week too. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Walking to church
This is what love looks like.

Some of the photographs taken from abimckennaphotography.

Thanks for reading.
anneethompson.com
*******************

Nearly Naked

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Quick Trip to Cambridge

The wedding banns of our son were being read in Cambridge, which is very exciting! As a sort-of-Baptist (I attend an Anglican church but was raised a Baptist) I am a little fuzzy on some of the rituals/laws surrounding the Anglican Church. Apparently, if you marry in one of their churches, it is a legal requirement for banns to be read in advance (just in case someone wants to object to the marriage). They are read in the Parish of the ceremony, and in a church where you live (if that is different). Son lives in Cambridge. Lovely Daughter and SiL agreed to take mad dog for the weekend, so off we went.

Cambridge is always lovely (other than Fresher’s Week, when there is a lot of vomit). I love the history of the buildings, the river full of people having fun, the cows loose on the common. (Honestly, who couldn’t love a city that has cows wandering around?)

We had drinks on Saturday at The Pickering Inn. This was one of those ancient buildings blended with contemporary life that is commonplace in Cambridge. We sat under a ceiling built in the 1600’s, reading about ghosts, while the huge television showed the FA Cup Final. They had used old books to show reservations, and I started to read mine (because I don’t much enjoy football). A lovely way to spend an afternoon. Then we wandered back out into the sunshine, walked round the corner to an Italian restaurant, and I decided to forget about my low-cholesterol diet for an evening, so had a wonderful meal.

The following morning was church. We found the right church, and lots of friendly people came to ask who we were and welcomed us to the service. The church was quite full, and had a mix of ages, and the vicar had the same name as Husband. All was going well. There was a band, and the singing was good, and then they read the banns. I hadn’t realised that they would read out the full names, and they asked if anyone had a reason to object to the wedding (no one did) and then they prayed for the couple, and I felt unexpectedly emotional because it all felt very significant. Very serious. Very right.

The service continued to the usual formula of songs and readings and notices, and then there was a sermon. The sermon was about the woman who washed Jesus’ feet with her hair, which was a pretty outrageous thing to do in those days, and not at all what people were expecting. Then, from the back of the church, there came a loud: ‘Can we have a round of applause?’ and down the aisle marched a large man wearing a towel. I think just a towel, knotted at the waist. I sat up, this was interesting, was there going to be a short sketch? A bit of drama to explain the text?

The man strode to the front, went to the lectern and started to speak into the microphone. The vicar moved quietly to his side, and pushed the mic away, explaining that it was time for the sermon, it wasn’t the right time for the man to speak. Was this a sketch? Two other leaders appeared at the man’s side, and suggested he might like to join them somewhere quiet, where they could listen to him.

‘Is this a sketch?’ I whispered to Son.

‘I don’t think so,’ he answered, staring at the scene, ‘I think this is real.’

My first instinct was that maybe I should help—which I dismissed pretty quickly because I have absolutely no experience with either mental health or spiritual oppression, and I would just get in the way. The men were moving to the side door now, very calmly, leading the man out of the church. My second thought was whether that towel would stay in place, and whether I would resist laughing loudly if it fell off—but fortunately it didn’t fall. The man left, the sermon continued.

At the end of the service, the senior vicar returned, and explained that the man was being helped by counsellors, and please could the congregation leave by the side door, so we didn’t disturb them. He prayed for the man, and the service ended. It was certainly not boring.

As we left, I noticed the man (still wearing his towel) talking with two men in the glass-fronted foyer. Sensible to remain in a public place, I thought, sort of private but not hidden. I was impressed with how the whole thing was handled actually. The man was treated with dignity, but also moved away from where he could potentially harm people. The church clearly has some good policies in place.

We had coffee and homemade cookies, and then went to the pub for lunch. We drove back, collected mad dog (tempting to leave her for a few more days) and went home. A lovely trip.

I hope you had a good weekend too. Thanks for reading.
Take care,
Love, Anne x

More Jamaica Inn

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I am beginning to relax into the rhythm here. I wake about 5, and lie in bed, listening to the frogs (which are very loud—they sound like the ceiling fan is struggling to turn, a volley of squeaks—they start at sunset and continue until dawn). At 6 am an urn of Blue Mountain coffee is put out on the veranda. It’s super-strong, and kick-starts the day wonderfully. Today as I stood on the veranda, looking across the palm trees to the sea, something wafted, very quickly, overhead, then disappeared behind the branches. Pretty sure it was a ghost, pale grey, silent, floating at speed. Began to wonder what, exactly, might be in the coffee. Then the ghost reappeared, did a speedy lap of the bar and library before floating back towards the sea. A huge grey bat. It was light grey, and much bigger than the mouse-like bats we have living in our garden at home. I don’t know much about bats, or whether they bite people, so I went back to the room. (Later research found it was probably a fruit bat.)

The library, sans bat.

I persuaded Husband to come to the exercise room, and ran for half an hour. Then we had a quick dip in the pool before breakfast. We have freshly squeezed orange juice, strong coffee, and a whole selection of food. I’m trying to not eat too much fat (many meals here, so bit of a losing battle). I tend to order mint tea, porridge (called oatmeal) and fresh fruit. Then I eat bits of Husband’s Egg Benedict or pastries or toast, and steal sips of his coffee. He has started moving his food further along the table…

Breakfast room.

There are activities here, which Husband is keen to investigate and I am keen to avoid. He has already made friends with some croquet players, and today he plans to go out in a boat and snorkel. I want to stay in the room, staring at the beautiful view, reading theology books. Today, by chance, I have started to read a book by J.Richard Middleton, about the image of God or imago Dei. He begins by explaining that as a white man growing up in Jamaica, surrounded by mainly black friends and neighbours, he felt unsure about his identity, which led to his research into the imago Dei.  (Genesis describes humans being created ‘in the image of God’ and people have decided this is what defines us—and they then argue about what exactly ‘the image of God’ might be!) It feels very appropriate to be reading a book written by a Jamaican, about an aspect of creation, while being in Jamaica, surrounded by Eden-like beauty. I will let you know what he writes (unless it’s boring—some theology books are best forgotten).

While reading Mr. Middleton’s book, a waiter appeared on the veranda, delivering drinks to the room next door. He asked if we had had our complimentary drinks, and said we are entitled to a free drink every day, after 11, from the bar. I’m not sure if this is true. He then said he would collect us some—would I like a rum? Well, it would have been rude to refuse. He yelled to the man in the beach bar, telling him to bring us a complimentary rum. (Husband had an orange juice. You can make a man retire, but you can never remove the accountant within.) I drank my rum. It was strong. Feeling very fuzzy. Mr. Middleton is now not making as much sense as he did 10 minutes ago!

Tuesday

We spent the day at the hotel. It’s too perfect to want to leave.

We have to dress smartly for dinner here—men must wear long trousers and a shirt with a collar. It’s quite fun.

This evening they set up the beach area for a gala. There were drinks on the terrace then a buffet on the beach. Lanterns were strung from the trees, and a band played. I had bit of a headache, which was a shame. They let us take our food back to the room—a waiter carried a tray and set up the table on our veranda with a cloth, salt and pepper, cutlery and napkins, glasses of iced water, a basket of fresh bread—as well as the plates of food we had collected. We could see the beach, with lanterns hanging from trees, and hear the band playing. It was a shame to miss it, but where we ate was still beautiful. This is one of the things I love about this hotel—they seem to genuinely want you to have a lovely time, there are very few ‘rules’ and if you prefer to eat alone on your private veranda, well that’s fine, and they will carry your food and set your table, and do everything they can to make it special.

I hope you have something special today, wherever you are. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Jamaica Inn

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Day 6

A travelling day. Never fun. Miami airport was quite difficult to negotiate, with various steps which were not obvious. We flew with American Airlines, which involved checking-in at the airport (using a screen, but it needed a person to verify our documents so not possible to check-in ahead of schedule in the hotel). Then we had to add the labels and drop our bags ourselves, which always makes me nervous. But all was fine. The security check was as rude as most security checks in the US, with officials snapping instructions, and our stuff whisked away on the conveyor belt before we were ready, and then it arrived in a heap the other side, with no time to snatch our belongings before the rude person operating the machine dumped another lot of belongings on top—so we lost a nail (but not a finger) and nearly lost a passport, and the man next to us couldn’t find his backpack and all was confusion and stress.

To enter Jamaica we needed to complete an online form—the website was at the airport (though not advertised in advance, so was unexpected). We used our phones to complete the form while we waited for our flight, and then when we landed in Montego Bay we used the machines to scan our passports, and it photographed us and printed out a thin document, which allowed access to the country. It was very efficient.

One of the declarations on the form asked whether we had an fruit or veg. I had a packet of walnuts and almonds to snack. Did that count as fruit? I seem to remember that the outbreak of foot and mouth in the UK a few years ago was due to a lorry driver throwing away a ham sandwich. But I don’t know how anyone would know that, so possibly a myth—though the fact I had heard it made me wonder whether it was possible, and therefore whether carrying nuts—even processed ones from a supermarket—might be a problem. I decided I was too scared of security guards to not declare it, and too scared of Husband being annoyed because we would be delayed at the airport if I did declare it, so I threw them away before we left Miami. What a waste.

We arrived in Jamaica, picked up a hire car, drove to Jamaica Inn. Beautiful spot. It was like giving birth—instantly forgot the pain of travel in the wonder of being somewhere beautiful. I won’t remember it properly until I have to travel again, and then the horror of airports will come flooding back!

Day 7

I am writing this in our outside sitting area. We have never had one of these before, the hotel room is a suite, with the doors from the bedroom leading to a covered patio with sofas, dining area, fridge and lamps. The open side looks across the garden to the beach. Rather lovely. It’s currently raining. It seems to rain a lot here—warm wet showers that make the banana leaves glisten. In a few minutes it will stop, the sun will break through the clouds and the air will be warm and moist. Easy to relax in a place like this.

After breakfast on the terrace, we went to find a supermarket. Most were shut (it’s Sunday) but we found one online with a big car park, about 10 minutes from the hotel. Driving there was easy but we needed to be aware—lots of potholes in the road, fast drivers coming towards us and the car behind sitting inches from our bumper. We are the only people in Jamaica who obey the speed limits (but we’re foreign, I don’t expect they would be kind if we were caught speeding).

The supermarket was a mini adventure in itself. Supermarkets in other countries are always unfamiliar; this one had high shelves, and narrow aisles. We took a shopping trolley from outside, and searched the shelves for bottles of water and bread for lunch (because the hotel provides breakfast, tea and dinner, but we didn’t want to pay extra for lunches too). I felt very foreign, I was the only white person, and I was aware that people spoke very fast in a dialect that was hard to understand, so I walked round smiling at people but trying to look as if I knew what I was doing. At the checkout, the shop assistant told us we couldn’t take the trolley outside, there were other ones for going to the car. I went outside, found a metal trolley, started to take it into the shop, but a man stopped me, said it wasn’t allowed. I explained the situation, apologised, went back inside. The assistant told me I could not take the trolley outside. Another assistant appeared with a metal trolley, said she would push it, customers were not allowed. Now, this was difficult. In all probability, there was a system which we did not understand—but it was possibly a scam and the person pushing the trolley for us would expect to be tipped and be nasty if we refused. Difficult. Husband (who also spotted the possibility of a scam) politely refused, said we were fine, he could carry the water, our car was nearby. They looked confused (which probably indicates it wasn’t a scam) and let us carry our groceries. At the door, we were stopped by the man who wouldn’t allow me to move the trolley, and asked for our receipt. He took it, wrote something on it, handed it back. Husband checked it, we said thank you, left. I noticed as we left that the man who was behind us in the checkout also showed his receipt as he left. There was obviously a system here, which we didn’t understand. Maybe if you pack your own bag you need to show your receipt before you leave. I don’t know. We left, feeling foreign, got in the car, locked the doors—though nothing had been at all threatening, we just didn’t know the system. Drove back to the hotel without incident.

The hotel is lovely, too beautiful to describe though I’m hoping the photos give some idea. It’s not cheap—it’s Husband’s birthday treat, a once-in-a-lifetime trip. Most of the guests are English or American, and mainly white. The staff are all local, and I can’t help wondering what they think of us, a whole hotel of mostly white-skinned guests visiting their lovely island. I don’t know why I am noticing this. In SriLanka we were the only white people, and on some of our trips to India and to China. But it feels different here—I wonder if it’s because I know there was a history of slavery here, or because in the UK some of the dark-skinned people at university talk a lot about the history of slavery and systemic racism—whereas those of Chinese or Indian ethnicity do not, so I am less aware of the difference, less worried about how they view me, a white person. I don’t know.

We are right on the coast, but behind us are mountains. Everywhere is lush with plants. The coast seems to be full of resorts, with private coves and fancy hotels. The roads are less plush, and many of the buildings are either half-built or falling down (it’s sometimes hard to tell which one). There are brown dogs wandering around (not sure of the breed—maybe thin golden retrievers) and goats, and thin horses. Not sure why the horses are thin, as there’s lots of grass, maybe they are naturally lean, like the herd of cracker cows we saw in Florida which survive the heat because they are thin and muscular rather than fat. The road is lined with large billboards, often faded by the sun.

The island is very beautiful, and the people seem friendly and helpful. I will tell you more in another post. I have never stayed in such a luxurious resort, it’s such a treat.

Hope you have some treats planned too. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Day 1, Florida Road Trip 2025

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I’m writing this in a happy fuzz of espresso martini treat. This is my current drink of choice, and it’s always fun to see whether the order brings a look of joy or fear in the bar tender’s eyes. Sometimes it’s a very long time in arriving and I wonder if they have gone to search the recipe on the internet! I’m thinking of doing a survey—which place in the world serves the best espresso martini? So far the winner would be the King’s Head near Rye. Today’s entry was in Punta Gorda, Florida. It was nice, but very strong. I was quite giggly by the end. When I had finished the waitress came to offer me a second one, and Husband said No! in a very definite voice. He told me I was the same colour as my shirt. (I was wearing pink.) Tasty though.

I will try to remember the rest of the day through the blur. I woke at 2 am, stayed in bed until 3am, because I have decided to adjust to US time an hour a day. Made a coffee, and read until 6am, when the business lounge opened (they serve breakfast). Very nice breakfast. I had porridge, because it’s healthy and I am reducing my cholesterol. Then had a muffin, and a cake, so it didn’t finish so well. Husband went straight to the fried stuff, so he’s worse.

First job was to collect the car (a Ford Mustang convertible—treat for Husband’s birthday). It took a long time to walk to the correct place (which was right opposite the hotel) and even longer to drive back, because we kept missing the turning and all the roads were fast and multi-carriageways. Made it while still friends.

We left the hotel and drove to Sanibel. It was cold. Husband wanted the roof down on the Mustang, which was very chilly. Stopped at a nature reserve to use the washroom and walked along a raised walkway, looking at alligators and exotic water birds, and turtles and huge fish. Very peaceful with an undercurrent of threat. Didn’t actually see anything attacking anything else, but felt it was imminent.

Sanibel was devastated by a hurricane a couple of years ago, and some parts were still broken. Our favourite cafe (The Sanibel Cafe) had reopened, so we ate lunch there. It’s very nice. I ate a fish burger. Then we drove to Sanibel Moorings, where we have stayed a few times, and it was being rebuilt, though some apartments were already open. Walked along the beach, and saw scary looking puffer fish that had washed up in the tide and were drying on the beach, their spiky backs waiting to catch bare feet. I chose a pretty shell to keep. The weather was warmer, and it was fun to have the roof down. Sanibel is so pretty. It’s a bit false (really it should be covered in sand or swamp I suspect) but full of plants and flowers rather than plastic false, so I like it.

We drove north to Punta Gorda. Husband used his initiative a few times, which makes map reading more of a challenge, but we arrived eventually, I was really tired. We had an early dinner in the hotel. (Staying at the Four Points by Sheraton, Harbourside,) Nice meal, friendly staff. After dinner we walked along the dock. Saw a boat that had been wrecked by the hurricane, lifted from the water and smashed into the dock. Didn’t see any crocodiles or mosquitoes, but I’m guessing they were there somewhere. Lurking out of sight, waiting to bite us.

Went back to the room. Nice day.
I hope you have a nice day too. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

The Journey

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Usually I hate travelling abroad—the rush, stressy people, irritable security staff with too many passengers and not enough time, the stale air, grimy seats, over-crowded, germ-laden, rule-induced tension of the whole experience. But this was different. This was a treat for Husband’s big birthday. This was a splurge of years of accumulated air-miles. This was Virgin Upper Class.

Our taxi drove through barriers, up a separate ramp and swept into an empty bay. Suited men appeared to carry our luggage and we followed them to the security desk. A smiling woman dressed in red checked our documents and we were guided to a conveyor belt. No need to remove electronics or separate liquids, everything stayed in the bags while we walked through the scanner. (I always hate these, I assume it’s an x-ray with accompanying cancer risk, but there’s no way to avoid them if you travel.) Then into the main terminal, with too many people and not enough air, along crowded walkways with shiny shops and too much perfume, up a spiral staircase, into the lounge.

Aaahhh, the lounge. We sat at a table and ordered food and drink. Husband went to the washroom so I selected a newspaper and sipped coffee until he returned. Life was comfy. I ordered a grapefruit (nice and sweet, didn’t need the small pot of Demerara sugar). The Eggs Florentine  (a single muffin half, which is perfect for me, with thick salmon, a poached egg blanketed in low-cholesterol-diet-busting hollandaise sauce). I finished with a ‘croffle’ which turned out to be a croissant pastry cooked in a waffle iron—which only half worked (very tasty but a bit too chewy) topped with fruit compote and coconut yogurt. Not a bad start to the day.

After our meal we chose something to read and settled into an easy chair. I chose Vogue magazine, which I read at my 6-monthly trip to the hairdresser. It’s heavy, over-priced, and mainly full of pretty adverts for expensive items aimed at beautiful people. Good for a mindless hour. I noticed that the photos of the various famous people (I didn’t recognise many, but they were all beautiful and even the old ones didn’t look old) included a description of their clothes. This was detailed—a long list of everything they wore, including belts and shoes. (Not underwear of course, that would be weird.) I wondered why, and whether most people (that undefined group of the masses which seems to move as a unit) are actually interested in such things. I assume the editor of Vogue wouldn’t bother with the details if no-one cared. I must be in the minority. I don’t always notice what I am wearing, never mind the rest of the world. I remarked on this to Husband (who dresses even more badly than me) and we agreed that for this reason alone, we must never become famous. We must save the world from the details: ‘He wore vintage Marks & Spencers from a decade ago teamed with slightly shrunk jeans from the tumble dryer.’ (It would be unkind to suggest it wasn’t the jeans that have changed size.) ‘She wore her husband’s old shirt under her favourite green sweater, with a matching but threadbare very comfy men’s cardigan, black jeans with a muddy paw-print on one leg, and black boots with a broken zip’ As I said, best if we never become famous.

Another nice feature is the washrooms. They have small cloth towels, and hand lotion. My only criticism is the mirror wall, which completely confused me when I first entered, so I apologised, thinking I had entered an occupied washroom, and then realised I was talking to myself! It was also unnecessary, I felt. Who needs to watch themselves peeing? Maybe they need to check all their clothes are straight before someone takes their photo for Vogue. It also meant you could see the back of your head, which I always hate because I hear my mother’s voice telling me to comb the back of my hair. I am sixty, sixty! and my mother still tells me to comb my hair. Perhaps she also notices what I am wearing. I will have to ask her. She would enjoy Vogue.

After enjoying the lounge, we were invited onto the plane. Now, a plane is a plane, wherever you are sitting. It’s a metal tube with recycled air and plastic food and it smells of toilet cleaner. But they do their best. I was given a whole pod to myself, with cupboards (more mirrors—they were going to be depressing towards the end of a nine-hour flight!) Lots of plug sockets, and a bag of bedding that rolled out during take-off and disobeyed the ‘keep the footwell clear’ rule, so I had to hold it, which would be substandard if I needed to leave in a hurry. The steward came to introduce himself and gave me a tour of the mirrors, sockets, hidden table and light switches. Which kept us occupied until take-off. 

The flight is too long, but it’s easier if you’re at the front. It was possible to get up without disturbing lots of other people, and there are fewer people using the washrooms. The chair could be made completely flat for sleeping, though as it stretched forwards into the hollow of the seat in front, it felt a lot like sleeping in a coffin. Not for the claustrophobic. The food was nicer, and we could help ourselves to snacks and ice-cream between meals, which was a nice treat.

Is it worth the price tag? No. Is it a fun treat if you have enough air-miles? Absolutely.

We landed at midnight UK time, which I found very tough. The arrivals hall was slow, it took nearly an hour to get through passport control, and I find US security to be one of the rudest in the world. Occasionally you find an official who is polite, very occasionally they are friendly, but mostly they are incredibly rude. The officious young man in Miami told us to stand in front of the camera, then glanced up and said ‘Glasses!’ (I was tempted to reply yes, yes they are glasses. Or, do you mean “please remove your glasses?” But I didn’t. Wrong time to be snarky.)

We were staying at the Sheraton at the airport, which I then discovered did not mean actually at the airport, it meant a bus ride. Which meant pushing our bags along a busy pavement, and waiting for the bus. It wasn’t a long wait, but I was so tired. The day was too long. I always (unreasonably) blame Husband in these situations and feel extremely cross with him. Managed to not say anything.

Eventually arrived in our room. Very noisy broken ice machine right outside our door. Lumpy mattress.  Slept badly. Woke early. I plan to adjust my clock one hour per day. Anything more and I will have a migraine. Difficult time complete. Now to enjoy our holiday.

Thanks for reading. I will let you know how the holiday goes—we’re driving round Florida, so hoping to see alligators. Then we go to Jamaica (which I am very excited about!)

Take care.

Love, Anne x

Remembrance Day Poem Reposted As Life Goes On

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Now, and Then

IKEA homeware packed in boxes,
Heaps of stuff littering the hall, squashed into the back of the car.
Last hugs, cheery goodbyes, the drive to uni.
Snippets of home, spread around the strange smelling room,
The lanky excited-scared almost-man says goodbye,
And the mother remembers.
She remembers the feel of the bowling ball weight on her hip when she carried him,
The feel of his tiny hands on her cheeks when he offered snotty kisses,
The snuffle of breath as he slept against her shoulder,
She remembers the child as she looks at the man.
As she wishes him well, holds back tears until she has driven away.

Billycans and clothes stuffed in kit-bag,
A train to London packed up tight, hurry to find the right squad.
Last hugs, tearful goodbyes, a band plays on.
Heaving the bag, look around for friends joining too,
The lanky excited-scared almost-man says goodbye,
And the mother remembers.
She remembers the feel of the bowling ball weight on her hip when she carried him,
The feel of his tiny hands on her cheeks when he offered snotty kisses,
The snuffle of breath as he slept against her shoulder,
She remembers the child as she looks at the man.
As she wishes him well, holds back tears until he has joined his unit.

The posts on Facebook show new friends and nightclubs,
Texts assure his food is fine, his studies easy.
He doesn’t discuss the drunken evenings, the sleepless nights, the fear of loneliness.
But his mother knows, she reads it in unsaid words and tired-eyed photos.
And she waits. As life goes on.

There are no letters and the News shows little,
Bold battles move to the Front, the headlines proclaim.
They do not discuss the fallen comrades, the sleepless nights, the fear of injury.
But his mother knows; she reads it in unsaid words and tired-eyed photos.
And she waits. As life goes on.

The war ends. The boy returns home.
Yet, not a boy, become a man.
A man who will not speak of horrors,
Will not discuss the stench of death,
The sight of his friends, falling.
The nights when he still hears the screams, still fears the dark.
But his mother knows; she reads it in sunken cheeks and, eyes so weary.
And she waits. As time goes on.

The term ends. The boy returns home.
Yes, still a boy, almost a man.
A boy who chats and loves to amuse,
Loves to debate the point of life,
Who meets all his friends, laughing.
The nights when they drink, talk at length, sort their beliefs.
And his mother knows, he is safe and content with life, has a future.
And she waits. As time goes on.

by Anne E. Thompson

Anne E. Thompson
Thank you for reading.
anneethompson.com
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Meg’s Diary, 12–15 weeks

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12 Weeks

Still have a muddle of feelings about Meg—mainly that she has made life so much more complicated, and she doesn’t even seem to like me! Occasionally she will crawl onto my lap when I’m sitting on the floor, or follow me when I am cooking, chewing her toys and watching me, and I feel genuine affection. But mostly, as she knocks something over, or destroys a seat cushion, or bites my clothes, I feel cross. I cannot trust her in the kitchen alone, so I either have to be in there, guarding everything, or she has to be in her large pen with her toys—which she is beginning to resent.

She is still terrible with the other animals, and chases them if she can (so she is mostly on the lead when they are out). The cats are getting used to her, and Milly will even follow us at a distance, because she knows she can outrun Meg.

She is super-fast at learning things (if I have the mental energy to teach her). For a treat she likes (mince) she will sit, wait, shake hands, fetch a ball and put it into my hand. She’s not too sure about walks, and tries to stop us leaving the driveway (she uses all four paws as a brake, and I end up dragging her). She usually looks quite happy when we get to the field, and walks relatively well, then tries to drag me all the way home. She absolutely hates being hosed afterwards (but she’s covered in mud, so it’s the only option).

I have been out a couple of evenings, and a friend has come and let her out. Meg has been fine with this—which is one good thing about a confident puppy. I think going into kennels wouldn’t phase her at all. Nothing seems to.

13 Weeks

Walking on the lead is still a nightmare, and hurts my shoulder. When there are two of us, the ‘pack-instinct’ kicks in, and she will walk with us, trying to keep up with the ‘leader’. But on her own it’s just hard work. She stops, leaps, grabs the lead or pulls as hard as she can. By the time we have walked a short loop, I am exhausted (and not particularly kind when I hose the mud off her, which she hates, but I am so angry by that time that I take a sadistic pleasure in giving her a thorough wash).

Cutting her nails is also not going well. All the books suggest playing with her feet, regularly touching her paws/nails and giving treats until it becomes ‘normal.’ This has never worked. Meg will offer me her paw when asked (in return for food) but she snatches it away in an instance. Trying to ‘play’ with her paws results in biting. I have therefore been quickly clipping a single nail after sneaking up on her when she’s sleeping, and then trying to remove clippers/fingers from her mouth. It has not felt like victory. Therefore this week, we resorted to the two-man method. Husband pinned her down, and while she was immobile, I trimmed her nails. She started to make all sorts of fuss, so we started to sing, very loudly, the rousing hymn: ‘And can it be, that I should gain…’ This always worked with screaming babies, they were shocked into silence. Seems it also works with angry puppies! The bad quality of our singing, plus the volume, made her completely freeze. I need to share this tip with the people who write the dog obedience books—nothing else seems to work.

14 Weeks

Jay came home this week, and said Meg is lots calmer than when he last saw her. This gives me hope. Though I seriously consider rehoming her almost every day. She is still too much for me.

I have taken her into town a couple of times. I park in Waitrose, and we walk from the car to the front of the shop, then to the chip shop in the High Street, and back to the car. It takes about 30 minutes. Most puppies would be scared of the cars, the sliding doors of the shop, the trolleys, the number of people. Not Meg. She tries to attack everything, bouncing with all four feet. She is delighted if someone greets her, and lurches madly, trying to chase the cars, and the people, and the trolleys. I tried taking various treats, and bribing her to concentrate on me. No chance. She is completely distracted and just wants to chase everything. I will keep trying. Maybe it will become boring eventually, and she will listen to me.

The only thing I have ever known her to be wary of is a lorry, which stopped to ask directions. As the massive wheels stopped next to us, she moved back, and when it left, she didn’t try to chase it. But that’s it—giant lorries but nothing else. She would have been a brilliant army dog.

15 Weeks

Meg has been great this week, and I now feel thoroughly bonded (no more thoughts of rehoming). It has been a difficult road, but we have learnt each other sufficiently that life has settled into a mutual understanding. The puppy understands that evenings here are boring. Absolutely nothing happens after 6pm, so there’s no point in trying to make things exciting, may as well settle into crate for the evening with a chew to gnaw. In return, I try to exercise her brain and body several times during the day.

She is getting better with the animals—and I no longer try to clean them out while she is with me (way too stressful). Each morning, Milly (the cat) comes in, jumps onto the work surface, and I feed her and Meg something tasty (a tin of tuna if I don’t have anything better). Meg has learnt that if she jumps up, the cat slaps her face. She has also learnt—because they are fed together, and the cat always comes first—that the cat belongs here, and therefore whilst bouncing perhaps cannot be helped, biting is clearly wrong. In return, the cat sometimes follows us round the garden, and although she has been bounced a few times, she stays near enough to be part of life. A good start.

The cockerel has also asserted himself, and not been killed, and both are now relatively wary of each other, but neither show aggression—which is as much as I can hope for at this stage. We are getting there.

Over Christmas, Meg had lots of interaction with the family. She’s very friendly, and loves everyone, but also showed some obedience when people were firm with her. Whilst her behaviour is still ‘naughty’ she does now obey commands, and we are able to tell her things rather than physically force her off chairs, into her crate, etc. As I feed her in the crate, and all her toys are in there, she sees it as a nice place to be rather than a punishment, which is good.

Meg was at her best on the 28th December. We had the whole extended family here for games and supper. Meg stayed in her big crate, which is in the kitchen, right next to where highly competitive family members were pretty much shouting at each other and squealing and generally being very noisy. Meg was completely comfortable, watching with interest, and showing no nerves at all. I felt very pleased with her.

We have just returned from a walk with Bridie (older dog in the family). After an initial silly barking fit and showing of teeth, Meg realised that Bridie was completely unimpressed, and then walked next to her, round the park, meeting a few other dogs on the way. Whilst she pulled on the lead the whole time, she did very well with other dogs, and was much better with passing cars, and definitely seemed to be watching Bridie and learning from her. Another success.

Hope you have some success too this week. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

The Gathering of the Clan

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Our daughter’s wedding in Troon was beautiful, and I now understand two things:

  1. Why my son-in-law was so keen to have a Scottish wedding (because they are amazing).
  2. Why the Romans decided they would never defeat the Scots and so built a big wall (large young men in kilts are quite a force).


The week before had been lovely, with our ‘clan’ making their way north. It was really lovely that so many people made the journey, and it made the day very special. My sister even came from Canada, and my brother drove the grandparents up from Surrey. I had worried that not many family would come, but they did, and it made a big difference.

The day passed in a blur, so we are now eager to see everyone’s photos—because there is no time to take your own when you are part of the wedding party. I began at 6 am, checking the house we’d rented was clean and tidy, preparing a few last decorations. A Waitrose order arrived at 8, the florist soon after, and by the time the last bridesmaids arrived the house was full of laughter and perfume and young women staring intently into mirrors. I was wearing the ‘Mother of the Bride’ sweatshirt my daughter had given me, and was busy preparing food, and offering drinks, and checking that all was on track.

Time suddenly sped-up, and all of a sudden it was time to pin on flowers and distribute bouquets and check everything we needed was in the car. I had allowed roughly 2 minutes to change myself, which was a mistake, and I spent the journey to the venue checking my dress wasn’t inside-out and trying to stop my hat bouncing on the roof of the car, while distracting my daughter so she didn’t get emotional. We had disco music playing, which was completely inappropriate, but it kept the mood light.

As we arrived at the venue, Donald, the piper, stepped onto the drive. He then led the way, playing his bagpipes. It was rather special (there is lots about a Scottish wedding that is special).

The guests were all seated in rows and we waited in a room at the back, out of sight. My two sons were there, grinning at their sister in her pretty outfit, managing not to make funny comments. I straightened my daughter’s dress, told her she looked beautiful, and then the celebrant was announcing my arrival. I walked down the aisle with my two sons—smiling hello to my brother and sister, hoping my hat didn’t fall off, looking for my name on a seat. The front of the room had flowers, and a glass wall, and a view of the sea.

Music played, and the flower girls walked to the front, holding hands, looking perfect. Then the bridesmaids, one at a time, remembering not to hurry, all young and elegant and matching the flowers. Donald started his bagpipes again, and I knew that Husband and my daughter were coming, but I felt suddenly emotional, and I didn’t want to cry, so I twisted my face into funny shapes (hoping no one captured that in a photo!) and stared forwards.

The ceremony bit was short and interesting. The celebrant was very professional, and told funny stories about the bride and groom. There was the legal vow, and then a hand-tying ceremony, when she threaded silk ties between them, and they pulled, and there was a knot. (I knew the saying, ‘tying the knot’ but hadn’t realised it was a thing.) They also drank from a double-handled cup—another Scottish tradition.

There were photographs outside, and time to chat before the meal. The weather was dry. I will write that again, as it was October, in Scotland—the weather was dry! My hat didn’t behave though.

Not sure that my hat stayed in position for more than 2 minutes!

There were speeches, and people stood for the toasts (like they are supposed to, but rarely seem to any more). Dinner was delicious.

Daughter (and others) changed into clothes suitable for dancing, and the bride and groom cut the cake and did a dance (which was actually very good, and not at all like the dancing I remember from her ballet days when she was ten—no skipping in circles). Then we all joined a Caleigh dance (which did involve skipping in circles).

One of the very best bits was right at the end, when the last dance was announced and everyone made a big circle (not me, because I knew what was coming and there were a lot of slightly drunk, very large young men wearing kilts and a wild look in their eyes). They sang the Loch Lomond song, with arms linked, and then gradually started to move forwards, squashing the bride and groom who were in the middle. They did this a few times, before lifting them on their shoulders, and dancing them round. I checked my daughter wasn’t going to bash her head on the ceiling, and then enjoyed the moment—it was quite something with all those deep male voices, and flashing colours of the kilts, and energy. An exciting end to an exciting day.

Thanks for sharing the day with me.

Take care.
Love, Anne x

The Wedding Plans Continue

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Hello, I hope you’re having a good month. I cannot believe how busy I am, so this will be brief. Apologies—but next week I hope to have wedding photos to show you.

The plans are so far going smoothly, though there is suddenly SO much to do. The wedding is in Glasgow, so at the moment I am worrying about how to pack lots of fragile things, and not crease the bridesmaid dresses, and not crush my hat. We plan to rent a house for the week before the wedding, which means the family will have a base while last-minute jobs happen near the venue, and the bridal party can all prepare there on the morning of the wedding.

Obviously doing all the mummy-stuff is more difficult in a rented house, so I am trying to be very prepared. I don’t know if there will be vases, so I have been to my local Home Bargains and stocked up on silk flowers and pretty containers that I can take with me. I have managed to buy big ribbons on Amazon, so I am hoping there is somewhere in the house I can tie them, and I have balloons for the end of the driveway so everyone knows where to come. Hopefully I can make the house look special.

Food is a challenge, as the wedding is at 2pm, which means bridesmaids will arrive in the morning to get ready, and they will need to eat or they will faint. Thankfully, there is a Waitrose that delivers, so I have ordered fruit and pastries for the morning, and platters of sandwiches and cheeses for midday. To be honest, I got a little carried away when I was ordering, because it’s my daughter’s wedding—and so it’s okay to be extravagant—and they did have a huge variety of very exciting-looking food. Who wouldn’t want ‘fruit kebabs’ or a wedding cake of cheeses or tiny desserts on a tray? (I need to hide the credit card bill, or I will get feedback.)

I am also taking anything I can think of to avert disasters. My mummy-bag is packed with headache pills, plasters for blisters, sweets for energy, mirror to check lipsticks, bottles of water, sewing things with thread in the colours of each outfit, safety pins and—if things go really badly—tipex to cover any stains! We have large umbrellas, and old towels to dry damp bouquets because it is Scotland, so I am assuming we will be running from the car through heavy rain and gale-force wind.

The actual ceremony has all been planned, and we have been told our roles. I enter right before the beginning, accompanied by my sons. Then the music will start, and we hope two very sweet flower girls will walk down the aisle. (I have to admit, I have my doubts about whether this will actually happen, as small sweet flower girls can be very obstinate at weddings, and they might well refuse—but here’s hoping.) Then the bridesmaids will enter, and then Husband will accompany our daughter, while a piper (Donald) plays bagpipes. I expect I shall be crying by this point (tissues are in the bag, and powder to cover red nose). All the men in the wedding party will be wearing kilts, but as the groom’s father is wearing a suit, so will Husband. He has a tie and hankie to match the bridesmaids.

I had assumed, in my ignorance, that all the groomsmen would wear the same tartan. But this is not a thing. Apparently, getting your first kilt is an occasion (like being fitted for your first suit used to be in England). Young men will get a kilt—perhaps for a special birthday—complete with all the right shoes/socks/garters/jackets. The outfit is expensive, so they want to wear it for special occasions, like weddings. Obviously, each person has a different tartan (either their clan or the pattern they like) therefore at a wedding, each groomsman will be wearing a different tartan to the others. My sons are hiring their outfits, and they were asked to not choose the same tartan, as otherwise they would be the only matching pair. I’m not sure whether the jackets will all be the same—you will have to wait for the photos.

I need to go and start packing now. Thanks for reading, have a great week.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Thanks for reading.
anneethompson.com
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PS. I always write blogs in advance, so this was written last week. I am waiting for the official photos, but I have a few snaps. Next week I will tell you how it went—and have better pictures.

Ax