tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16707183016347410812024-02-08T19:47:49.384+02:00To Cyprus and BackI'm a 41 yr old Mother of Two and Wife of One, living in the sun at RAF Akrotiri in Cyprus, a Civvie amongst the hardworking military, trying to make sense of this and the Cypriot way of life.
Having spent nearly five years on this wonderful island, I'm now contemplating my return to the UK...
In the words of Alexei Sayle: "I like a laugh!"
I also like trying to use song titles for my blog entries.
Most of these blog entries were originally published on www.bfbs.com/news/blogsIAmWonderWomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04257583449055087868noreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1670718301634741081.post-11463476766969111082011-11-11T10:30:00.002+02:002011-11-11T10:30:27.963+02:00Repost - Silence Is GoldenThis was first published last year, and I have been asked to post it again, today on 11/11/11 - a Remembrance Day made all the more poignant by the unique date. Lest We Forget.....<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Yesterday I attended my first Remembrance Service at Akrotiri</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">I’m ashamed to say that, because I have lived here now for nearly four years. I could make the usual rationalisations- kids, commitments etc, but, frankly, these don’t really hold up to scrutiny.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">The truth is I’ve always felt awkward, like a gatecrasher or an intruder to a private funeral, an imposter in a world where ‘Remembrance’ holds a significance I cannot and do not really want to understand. Never more than on this one Sunday each November do I feel the conspicuousness and inadequacy of my Civilian status amongst the souls that wear their medals with much deserved pride. And so, usually, I hide in the safe cocoon of my home, listening to the notes of the Last Post drifting across an eerily silent camp.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">This year my daughter had joined the Brownies and was invited to attend today’s service in uniform. Her excitement and pride was such that I was my motherly instincts over-rode any misgivings of my own and so, on a bright sunny Sunday morning she and I strolled peacefully to the Akrotiri Chaplaincy Centre to join the masses of military and civilian folk united in their desire to commemorate the casualties of war.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">We were greeted with the humbling sight of a multitude of men and women in their full military regalia, caps and shoes shining, buttons glinting. But what shone the most was the air of quiet honour and pride that each wore. The scene was breathtaking in its dignity.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">As the service began, to the objective eye and ear it was like many others I have attended, the same hymns were sung as I have heard at countless civilian ceremonies before; the readings were not unique; the wreaths looked like the many hundreds I have witnessed placed at cenotaphs and church altars.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">It was when I looked around the congregation that I finally understood the gravity and austerity of the day.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Previous ceremonies I have attended – at school, at church, as a Brownie or Guide always followed the same format. Old men bearing long forgotten medals and a sense of tired wistfulness would hover at the back of the crowds as the only reminder of the reason we laid the wreaths. The two minute silence would begin with good intentions, but I would soon find myself shuffling or fidgeting, my mind wandering to trivial matters, mental shopping lists, easily distracted by small noises or movements.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Not yesterday.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">When the time came to hold our tongues and thoughts for the trifling 120 seconds I was overwhelmed by a new and disturbing emotion. Looking around the crowds I saw strong men and women with reddened eyes and constricted throats, battling against demons I couldn’t comprehend. Not for them the distant memory of battles consigned to the history books. Not for them the honour and glory, that age old lie used to soften and justify the atrocities of war.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"> Amongst these good people stood those who had witnessed first-hand the living hell of conflict.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">I am sure some were remembering good friends and comrades whose lives were cruelly torn away. Among them, too, were, no doubt, those whose loved ones were, that very moment, battling against an unpredictable and remorseless enemy whilst they stood to attention under the bright blue Sunday morning skies. What was in their thoughts? How did they maintain their inner strength and show such a united front of compassion and solidarity? It was humbling to witness.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">So in those two minutes, I gave my thanks. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Thanks to those heroes and heroines that we commemorated that day.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Thanks for the fact that, through their bravery and selflessness I possessed the freedom to live in safety.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">And thanks that my eyes had finally been opened to the truth, no matter how painful, that wars still rage on and the list of lost souls will grow longer with every year. But that as long as they have the courage to fight, so will grow too the indestructible force of human spirit as epitomised by the silent souls I had the honour to stand amongst that day.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">We WILL remember them.</div>IAmWonderWomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04257583449055087868noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1670718301634741081.post-32685136579802156842011-11-09T09:34:00.000+02:002011-11-09T09:34:47.529+02:00Back to Basics<div class="MsoNormal">We have now been officially living without our own furniture for two weeks. Just a fortnight ago, our home was raided by a small army of cackling Cypriot ladies armed with cardboard boxes, packing tape and marker pens. For four hours our home resonated with the rustle of brown packing paper and the unmistakeable teeth-scraping wrench of rolls of tape being unravelled, sliced and adhered to boxes. The arrival of the Pack of Packers was the culmination of several prior days of preparation during which our worldly goods were categorised into one of three piles – Keep It, Bin It or Sell It. This may have been a relatively straightforward exercise had Fate not thrown us the sly curve-ball of scheduling the first phase of our house move to occur during the Half Term school holidays. Yes – Half Term – two words which strike fear and trepidation into the heart of any parent, let alone those faced with the arduous task of placing our lives into a series of cardboard boxes. After all, what more could a parent ask for when faced with an exhausting and complicated house move than to be beset with endless requests for chocolate biscuits, frequent bickering matches and complaints of boredom?</div><div class="MsoNormal">And so, eventually, my darling children devised a way to entertain themselves......</div><div class="MsoNormal">As my hubby and I embarked upon the categorical removal of the mountains of tat and bric-a-brac which seemed to emerge from our wardrobes as if being continually replenished from the other side by some compulsive hoarding resident of Narnia, our offspring were set upon another task. Their challenge appeared to be some kind of reverse version of Jenga, whereupon they would nominate the most concealed and inaccessible object spotted amongst one of our three, carefully constructed piles. The object of the game then appeared to be to extricate said item, whilst creating the largest avalanche of possessions. Extra points would be gained if the three piles became so inextricably confused that the whole process of categorization would have to begin again, and a further special bonus was awarded to the child who succeeded in traumatising the cat in the process.</div><div class="MsoNormal">There was more than one occasion where I looked wistfully at the larger child-size packing boxes whilst mentally calculating what size dose of Calpol would have the significant sedating effect to last a six-week container-ship journey.....Thankfully, on the day the packers arrived, some very kind friends of ours offered to have the kids at their home, thus saving our sanity and a lengthy explanation to Customs at the other side</div><div class="MsoNormal">And so, eventually, all the possessions we had deemed valuable enough to take back to the UK had been placed in bubble-wrap and cardboard and our living room more closely resembled the underside of Waterloo Bridge than the place we had called home for the past 5 years. It was then that it hit home to me that, yes, we really were doing it – we were going back home to the UK. It was a real moment of mixed feelings – sadness to be leaving the place that we have loved for so long and happiness that we were soon to be reunited with family and friends eagerly awaiting our return back to Blighty. Oh, and relief that the hard work was over, tinged with concern that all our valued possessions were to be trusted to burly removals men, who would toss our goods into a big metal box bound for a perilous journey across the Mediterranean.</div><div class="MsoNormal">So we are now in the Eye of the Storm, that eerily quiet moment between two tempestuous events, in our case – the packing and then the unpacking on the other side. Right now, we are suspended in Limbo, although as I survey our woefully empty house filled only with stuff we need to dispose of and the dreaded MOD-issue furniture and “Get You Out Pack”, perhaps our predicament is more akin to some form of Purgatory. I know I should be grateful for the provisions that have been offered us, but if the cushions fly off the highly-combustible nylon sofa one more time, generating enough static to power a small generator, I swear there will be blood. (and try getting those stains out of the ‘tasteful’ terracotta covers!). And don’t get me started on the bed! Having temporarily exchanged our lovely, firm orthopaedic King-Size mattress and divan for a double-sized trampoline, my sleep-deprived sensibilities are a tinderbox requiring minimum provocation. I can’t even console myself with my statutory huge mug of coffee as all we have are dolls-house size teacups more suitable for a shot of espresso. Still, I should be grateful that the RAF have offered us anything at all as the dip in the temperatures here would not suffice for camping (oh bugger, we packed the tent anyway!).</div><div class="MsoNormal">When the portentous Big Red Vans arrive outside your house here in Cyprus, you suddenly discover you have more friends than you initially realised, for word soon spreads that you are leaving. And, of course, the departure of folks heralds the possibility of freebies, as the occupants of the rapidly emptying house struggle to dispose of everything that couldn’t be fitted into their cubic metre allocation. It is not unusual to find yourself being approached by acquaintances who sidle up to you and skilfully steer the conversation to the items of garden furniture that they happen to have observed idling in the back garden, or the rusty tumble dryer that is conspicuously the only object remaining in your garage. Some folks will offer you money for your items, but the canny ones play the long game, waiting till you are desperate to shift the last vestiges of your Cyprus home-life, and are too weary to spend yet another hour on Facebook uploading pictures of unwanted possessions onto sales pages. They then pounce ‘offering’ to ‘take that thing off your hands’ and you are simply so grateful to tick another item off the list, that you are past caring that you could have pocketed a sneaky 20 Euros if you’d held out a bit longer. But that is the Akrotiri way of life, some items of furniture have seen more homes than Kirstie Allsopp, as family after family pass on the dubious herilooms of a sunshine posting.</div><div class="MsoNormal">So here we are now, on the five week countdown to D-Day, sitting in a house which echoes interminably, on a nasty sofa, listening to the kids storming around obstacle-free bedrooms. The next chapter of our adventure awaits, once the conundrum of the March-Out has been tackled. </div><div class="MsoNormal">But that’s for another day......</div>IAmWonderWomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04257583449055087868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1670718301634741081.post-51024319646370614402011-10-14T09:50:00.002+03:002011-10-14T09:50:45.835+03:00Our Last Summer<div class="MsoNormal">The day before yesterday, the Cyprus summer officially came to an end. It’s demise was heralded by an almighty thunderclap, a violent flash of lightning and <span> </span>a torrential downpour, which, although brief, yielded a substantial amount of water, enough to wash the majority of the summer dust down into the gaping storm drains. It also succeeded in soaking the hoardes of delighted children who took to the streets in awe of the strange phenomenon of water falling from the sky, which Cyprus-raised kiddies rarely experience and consequently relish. Much excitement abounded as little persons stood in sodden clothes and splashed knee-deep in flash-formed puddles.</div><div class="MsoNormal">The rain has been in the post for some time, and ‘winter’ has come late this year, as we have struggled under oppressive humidity and have anxiously cloud-watched for a few weeks now, only to witness the ominous black formations over the Troodos mountains dissipate as they reach the balminess of the Akrotiri peninsula coastline.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now that we have had the break in the weather i can consider breaking my beloved jeans out of the mothballs again and spare my fellow residents the horrors of my dimpled thighs for the last time. I will also now have to consider exchanging the Factor 50 for the Mossie Cream as the damp weather brings with it the legions of flying, biting beasties. I secretly harbour a belief that the Salt Lake by Akrotiri is actually the HQ of a Jurassic Park style project, where the DNA of local mosquitoes has been forged with that of prehistoric pterodactyls. It is the only sane explanation of the sheer size and aggression exhibited by these winged terrorists. The mosquitoes here seem to thrive to epic proportions and are undeterred by any form of clothing short of chainmail. Denim jeans prove no challenge to them, as I have witnessed when the angry red welts start to itch unbearably under the perceived protection of my bootlegs. These guys are the ninjas of the insect world, and seem to survive the all but the onslaught of a heavy-duty volume of War and Peace applied to the area of wall to which they have momentarily settled. It is the only reason that I might regret purchasing a Kindle and consequentially donating all my paperbacks elsewhere. The application of the expensive e-reader with the required amount of force to a nearby wall would highly likely result in a less than satisfactory outcome and a frustrated return to the sales pages of Amazon.co.uk. Technology on the whole is great but does not cut the mustard in stealth execution manoeuvres against blood-sucking marauders.</div><div class="MsoNormal">The return of clouds to the clear, blue skies over Cyprus now have cause to remind me that the Lundies have just experienced our last summer on this island. And it is with a fair bit of sadness that I turn to contemplate that I have recently experienced, and will continue to notch up over the coming weeks a succession of ‘Lasts’. The perennial events and festivities that I have enjoyed and appreciated will be no longer mine to witness and so many of the amazing and exciting community activities that I have had the privilege to participate in will soon be rendered to fond reminiscence.</div><div class="MsoNormal">But what a hell of a ride it’s been! In my time here I have had so many incredible opportunities to see and do things that would normally have been way out of the scope of my average little life in the UK. I’ve ridden dodgem cars in a ballgown, strutted my stuff on a catwalk, broadcast my faltering voice across the island’s airwaves. I’ve been whisked up through the skies in a helicopter and a light aircraft, brandished automatic weapons and bayonets, camped under a sheet on the rough ground overnight, swum in the Med at midnight. I’ve danced under waterfalls, and explored abandoned hotels; I’ve even played in snow and then picknicked on the beach on the same day. I’ve witnessed baby turtles emerge from their eggs and then make their first perilous, moonlit journey to the sea. I’ve swum in balmy waters amongst shoals of silvery fishes, I’ve been pampered to within an inch of my life at spas with infinity pools that overlook the azure blue Mediterranean. I’ve seen flying fishes, met snakes and shared a home with venomous spiders and jewelled Praying Mantises. I’ve witnessed the most spectacular storms, watched hurricanes out to sea and lived through (but not felt ) at least four earthquakes. I’ve watched the most impressive Mardi-Gras style carnivals and had the privilege of thrice-daily Red Arrows displays from my own back garden, where they flew so close I could see the pilots. And I’ve had the dubious pleasure of partying till dawn with those very-same aerial acrobats. I’ve shared with my children the living history of ancient caves and Roman ruins that stand within yards of my home.</div><div class="MsoNormal">And that’s just some of the Big Stuff!! <span> </span>As well as that has been the considerable pleasure of being part of a vibrant, cohesive community that value and support one another in a way that only a bunch of individuals flung together on a small island 2000 miles from home would know how. People arriving here really do hit the ground running and it is testament to their spirit and resilience that they thrive and prosper as they do.<span> </span>We’ve been through some tough times, in 2007 a family was tragically wiped out by a house fire, a year later a young girl drowned in a pool in her garden and a year after that a young boy suffered horrific consequences of a similar accident, which, although he survived, have left him and his family facing difficult challenges in dealing with the disabilities that he now suffers. The close-knit sense of belonging to the community has meant that very few individuals are unaffected by such tragic occurrences and the challenge of coping with the ripple-effect of living in a place where everybody knows each other so well is a tough one. But it is a challenge that the people of Akrotiri have risen to, and met with admirable courage. The sad death of the Red Arrow pilot earlier this year also had an effect on the folks here who feel a strong connection with the Reds who visit us for six weeks each year to practise their moves before moving on to public displays Europe-wide. It is with a sense of pride that I can attest that the community here was swift to act in offering condolences to the bereaved family and friends and in providing a fitting and dignified tribute.</div><div class="MsoNormal">So that’s where I am now, still moving slowly through my list of ‘Lasts’ and still determined to enjoy life to the full, right up to the moment we board our homebound aircraft back to our ‘old life’ in December. Except it will no longer just be our old life, as the experiences we have had here, the lessons we have learned, and the amazing friends we have made during our five year stay have definitely made us into better people, hopefully able to spread as little ray of Cyprus Sunshine into the dreary winter months in England. Akrotiri, I will never forget you, and thanks for the fun!!</div>IAmWonderWomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04257583449055087868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1670718301634741081.post-65614301921302447902011-10-07T09:15:00.000+03:002011-10-07T09:15:34.596+03:00We Gotta Get Out of this Place<div class="MsoNormal">This weekend the Lundie family are due to embark on “Operation Bin It, Sell It or Pack It”. It is not an exercise I relish, in fact I suspect I have been in deep denial for some time now. However, despite my protestations, time is racing on and the calendar tells us that we have only nine precious weeks remaining on this island. And our furniture only has three!!!!</div><div class="MsoNormal">And so the hysteria begins....Already my head is starting to fill with lists and the pressure is starting to show on the family relationships. Our usual post-work marital exchange of “how are you?” or “how was your day?” has been replaced with a salvo of questions such as “did you go and see...?” “have you sorted out...?” and “why haven’t you arranged...?". Oh the joys of matrimony!</div><div class="MsoNormal">Every day I enter my house a moment of dread envelops me as I survey the reams of rubbish and mountains of tat that we have unwittingly accumulated over the past 57 months. Most daunting of all is the childrens’ bedrooms, a veritable cornucopia of tatty old bears, back-broken books, dismantled cars and foot-piercing Lego. Most shameful of all is the shocking amount of toys whose origins cannot be denied as any other than the ‘gifts’ accompanying McDonald’s Happy Meals – an embarrassing testament to my failure as a nurturing mother.</div><div class="MsoNormal">The children have already been briefed that a severe and relenteless cull of their toyboxes is due to take place, however I suspect that most of the removal of unnecessary toys will have to be done in stealth. Children not only have a remarkable talent for suddenly developing a hitherto unprecedented attachment to abandoned toy, they also have specific super-hero powers akin to x-ray vision which allows them the ability to identify the mere half-silhouette of one of their forgotten, but suddenly unforesakeable, possessions, even when double-wrapped in the dreaded bin-bag.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Therefore, I suspect that hubby and I will have to adopt SAS-style tactics, sweeping in the bedrooms under the cover of darkness eliminating the enemies whilst our <span> </span>cherubs sleep on in blissful ignorance. Any later query about the whereabouts of any missing toys will then be met with the stony-faced “Cannot Confirm or Deny Policy”. It’s for their own good, you know. Honest....</div><div class="MsoNormal">Once the obvious crap has been disposed of and we are left with items which will either sail away across the Med in a big metal box, or will find themselves posted contantly on BFCBay until we’ve been beaten down to a price short of paying the purchaser to take it away, it will be time to embark on the March-Out clean. At this point I start to hyperventilate as I look around a quarter that has been occupied for nearly five years by two filth-terrorists in the guise of my own offspring. Some folks dream of a home with a self-defrosting freezer or a self-cleaning oven, I would have been content with self-flushing toilets. I won’t go into detail on the horrors of the smallest rooms in the house, but many years of abuse by little people, combined with some severely hard water and limescale issues have left the porcelain receptacles in a state less than satisfactory. I am currently Googling the best solutions, some have suggested denture tablets, others flat coca-cola, but I suspect nothing short of a courtesy call to our local Bomb-disposal squad will do the job. And even then, for their own sakes, I might suggest they send in the Remote robot device. It ain’t gonna be pretty!</div><div class="MsoNormal">So that’s where I am right now. I haven’t even touched on the other issues we have to contend with, the Bureacracy Barrier, the re-entry into Civvie Life etc, but that’s for another blog where I will, no doubt share the triumphs and horrors of going back to the UK, whether you asked for them or not!!</div>IAmWonderWomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04257583449055087868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1670718301634741081.post-88142998136087016532010-12-23T20:55:00.000+02:002010-12-23T20:55:36.078+02:00And so this is Christmas...<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-GB</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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</style> <![endif]--> <div class="MsoNormal">So here at Akrotiri, Christmas is very nearly upon us. The snow may be fake but the sentiments certainly ain’t. There has been a hive of activity in the past couple of weeks as units, schools, clubs and families prepare for the festive season. Not a day goes by without the tinny festive tunes emanating from one building or another as folk celebrate in their unique ways. Christmas in the sun always seems a little odd, especially as we are regaled daily with woeful stories of issues caused by the horrendous snow conditions back in the UK. There has certainly been an air of panic here as those due to fly back to join families in Blighty are wringing their hands and biting their lips, hoping that the planes due to spirit them home will be permitted to fly. Those remaining here have their own concerns that the postal system will not fail them and will provide the much anticipated presents and toys ordered weeks before, and that Santa will come up with the goods on the day.</div><div class="MsoNormal">It is at times like these that many parents breathe a collective sigh of relief at the lack of advertisements shown on BFBS. Not for us the heart-stopping moment when our little darlings announce at 5.25pm on Christmas Eve that they really, really, really hope that Santa remembers to bring them the must-have, sold-out-by-Halloween, going-for-a-hundred-quid-on-ebay latest toy that they just happened to glance at on a commercial break 30 seconds ago. The kind that forces you away from your mince pies and into the Baltic air to fight it out in frenzied retail establishment for a gift that you can guarantee will either be broken or discarded before the Christmas Pud has even been lit.<span> </span>I am more than grateful that my offspring are content with whatever surprise that the Jolly Red Fellow bestows on them, and that the nice Mr BFPO has delivered on time. Aah, the magic of Christmas.</div><div class="MsoNormal">So much changes here at Akrotiri at this time of year, including the demographic<span> </span>age profile. As the lucky few escape to loved ones in the UK, so they are replaced by visitors to Cyprus, especially the grandparents. The young, lithe childminders so frequently seen in the play areas around camp are transformed into greyer, wrinklier, slightly less mobile but no less loving and dedicated individuals. They are easily recognised, not just by the obvious signs of seniorship, but also by their dress. Vest tops, shorts and flip-flops are the order of the day unlike the locals who are now donning jeans, boots and jackets and making the customary ‘brrr’ noises as the sun beats relentlessly down.</div><div class="MsoNormal">The Cypriots do Christmas in their own inimitable loud and garish style. The streets are festooned with millions of twinkling lights and the roundabouts in the town centres adorned with tableaux and enormous decorations. One such roundabout in the centre of Limassol bears a humungous rotating Santa, not all of him but just the head, bearing a smile which I’m sure is supposed to be jolly and benign but actually corners the market in malevolence. He scares the bejaysus out of children to such an extent that many parents have been forced to make a complicated diversion to the shops to avoid major hysterics. Supermarkets sport the most enormous trees which would put Trafalgar Square to shame and PA systems blare out seasonal carols and tunes. You haven’t lived until you’ve heard the Cypriot version of Cliff Richard singing his heart out with “Kreezmazz taime, meezletoo and wayayan”.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Culturally, there, thankfully, aren’t a huge number of differences and the Cypriots have come to accommodate a great deal of UK traditions so the likes of turkey and stuffing are not too hard to find. I’ve yet to track down a pot of Brandy butter but, no doubt, there will be a little corner of expat land that will be able to oblige. Either that or a puzzled but willing local shopkeeper will be happy to douse my tub of Flora with a generous splash of Keo VSOP.</div><div class="MsoNormal">One of my favourite aspects of the run-up to Christmas is the school nativity plays. I’m sure there is many a primary teacher who has made a significant dent in the secret staff room drinks cabinet over the past few weeks who would beg to differ, but for me they are a joy. Nothing says Christmas like the annual parade of tea-towel and tinsel wearing small persons, each desperate to depict the events of the Holy Night in their own unique way. My holidays wouldn’t be complete without a glimpse of a shouty shepherd, a nose-picking angel and a sobbing donkey. It really makes my day to watch the misty-eyed, camera-clicking parents (one of whom I admit to be) jostle for position as their own little cherub stops the proceedings to wave at Grandma, theatrically nudges a word-shy school mate or , in a fidgety bored moment, lifts a silvery robe to display a distinctly un-angelic set of underwear. I take my hat off to the teachers who work hard each year, stage managing and conducting, trying to put an ever more entertaining, contemporary <span> </span>and unique spin on the Greatest Story Ever Told. No matter what, each year is a triumph of sheer cuteness and heart-wrenching adorability.</div><div class="MsoNormal">So all that remains for me to do is to wrap a few remaining presents and contemplate the mammoth vegetable peeling session that awaits us on Christmas morning. Amidst all the frenzy of stockings and wrapping paper, cracker pulling and silly paper hat wearing, I hope many of you will join me in sparing a thought for the hundreds of military families for whom this traditional time of happiness is a sore reminder that there is one empty chair at the table this year. I hope we all take a moment to give thanks for the souls that are fighting for their lives, and for our freedom, as we merely struggle to leave the dining table. I remember stories of the First World War where one battlefield ground to a halt on Christmas Day and enemies called a truce to emerge from the trenches to exchange gifts and play football. I only wish that life in Afghanistan were that simple, but, sadly, I very much doubt it.</div><div class="MsoNormal">To all of you I wish a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, but to some I wish more – a peaceful and safe 2011, and to those who have lost loved ones true tidings of comfort and joy.</div>IAmWonderWomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04257583449055087868noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1670718301634741081.post-85918550368452499142010-12-10T14:57:00.002+02:002010-12-10T14:57:55.139+02:00Here Comes The Rain Again<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-GB</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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</style> <![endif]--> <div class="MsoNormal">To the uneducated soul, Cyprus is all about the sunshine, long lazy days spent all year round on golden sands , gazing at azure skies and sapphire seas. On the whole that’s right. Although, they neglect to tell you about the rain. Yes, the rain.</div><div class="MsoNormal">When it rains in Cyprus, it rains big. Massive fat , stinging drops that pelt at monsoon proportions in solid sheets of water. It’s quite a spectacle to see, especially when accompanied by the cacophonous thunder claps and huge white zig-zags of lightning that tear across the sky. Torrents of water scream down in minutes washing away inches of dusty topsoil and flooding the streets till they resemble a crazy tangle of gurgling brown rapids. It is at times like these that we learn that the network of three-feet deep Storm Drains actually serve an architectural purpose and are not just strategically placed traps to weed out the more drunken individuals who stumble their way through short-cuts to home only to unwittingly find themselves up-ended with a face-full of dry leaves staring out a cockroach or two.<span> </span>Turf-less gardens are transformed into magical, mysterious marsh-lands, and murky lakes, the enormous puddles luring children with false promises that their depths do not exceed the tops of their wellies.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Today is the day that the Cypriots were hoping for. After an unfeasibly long, hot and dry summer, the authorities were beginning to fear that an equally dry winter would result in the kind of water shortages that have crippled the island in previous summers. A couple of summers ago, the disastrous combination of a virtually rainless winter season and a typically hot summer resulted in the enforcement of water rationing across the island. Households were limited to only a few hours of running water per day and simple tasks such as laundry became a struggle. The Cyprus government appealed to neighbouring Greece for shipments of water and they even wheeled out the local Church Councillors in mass services to pray for a break in the weather. So, as you may realise, those big drops that fall from the sky are a precious and very welcome commodity indeed.</div><div class="MsoNormal">That being said, you would think that when the rain begins, the Cypriots are prepared for the torrential downpours that they have anticipated for so long. Umm, no. Somehow this entirely natural phenomenon seems to take the locals by surprise every time. Roads are closed, the already too high road traffic rate sky-rockets, I suspect because the drivers are so taken aback by the spectacle of the rain that they forgot that a dangerous and slippery road, awash with mud and silt lays treacherously before them. I have witnessed cars stopping dead in the road as the drivers screech to a halt to contemplate Nature in all her glory. You seriously need your wits about you if you take to the wheel on a day like this. In addition, electricity grids topple, television studios are fragged (probably because at the first drop of rain, the cameramen are out to record the event, which is then broadcast simultaneously on every Cypriot channel like some great terrestrial disaster).</div><div class="MsoNormal">Personally, I love the thunderstorms at night. Despite being a small island, our climate seems pretty diverse and localised. The Troodos mountains are a classic example, when the snows come, you can spend the morning skiing and sledging, then come down to the coast for a picnic on a sunny beach. Fabulous. Anyway, I have the privilege of a stunning view of the mountains from my bedroom window. Sometimes, on a perfectly dry Akrotiri night we can witness the spectacle of a lightning storm raging across the mountains and beyond. Great gashes of light that streak from east to west, impressive flashes of electric purple, a pyrotechnic show of awesome and terrible proportions. Cyprus certainly offers the whole shebang of extreme weather conditions.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tonight the Officers’ Mess is holding its’ Christmas Draw. I do feel sorry for the poor ladies who will be attempting to negotiate the streets with newly coiffed hairdos , wearing delicate heels and gowns not likely to be of water resistant material. There is also talk of a Tornado heading our way, so keep your fingers crossed that the Weather Gods aren’t narked with us right now.</div><div class="MsoNormal">As for me, I’ll be sat with a soothing coffee watching my kids negotiate the newly-formed water park that used to be our garden. No doubt I’ll be emptying their wellies later.</div>IAmWonderWomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04257583449055087868noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1670718301634741081.post-2337431788089867122010-11-15T21:00:00.000+02:002010-11-15T21:00:35.094+02:00Silence is Golden<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-GB</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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</style> <![endif]--> <div class="MsoNormal">Yesterday I attended my first Remembrance Service at Akrotiri</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m ashamed to say that, because I have lived here now for nearly four years. I could make the usual rationalisations- kids, commitments etc, but, frankly, these don’t really hold up to scrutiny.</div><div class="MsoNormal">The truth is I’ve always felt awkward, like a gatecrasher or an intruder to a private funeral, an imposter in a world where ‘Remembrance’ holds a significance I cannot and do not really want to understand. Never more than on this one Sunday each November do I feel the conspicuousness and inadequacy of my Civilian status amongst the souls that wear their medals with much deserved pride.<span> </span>And so, usually, I hide in the safe cocoon of my home, listening to the notes of the Last Post drifting across an eerily silent camp.</div><div class="MsoNormal">This year my daughter had joined the Brownies and was invited to attend today’s service in uniform. Her excitement and pride was such that I was my motherly instincts over-rode any misgivings of my own and so, on a bright sunny Sunday morning she and I strolled peacefully to the Akrotiri Chaplaincy Centre to join the masses of military and civilian folk united in their desire to commemorate <span> </span>the casualties of war.</div><div class="MsoNormal">We were greeted with the humbling sight of a multitude of men and women in their full military regalia, caps and shoes shining, buttons glinting. But what shone the most was the air of quiet honour and pride that each wore. The scene was breathtaking in its dignity.</div><div class="MsoNormal">As the service began, to the objective eye and ear it was like many others I have attended, the same hymns were sung as I have heard at countless civilian ceremonies before;<span> </span>the readings were not unique; the wreaths looked like the many hundreds I have witnessed placed at cenotaphs and church altars.</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was when I looked around the congregation that I finally understood the gravity and austerity of the day. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Previous ceremonies I have attended – at school, at church, as a Brownie or Guide always followed the same format. Old men bearing long forgotten medals and a sense of tired wistfulness would hover at the back of the crowds as the only reminder of the reason we laid the wreaths. The two minute silence would begin with good intentions, but I would soon find myself shuffling or fidgeting, my mind wandering to trivial matters, mental shopping lists, easily distracted by small noises or movements.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Not yesterday.</div><div class="MsoNormal">When the time came to hold our tongues and thoughts for the trifling 120 seconds I was overwhelmed by a new and disturbing emotion. Looking around the crowds I saw strong men and women with reddened eyes and constricted throats, battling against demons I couldn’t comprehend. Not for them the distant memory of battles consigned to the history books. Not for them the honour and glory, that age old lie used to soften and justify the atrocities of war.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>Amongst these good people stood those who had witnessed first-hand the living hell of conflict. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I am sure some were remembering good friends and comrades whose lives were cruelly torn away. Among them, too, were, no doubt, those whose loved ones were, that very moment, <span> </span>battling against an unpredictable and remorseless enemy whilst they stood to attention under the bright blue Sunday morning skies. What was in their thoughts? How did they maintain their inner strength and show such a united front of compassion and solidarity? It was humbling to witness.</div><div class="MsoNormal">So in those two minutes, I gave my thanks.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">Thanks to those heroes and heroines that we commemorated that day. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Thanks for the fact that, through their bravery and selflessness I possessed the freedom to live in safety. </div><div class="MsoNormal">And thanks that my eyes had finally been opened to the truth, no matter how painful, that wars still rage on and the list of lost souls will grow longer with every year. But <span> </span>that as long as they have the courage to fight, so will grow too the indestructible force of human spirit as epitomised by the silent souls I had the honour to stand amongst that day.</div><div class="MsoNormal">We WILL remember them.</div>IAmWonderWomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04257583449055087868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1670718301634741081.post-42538480432819809752010-10-29T12:34:00.000+03:002010-10-29T12:34:03.010+03:00She's In Fashion<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-GB</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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</style> <![endif]--> <div class="MsoNormal">Well..,get lost, Giselle, leg-it Linda and naff off Naomi, there’s a new kind of supermodel in town.</div><div class="MsoNormal">She’s fun, she’s fresh, she comes in all different shapes and sizes and was last seen carousing the catwalk at the Akrotiri Ladies Events Annual Fashion Show. Back on October 8<sup>th</sup>, Akrotiri Officers Mess was the scene for the hottest show in town when a gaggle of glamorous girlies and a group of groomed gents strutted their stuff on the runway in aid of local groups and charities. The event, now in its 5<sup>th</sup> annual incarnation, was the culmination of months of hard work by the voluntary committee of Akrotiri<span> </span>Ladies Events. Due to the resounding success of each previous year’s event, the pressure is always on to add a unique and exciting spin to the current year’s offering. This year was no disappointment. Having showcased the handiwork of local dressmakers and retailers in past years, the committee wanted to tap into the current recession-hit climate and put on a show that had a lesser pull on the purse-strings of the audience. So the brainchild of the Project officer was born. It was suggested that the many wardrobes of the Akrotiri residents were no doubt in need of a spring-clean, so appeals were made in the<span> </span>local community for ladies to bring along their unwanted ballgowns, cocktail dresses and formal wear to be sold on the night. The plan was that a select number of the most immaculate and desirable frocks would be modelled on the catwalk and put up for auction, whilst the remainder would be on display for ‘try and buy’ throughout the evening. A proportion of the sale proceeds would go the individual donors of the items, once a sales fee had been taken. In other words, everyone’s a winner.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, despite the idea being such a cracking one, nobody anticipated the sheer volume of interest this would generate. The project officer who kindly volunteered the use of her home as a storage area for all the dresses found herself inundated with beautiful gowns of all colours, styles and sizes and her living room soon began to resemble the stock room of any respectable department store with literally hundreds of <span> </span>dresses filling rails and hangers. It is a credit to not just her, but her whole family (which includes two children under 7 and a distinctly vicious cat) that all the gowns made it to the show intact, and the patience of her husband must have been distinctly saintly as he found himself answering the door for the umpteenth time to be greeted by a strange female brandishing armfuls of silk and taffeta. Of course, once all the dresses were gathered in, there was the ‘simple’ matter of getting together with the models for fittings, and once again the house was taken over in the name of charity.</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the meantime, while this frenzy of fashion was going on, there was also the matter of preparing the logistics for the day’s eventualities. Venues had to be booked, catwalks, tables, lights, carpet and chairs had to organised. Traders had to be contacted, hairdressers, make-up artists and photographers recruited, cocktails planned and mixed. Posters had to be designed, printed and displayed; tickets produced and sold. Raffle prizes had to be blagged and the tickets distributed. Promotional radio adverts and interviews had to be aired. Music had to be picked and the comperes for the night briefed. It was truly an “all hands on deck” situation.</div><div class="MsoNormal">As the Big Day approached and the hysteria mounted, some souls were anxiously viewing weather forecasts. The Fashion Show is traditionally an outdoors event, taking advantage of the mild Cyprus weather yet avoiding the scorching humidity of the summer (sweat stains are not pretty on a silk frock!), but in October there is always the slight risk of rain. In previous years Akrotiri Ladies suffered from the lack of forethought by scheduling the Fashion Show bang in the middle of one of the annual Coptic Storms which batter Cyprus with gale-force sand laden gusts from the Middle East. That lesson learnt, the show has been moved from late September to early October. According to the Akrotiri Met Office, there was a distinct chance of thunder storms on the night.<span> </span>So, a Plan B was prepared, ‘just in case’ and ticket sales were limited to 180. Thankfully, the weather Gods smiled on us that day and Plan A- the Al-Fresco Option was able to go ahead.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Had you perchance to pop in to the Akrotiri Officers Mess on the morning or afternoon of October 8<sup>th</sup>, you may well have been greeted with the spectacle of a mass of flustered ladies transforming the usually plain courtyard into a wonderland of lights and fabric, with the centrepiece being<span> </span>an impressive catwalk which zig-zagged amongst the seats. The stage was set-up and the PA system was implemented. As the afternoon progressed, backstage was a fog of hairspray, perfume and face powder as the crew of experts worked hard to prepare the models for their debut in just a few hours. Dresses were hung carefully on every available surface and wine glasses were genteely clinked within a safe distance.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Word soon came back that the night was a sell-out! In fact, right up to the last minute people were clamouring to obtain the elusive tickets, many even offering to pay twice the face value in order to get in. On top of all the already overworked volunteers, it was wondered if bouncers and the anti-ticket-tout police were to be required too!</div><div class="MsoNormal">And so, the moment of reckoning was here. At 7pm on the dot, the Mess doors were opened and in poured a mass of ladies and a few gents eager to sample the complimentary ‘Frocktail’ and try and maybe even buy from the huge selection of dresses<span> </span>that didn’t make it to the catwalk. Committee members were everywhere – meeting and greeting, selling raffle tickets, taking sales of dresses, dishing out the drinks, running back and forth from backstage, placating the vendors that also attended with wares to sell on the night.</div><div class="MsoNormal">After the initial hustle and bustle, the guests settled down to enjoy the show. The lights dimmed, there was a crack of thunder (thankfully, just a pre-recorded one), and to the theme tune of ‘Halloween’ there emerged a group of ghouls and monsters who hissed and shrieked amongst the spellbound audience. Amongst these were a few of the local schoolchildren, modelling costumes sold by a local fancy-dress merchant. When these spooky souls slinked away, the Fashion Show proper commenced. The show consisted of three sets, as the lovely ladies paraded the catwalk, first in party wear, then in cocktail outfits and finally in formal gowns, accompanied by a handful of gallant gents in dinner jackets. After each set, the auction for each individual gown was held.<span> </span>Egged on by the fantastic and highly entertaining chemistry between the two hosts, BFBS presenters Jennifer Packham and Wez Thompson, some of the auctions generated a lot of interest in the audience and a few items went for a lot more than anticipated. Credit must also go to the fantastic models. During the first set, a certain amount of nerves were detected amongst the ladies who were making a debut appearance before a huge crowd. However by the third set, their confidence had apparently grown ten-fold and the wonderful and beautiful girls were positively glowing with pride as they sashayed down the aisle. One does wonder how much of this was attributed to the wine which flowed copiously backstage.</div><div class="MsoNormal">A surprise element of the evening was the ‘big ticket’ auction item, a flying jacket and photo both of which had been signed and donated by Forces Favourite, model Nell McAndrew. Earlier in the year, the project officer had the brainwave of contacting Ms McAndrew to invite her to attend the show. Expecting the usual brush-off she was extremely surprised to receive a personal phone-call from Nell herself apologising profusely for not being able to attend and offering the jacket and photo by means of compensation. This item caused a flurry of excitement amongst the audience.</div><div class="MsoNormal">As the evening drew to a close, the raffle was drawn and a host of impressive prizes were distributed. All<span> </span>that remained was to give thanks to the multitudes of volunteers who helped to make the show such a resounding success, and to present bouquets to the key figures who made it all possible.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Akrotiri Ladies Events are incredibly proud to announce that this has been our most successful Fashion Show so far and the evening made an ASTOUNDING THREE THOUSAND EUROS! This money will be distributed to local groups and charities by the means of grants.</div><div class="MsoNormal">We would like to thank everyone who dedicated their time and energy to making the event such an amazing one and look forward (if a little nervously) to next year’s show.</div>IAmWonderWomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04257583449055087868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1670718301634741081.post-12853319429549429192010-10-28T10:52:00.000+03:002010-10-28T10:52:58.923+03:00Poetry In (e)Motion<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-GB</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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</style> <![endif]--> <div class="MsoNormal">Well, party season has begun in Akrotiri, and between now and Christmas our wallets and livers are no doubt going to be a subject to a battering,<span> </span>Facebook will be awash with embarrassing images and a frenzy of<span> </span>frantic ‘un-tagging’ will occur on many a morning after.</div><div class="MsoNormal">October certainly came in with a bang headed by a number of parties, soirees and lunches. Earlier this month saw the traditional Sergeants and Officers Messes Exchange Ladies Lunch,<span> </span>a pink-themed event in aid of Breast Cancer Awareness. The lunches are an opportunity for the wives and partners of military personnel to gather under the guise of a formal meal , a veneer which usually shatters after the third glass of ‘Pink Fizz’. It is here that many have an opportunity to witness, first-hand, the power and volume of the cackling pack-animal that is the military wife finally let loose after days, maybe weeks,<span> </span>of running a household within a military environment. It really is a sight to behold and very much an enjoyable event. Each lunch has a theme, this year being pink, although there have been a variety of ideas, including the unleashing of a live Elvis tribute act amongst the hoards of Mateus-fuelled females. The man deserved a medal, trust me.</div><div class="MsoNormal">This year it was a little more sedate, and tinged with a teary moment or two. Traditionally, the lunches are used to welcome new arrivals to the base and, more poignantly, bid a sad farewell to those who are leaving. Amongst those was a lady known and loved by all, the Station Commander’s wife Tina Bessell who is due to depart mid November. Tina has become very well known amongst all ranks here due to her down to earth nature, her inclusivity of all and her willingness to become involved in all aspects of base life. As well as raising her two young children and executing duties befitting to her husband’s role she has also D-J’d for BFBS, sat as president on SSAFA and Akrotiri Ladies committees and been proactive in a number of school activities on base. As a guest to the lunch, Tina had brought along Maggie May , a published poet who read some hilarious verses from her aspect as a military wife. Little did Tina know, however, that there was more poetry on the menu. Over the preceding few weeks, several aspiring bards had contributed their talents towards a poem which detailed Tina’s contributions over the past two years and expressed everyone’s appreciation for it. If I may, the poem is detailed below:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>Tradition dictates in some old trains of thought</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>That the wife of “the boss” is a staid kind of sort</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>Swathed in her twin-sets and pearls she resigns </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>To a life of dull dinners, of cheeses and wines</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>She should never be seen in a t-shirt and sweats</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>On a trailer bike loaded with children and pets</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>Or knee deep in soap suds whilst mounting a slide </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>Dressed in a sumo-suit, baking inside</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>But rules are for breaking and we wouldn’t dare</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>To deny that you break them with courage and flair</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>And for that you deserve your own private arena</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>While we tell you reasons we love you, dear Tina</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>Tina Bee, you rocked the airwaves like a pro</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>Starting from nothing to having your own show</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>The whole of Akrotiri will miss you more than they can say</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>And on a personal note BFBS wishes you could stay</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>One of Tina’s many hats is as SSAFA Chair </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>And to help celebrate 125 years she came up with a dare</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>That in her spare time she would produce a cookbook</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>‘Simply Cyprus’ – which if you haven’t already seen is definitely worth a look!</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>In addition to this, barely a week goes by</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>When Tina isn’t busy with a fundraising idea</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>Whether it’s baking cakes or on a treadmill outside Ermes</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>Or hosting ‘Jazz on the Lawn’ with pimms and fresh strawberries</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>You lead by example and are always there to support</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>Which is why you so richly deserved your recent award</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>SSAFA and the committee will miss you immensely </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>But we will strive to continue and build on your legacy!</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>The folks at St Pauls have seen many a strange sight,</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>but nothing quite matches Tina B in full flight.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>With Maya in one hand and a freshly baked cake under each arm</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>she sprints to the altar to rescue Woody from self-harm.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>JB is the consummate professional</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>exuding leadership with passion and flair</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>but even Tina’s great powers of persuasion</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>have difficulty controlling his hair!</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>At school we have known you, As mother of Maya,</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>We are sure, just like Mum, she will be such a flyer,</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>You have helped us ‘Get Snug’ and also ‘Chillax, </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>And we hope your next move you’ll enjoy to the max.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>When you led Aki Ladies, we all followed madly</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>While you pitched in and pitched up and did it all gladly</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>You’ve dipped us in chocolate, gymkhana’d and trotted</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>And dug in the sand where the treasure was plotted</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>You’ve made us eat crab, not just meat but the body</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>In Little Plates restaurant, deep fried by dear Roddy</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>Not to mention the times you have strutted your stuff </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>On the catwalks of messes, have you not had enough?</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>And so there we have it, your Cyprus-based life</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>You’ve been more than a Mum and much more than a Wife</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>Your deeds have touched many, impressions are left</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>That the folks here who know you<span> </span>will soon be bereft</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>The good you have done has been with such finesse</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>And many a time in some cool fancy dress!</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>The Big Shoes you leave will require some tough filling</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>Let’s hope your successor is able and willing</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>Dear Tina, we thank you for all of your care</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>Your time given freely, your energy spare</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>So we all raise a glass, maybe sob in a tissue</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 7.5pt;"><i><span>It’s doubtless that Aki is going to miss you.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Not a bad effort, dontcha think? It was followed by a tear-jerking speech by a floored and highly emotional ‘Mrs Staish’ and a great deal of glass-clinking. </div><div class="MsoNormal">And then, it descended into the traditional levels of debauchery. But that’s another story, and not one for these pages......needless to say, there is a big, pink teddy bear who is probably still deeply traumatised.......</div>IAmWonderWomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04257583449055087868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1670718301634741081.post-30824709029214486442010-10-03T17:11:00.006+03:002010-10-03T18:42:21.132+03:00She's Just a Devil Woman<i>*this blog entry will not be featured on the BFBS Blog*</i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Today, if you’ll forgive me, I’m allowing myself a small indulgence, little bit of self-therapy if you will. I’m having one of my PMDD days. Have you ever had that feeling that some other power or entity was taking control of your mind, orchestrating your feelings and directing your actions? Well, I get that once a month, and it’s never a positive experience. Thanks to a complicated cocktail of brain chemistry and raging hormones, on a four-weekly basis I find myself mutating into a fearsome, irritable, totally unreasonable monster. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, the vast majority of friends and not-so-close family will probably find this quite unpalatable. Most of them know that I pride myself on trying to keep an air of affability and co-operation, in fact my job demands that I maintain this, and 90% of the time, this comes as the result of a heartfelt personal passion that people are nice, deserve a fair break and should be treated with kindness. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m so glad that these people don’t live with me. </div><div class="MsoNormal">When the time comes and the internal switch within me trips, you really wouldn’t want to be around me. Ask my family, I border on the psychotic, with episodes ranging from a disgruntled huffiness and tactical withdrawal to an all-out psychotic rage-monster screaming abuse for the smallest infraction. It’s not something I’m proud of. It’s also something I’m not in control of. It’s called Pre-Menstrual Dysphoric Disorder, what I would only describe as PMT’s Evil Twin. It’s a condition that the medical world has only really started to recognise in the last couple of decades, but, you betcha, it’s been around a long time before then. History is peppered with tales of Mad Women, those possessed by demons and hurled into flaming pits, burned at the stake, drowned on ducking stools or thrown into archaic asylums. I can’t help wondering if a fair majority of these women were fellow sufferers of PMDD, especially as the whole ‘possessed’ moniker rings such a familiar bell. I know that, when I am in the throes of a particular bad rage episode, it feels like the ‘Red Mist’ has come down; I want a fight, but I don’t even know what I necessarily want to fight about. No amount of calm negotiation, reasoning or fair discussion can drag me down from my self-created pedestal of indignation. What makes it all the worse, is that, once the dust has finally settled down and I’ve returned to my ‘normal’ self, the whole episode is nothing but some misty half-memory. That wouldn’t be such a problem had I been the only victim of my angst-ridden screeching, however, it is my nearest and dearest that suffer too. As I slump in my chair, cup of coffee and much-needed chocolate bar in hand, I am forced to face the wreckage of my emotional explosion- frightened children, an affronted husband and maybe even a terrified cat. It is then that the guilt floods in at the horror and turbulence caused by my ‘other self’ kicks in, and I find myself desperate to make amends. It is this desperation that usually sparks off stage 2 of my condition, the deep, hopeless depair.</div><div class="MsoNormal">A great amount of credit must go to my family for suffering this too long. My children are still too young to understand why Mummy flies into unprecedented rages over behaviours that, sometimes just hours before, elicited nothing more than a wry smile and an exasperated sigh. It must be a very confusing time, especially exacerbated by my repulsion at that time for any unsolicited physical contact. Poor kids, one minute they’re the butt of their mother’s rage, but then the usual offer of a cuddle just doesn’t make it better. As for my husband, well, the poor man has endured twenty years of the monthly Screaming Harpy episodes, and has done me the favour of never threatening to leave (even though he’s been shown the door or many an occasion). Together we have worked through many coping strategies and he has finally seemed to have settled on a vague acceptance and the eternal knowledge that it is only a passing phase. He is, indeed, my rock in the tumultuous seas of my hormone-addled mind, and I am forever grateful for the times he has held me as I weep on his shoulder in waves of remorse asking, yet again, “am I really like this every month?”<br />
My PMDD has ruined more holidays, trashed more days out and screwed up more anniversaries then I care to remember. </div><div class="MsoNormal">Of course, in this storm, there is a rainbow. Today, the medical world is coming to terms with the fact that such a condition of mine does exist, and we have progressed a long way from being diagnosed with “women’s troubles” and sent away from the doctors with a prescription of “deal with it, it’s part of the wonders of being a fertile female”. Medical experts the world over are still pondering over the actual causes of PMDD, some argue it is purely hormonal, others think it is cerebral. Some again cite environmental and dietary factors. For me, what seems to work best is a daily minimum dose of Prozac. It seems to help a lot, not so much in altogether preventing the attacks of irritability and rage that strike me, but more in allowing me a ‘buffer zone’ between my Jekyll and Hyde, the balanced me and the monster. With this buffer I have the opportunity to examine the causes of my anger for what they really are, and not to pick a monstrous fight over a pointless issue.</div><div class="MsoNormal">The best medical breakthrough for me, however, is not the treatment of the condition, but the recognition. To a degree, I feel vindicated, I’m not entirely mad. There have been many times, believe me, that I truly wondered if I was a mental-case, and therefore better off removed from normal society. That’s what PMDD does to you, it divorces you from your normal, rational self and throws you into a pit of rage and despair. The only positive thing for me, is that it’s a transient thing, relieved later in the month by the realignment of my hormones. So many women dread the arrival of their period, I warmly welcome it. I cannot begin to understand those who suffer from other mental health problems from which there is no respite, that must be another level of Hell altogether.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I only wish that this disabling condition had been recognised sooner in my life, and then, maybe, some relationships may have been different. My own mother, with whom I have good relationship today, openly admits that she “hated” me during my adolescent years, a feeling, no doubt derived from my sporadic and undeserved outbursts. Add to the mix an alcoholic father, whose own moods were driven by an entirely different but no less unpredictable ‘chemical’, and no wonder my teenage home-life was sometimes a difficult and dysfunctional one.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Still, I live to tell the tale and I hope that my own daughter does not suffer in the same way that I did. Although, even if she does, at least I have the advantage of understanding her in the way my own family did not have the capacity for.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Thank you for reading my tale. If any of you are fellow sufferers, I hope you gleaned a small amount of understanding and knowledge that you are not alone. And for those of you who are fortunate enough not to suffer, at least you know when best to avoid me. Or better still, leave large gifts of chocolate at my doorstep before ringing the bell and running for your life!</div>IAmWonderWomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04257583449055087868noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1670718301634741081.post-49238083384199064722010-09-30T11:05:00.000+03:002010-09-30T11:06:39.221+03:00Let's Go OutsideIt’s been a fun few days for the Lundies here at Akrotiri, with an inordinate amount of time spent, “al-fresco”, under the still clear, starry skies of Cyprus.<br />Earlier this week, we were treated to the Flamingo Theatre’s fabulous rendition of “Allo-Allo”. For those not old enough to remember, this was a BBC comedy aired in the 1980s which depicted the trials and tribulations of the residents of wartime France. It was a tremendously popular show, and the cast and crew at Akrotiri certainly did it justice. Despite being in the sticky heat of a Cyprus summer evening, the audience were soon transported to the humble establishment of downtrodden café owner, Rene Artois, an illusion made all the more credible by the fact that the seating was laid out around café-style tables and the audience were encouraged to bring along their own picnics. The show itself rattled along fabulously with outstanding performances from the café owner, a man with a life complicated by not only two mistresses and a suspicious yet frustrated wife, but by double dealings with the Nazis and the French Resistance, not to mention the problems associated with the hiding of two British Airman and the smuggled painting of “The Fallen Madonna with the Big Boobies” which had been incredulously concealed within a large sausage.<br />I do feel it a little unfair to single out individual actors amongst such a stellar and hard-working cast, however special commendation must go to the characters of Officer Crabtree (“that stupid Englishman who thinks he can speak French”) for a very polished delivery of some cracking double-entendres, vaguely disguised as French mispronunciations; also to Michelle of “la Resistance” whose spectacular costume changes from Spy to Call-Girl to Nun did not once soften the impact of her legendary catchphrase: “Listen carefully, I shall say zis only once”. Some tremendously overboard farcical performances were executed by the likes of the Italian peacock, Captain Bertorelli, the incompetent Nazi officers and the fabulously leggy Helga, whose swastika-adorned cami-knickers caused quite a stir amongst some onlookers.<br />Credit must also go to the backstage crew who conjured up a fantastic and authentic set from almost nothing and to the costume artists who worked hard to obtain the superb outfits in time. I have it on good authority that a brief check of the internet history of the costume and props manager might raise a few eyebrows. They would have to do a bit of explaining as to why they needed to place orders for Nazi uniforms, handcuffs, blow-up dolls and cami-knickers!<br />Anyway, hearty congratulations to all involved and a “break a leg” for the next two additional performances next week hastily scheduled due to popular demand!<br />Our second outdoors venture was in a much less civilised, but no less enjoyable vein. Last Saturday, the Lundie Clan joined twenty or so other families for an overnight camping adventure at the Happy Valley camping ground in Episkopi garrison. The weekend was a venture organised by Akrotiri Ladies Events and proved to be not only fun-packed but grime-filled in the way only “roughing it” in a dusty wooded area can be.<br />Following a hearty lunch in a local cafeteria, a convoy of happy campers drove their way to the picturesque beach-side site to be greeted not by a village of neatly arranged and sophisticated tents but by stacks of folded green canvas. Our first challenge of the day was the erection of our temporary homes. Not for us the ultra-light, easily assembled, modern, waterproof domes of the contemporary tent-dweller – oh no! The canvas monstrosities that we were faced with were the old style military style 9x9s, the like of which I’m sure I had only previously seen on the label of a bottle of ‘Camp Coffee Essence’ popular during times of the Boer War! I can only say that 30+ degree heat and high humidity is not conducive to attacking the conundrum of interlocking poles and heaving dusty, stubborn sheets of military issue canvas over a frame, which you hope vaguely, resembles a shelter for the night. Once that challenge has been met, the next endurance trial involved entering the newly erected sweat-box in order to fathom out exactly how to fold out the camp beds whilst disentangling oneself from the mass of mosquito netting that seems to adhere itself to your sweaty, exposed flesh.Of course, eventually, after much huffing and heaving, and re-organising when we discovered we had built our tent inside out, we stood back and, exhausted yet proudly, surveyed our handiwork, eagerly anticipating the forthcoming day’s events.<br />The first activity of the day was the treasure hunt, which had been kindly and expertly organised for us. This involved pairing up with another family and following clues and a map in order to collect tokens from various key points around the campsite. Having teamed up with the family of the Station Commander and being married to a Customs Officer who amongst his duties was required to patrol the very area in which we were hunting, I was pretty confident that victory was imminent. Dear reader, I was wrong. It turns out that the removal of an official uniform renders both family heads incapable of determining east from west, and, as we passed the same clue-post for the third time, hopes of success were fading. So we did the honourable thing – ducked into the beachside café for a sneaky coffee and cake and sent the kids to steal the answers off their friends in other teams.<br />Once all errant families were gathered back, it was time for a brief raffle and dinner. The food was provided by the local CESSAC caterers who arrived in a van loaded with sausages, burgers, nuggets, potatoes, salad and all the trimmings. I suspect that they also added to the authenticity of the experience but unleashing a legion of wasps that seemed to home in the moment the first tin-foil pack was unwrapped. Still, that’s part of the joy of camping isn’t it?<br />After food, the children were all presented with prizes for the treasure hunt, which included a bag of sweeties resulting in the inevitable sugar rush. Still the hazards were minimal, apart from a labyrinth of guy-ropes and fold-up chairs, so the parents cracked open the bottles and tinnies while the little darlings ran around in sugar-fuelled frenzies, gathering layers filth in the process.<br />For me, the highlight of the event was at sundown. Due to the Fun Police (aka the Health and Safety Executive) placing an embargo on campfires, many of us brought along solar lights and lanterns, so as the sun dropped behind the hills, the lights began to twinkle and glint. An unexpected treat was the ingenious idea of a couple of the campers to obtain a few box loads of Cyalume glow sticks to give to each of the children (and a few parents, too). It was an awesome sight to see hundreds of red, blue and green rods running round the camp attached to darkness-obscured little people. In the nearby football field, a large number of children took it upon themselves to hurl the glow-sticks high in the air so that they momentarily resembled a fireworks display. My only reservations were that the campsite was directly under the flight path of RAF Akrotiri air terminal, just a few miles away, and I hoped that the pilot of the inbound trooper did not confuse the football field with the red-lit runway. Still, the arrival of a Boeing would probably only have added to the party atmosphere!<br />As the night quietened down and some of the younger children were put to bed, we were joined by a guitarist for a traditional sing-song. The evening started off hopefully but soon degenerated to a raucous alcohol-fuelled Karaoke session as the wine and vodka flowed liberally and inhibitions loosened. There’s nothing quite like the acoustics of a large, wooded valley to give a hearty rendition of Tom Jones’ Delilah that added ‘pizzazz’….and I can only offer my shamefaced apologies to the nearby residents of quarters in Episkopi, amongst, whom, I have been informed, resides the Commander of British Forces, Cyprus.<br />I would so like to report that a sound, peaceful sleep was had by all, but, certainly in my case, that was not true. The camp beds are probably adequate for fit young soldiers but for a lady of ample frame who is wont to hog an entire double bed given the opportunity they did not suffice. Furthermore, in my naivety, I had only brought a thin covering sheet, unaware that, despite the high temperatures during the day, the balminess subsided to chilly dampness in the small hours. For a few hours I lay under the canvas listening to some unidentified beastie crawl along the branches of the trees above us and occasionally drop seed pods onto the roof, no doubt to maliciously remind me that I was surrounded on all points by creatures intent on biting me, stinging me or crawling under my sheets and doing unspeakable mischief’s. And then, my bladder began to twitch, no doubt aggravated by the cold. It was at the point, with a sinking heart that I realised that the tents did not come with an en-suite facility. After what seemed like a lifetime of leg crossing and wriggling I resigned myself to the fact that a trip to the toilet block was necessary and so I donned my shoes (having shone a torch inside first to ensure no scorpions had opted to make a home there) and trudged to the loos.<br />It was at this time that I was fortunately re-acquainted with the joys of camping, especially in Cyprus where the risk of rain is minimal and clouds are a rarity. Looking up at the night sky, unbleached by street lights, I saw a spectacular array of stars and found myself gazing up for hours at the glittering canvas of constellations, some sights of which I had never witnessed on UK nights. Suddenly the discomfort of the accommodation faded into significance. Inspired by the solitude, silence and awesome beauty of my surroundings, I found myself taking a walk to the nearby beach and lying on a sunbed, the only living being on that stretch of coast flanked by golden cliffs, watching the sun crawl up the sky from the horizon and gently fill the sky with light, changing the sea from a misty pale blue to sparkling azure. It was truly a “champagne moment” and one I will never forget.<br />Of course, all good things must come to an end, and with the dawn came the chattering dawn chorus and the ensuing bustle of children waking up their somewhat hangover and aching parents. The campsite slowly drew itself to life, and several scenes from “Dawn of the Dead” were called to mind as I watched my fellow adult campers emerge reluctantly from their tents and drag their camp-bed battered bodies to the toilet block. Once ablutions had been completed, it was time to clean up the site and take down the tents. Thankfully it was a far less complicated affair and we were all awarded with pre-ordered slap-up full breakfast at the beachside café. Also laid on were beach activities including banana boat rides for all who still had the energy to participate. I dread to think of the slick that must have formed on the water as hoards of dust and mud-ridden children splashed around in the sea in lieu of a decent bath.Arriving home later that day, the shower I took could not have been better if I had been handed the loofah by Brad Pitt, and my bed never felt so comfortable. That said, we all had the most amazing time and I’m incredibly grateful for the tireless and dedicated souls that gave up their spare time to make it possible. I’m definitely up for doing it again, although before then you may well find me surfing in Amazon for self-erecting tents and luxury air-beds!IAmWonderWomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04257583449055087868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1670718301634741081.post-14522212696557123882010-09-30T11:03:00.002+03:002010-09-30T11:04:58.717+03:00This town is coming like a Ghost TownResidents of Akrotiri are probably aware that in the last few months the Thrift Shop has not only undergone a change of management also a slight overhaul. The great majority of the customers have reported nothing but positive feedback for the increase in opening hours, the re-jigging of the taking-in and paying-out system and the re-organisation of the shop contents.<br />It seems, however, that there are certain ‘souls’ who are less than satisfied with the upheaval caused by this work. I was recently involved in conversation with the staff and volunteers at the Thrift Shop, who reluctantly admitted that the premises may be the subject of certain spectral visitations. On more than one occasion, on entering the shop after it has been vacated and locked up for a day or two, staff have noticed the imprints of a childs’ shoes on the floor. The volunteers who work there maintain that the floor is always cleaned thoroughly before the shop is closed. Furthermore, there have occasionally been a secondary set of shoeprints on the opposite side of the shop floor, with no other marks in-between. On other occasions, bolts to inner doors behind doors which have been witnessed to have been closed at the end of the day have been mysteriously found pulled back the following morning. However, perhaps the most spine-tingling occurrence has been the discovery, one morning, of a pile of books found, neatly stacked in the centre of the shop floor, as if having been tampered with by a mischievous child. None of these can be explained logically as there is no sign of any forced entry and only the manageress holds the keys to the shop. Does the Aki Thrift Shop have a poltergeist, the spirit of a disgruntled customer? Who knows!<br />This is not the only report of alleged supernatural goings-on around the base, and, when you consider the history of Akrotiri, it is not surprising. Since its establishment in 1955, Aki has seen its fair share of incidents as well as the aftermath of many conflicts and operations. These include the troubles between the Turkish and Greek Cypriots which culminated in the occupation of the north in 1974, two Gulf Wars, Operation Highbrow which came into force to liberate the occupants of the Lebanon in 2006 and, of course, the ongoing war in Afghanistan. A brief sojourn around the airbase brings you into contact with a great number of buildings that appear to have been standing (some, now barely) since the inception of the base; and currently undergoing demolition are a number of quarters that are at least a few decades old. It would be impossible to contemplate the numbers of families that must have passed through our gates in the last half-century, each bringing with them their own stories and situations, some, I’m sure, more tragic than others and which may have left their imprint on the bricks and mortar they left behind. I have friends who lived previously in the older quarters on base who claim to have heard mysterious and unexplained noises in the night that have even the most logical minded amongst them feeling the hairs on the back of their necks prickle.<br />Another suspected hub of phantom activity is The Princess Mary Hospital. The very location of the hospital lends itself to myth and speculation as it sits on a lone promontory overlooking the Mediterranean. During the day it is the scene of breath-taking views over endless blue sea flanked by imposing cliffs and a picturesque golf-course, however, when the spectacular sunset ebbs away and the shadows creep over the water, the eeriness seeps in, perpetuated by the peninsula wind which whips and blows between the buildings. It is no wonder that the building earned the nickname ‘Alcatraz’. The hospital itself is usually fairly unoccupied unless a crisis is ongoing and at night the echoing, empty corridors would be enough to make any but the hardiest of disposition just a little jumpy. There have been many staff members claims of feeling certain ‘cold spots’ which have an air of uneasiness and which don’t invite the occupants to linger long.<br />The wards have been a temporary home to numerous casualties, including both Terry Waite and John McCarthy, the ill-fated Lebanon hostages en-route to the homes after their liberation. More sadly, it was also used as a crisis centre for victims of the US Marines Barracks Bombing in Beirut. Doubtless there are individuals who ended their days there and, who knows, the echoes of these sad events may still emanate through the wards today.IAmWonderWomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04257583449055087868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1670718301634741081.post-32373736429697569152010-09-30T11:03:00.001+03:002010-09-30T11:09:11.451+03:00It's A Kind of MagicWell, the leaves may be falling in the UK and many may be donning their jumpers and coats but here in Cyprus it’s Summer Fair season and the last two weekends have seen big family events at both Akrotiri and Episkopi.<br />The weekend before last, Aki hosted its second Family Fun Day, an annual event set to coincide with the Carter Cup Football Tournament. Amongst the usual festivities, stalls and hoards of hyperactive children fuelled by candy-floss and ice-cream, we were treated to a number of shows and demonstrations including an impressive exhibition of skills by the Dragon-Ki Tae Kwon Do club, and a titillating tidbit of a of the soon-to-be-premiered and much anticipated performance of “Allo-Allo” by the Flamingo Theatre Club. In addition, the children were treated to an awesome magic show, the highlight of which was the “impale the lady in the cardboard box with big metal spears” trick. This was received with mixed reviews, half the children had to be calmed from their shrieks of terrified hysteria, while the remainder were visibly disappointed by the distinct lack of blood. The general consensus however was that it was a great show, especially appreciated by the Dads, who applauded loudly when the lady emerged from her impaled incarceration, not only unscathed, but wearing a skimpier outfit than the one in which she entered the box.<br />Also part of the day’s events was the It’s A Knockout event. Having participated last year, and still having the scars (both physical and emotional), I had the considerable advantage of being a spectator this year and watch as teams from all units across the base contend with inflatable obstacle courses, Gladiators-style pole-battles, surf-board rodeo machines and bungee runs, all whilst being liberally doused with soap suds and hose blasts from sadistic PT instructors. My hearty congratulations go to the Akrotiri Ladies Events team who, for the second year running, won the coveted Wooden Spoon. Go, girls!<br />The evening was rounded off by a rousing gig by local band Craggy Island who kept the crowds jumping through till the small hours. Thankfully, the rain held off and, unlike last year, the PA system did not malfunction in a shower of sparks and bring the night’s events to a premature end.<br />Last weekend it was the turn of Episkopi to host their Summer Fete. The whole of the Happy Valley thronged with thousands of visitors coming to experience the various events which included Morris Dancing , Dog Shows, Bomb Disposal Demos, live bands and a Freefall Parachuting Display. There were stalls aplenty representing traders, charities and organisations from across the island, not only military but local Cypriots and ex-pats, too. The annual Summer Fete has proved to be a much anticipated event over the years and, once again, it didn’t disappoint.<br />Over the next few months are planned several events and shows that help keep the community alive here, including the already mentioned rendition of “Allo-Allo” which will be performed al-fresco with the audience encouraged to dress in suitable 1940s France attire and bring a picnic. The month of October will not only see a rash of Oktoberfest celebrations, for many an excuse to dust down the leather leiderhosen and naughty barmaid outfits (and that’s just the guys!) but it is also time for the annual Akrotiri Ladies’ Events Fashion Show. This popular event is not only a showcase for finding the perfect ballgown for the oncoming Ball season, but, this year, has the added twist of hosting an auction for the most coveted outfits. Think about it, 200 ladies in one location, filled with Brandy Sours and bravado clamouring for the same taffeta number. Could be interesting.....<br />Well, that’s enough to think about for now. I’ll be back soon with more news from the WSBA.IAmWonderWomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04257583449055087868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1670718301634741081.post-7847725852335284242010-09-30T11:02:00.000+03:002010-09-30T11:03:20.407+03:00Everybody HurtsI can imagine that the mood is very subdued today at Episkopi Garrison here in Cyprus as news seeps through that the 2nd Battalion The Duke of Lancaster's Regiment – known as the 2 Lancs - have suffered another loss of life during their deployment in Afghanistan. I can only offer my heartfelt sympathies, not only to the family and friends bit also to the colleagues that remain to fight another day with one less comrade in their courageous crew.<br />Prior to moving to moving to Cyprus and rubbing shoulders with the military, I had no real concept of the impact of this kind of news. It is true that these kind of reports are always tragic but back in Civvie-world it was easier to detach and spout off hollow platitudes of the futility of war, and in particular the conflict in Afghanistan. It’s not so simple when you start to meet the families and realise that there is a credible and terrible chance that your friends and neighbours may one day become the victims of another senseless attack. Real people with real lives, not just another statistic.<br />It is with absolute certainty that I feel that we should have the utmost pride and awe for the courage, integrity and comradeship shown by the troops who put themselves in the face of danger daily. It is with relief and gratitude that I observe that the tide has turned within the media and that our brave troops are finally being proffered the respect and recognition that they have earned ten-fold.<br />I also spare a thought for the partners and families left behind when loved ones are deployed to these hostile lands. Now that the children have returned to school, I pride myself on having made it through the six weeks without committing an act of filicide, however, on reflection, this is a scant achievement compared to the legions of wives and husbands who had no choice but to battle through the break without the support of their partner. In addition to that, no doubt, they would have had to maintain a positive and cheerful disposition for the sake of the children, all the time watching the news with trepidation and experiencing many a heart-stopping moment any time the phone or the doorbell rang at unexpected hours. I’m not sure I possess the inner resolve and grit required to try and lead a normal life under such a threatening shadow. Military wives and partners, I salute you. War has many unsung heroes, and amongst them you should stand proud.<br />There is talk of Homecoming parade when the 2Lancs eventually return to Episkopi from Afghanistan. I for one, will be there, sadly aware, having lost my civvie naivety, that amongst the jubilation, pomp and circumstance march a bunch of men and women haunted by the sights and sounds of life on the battlefield. And, behind the scenes will be families shattered by the fact that their loved ones were brutally robbed of the chance to be reunited once more. This is the bitterest pill that I have had to swallow.<br />To all of you affected directly or indirectly by this senseless, heartless war I extend my humblest sympathies. And to those waiting on their love ones to return I offer my heartfelt hopes for their safe return.IAmWonderWomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04257583449055087868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1670718301634741081.post-14540509846368982262010-09-30T11:00:00.000+03:002010-09-30T11:11:27.522+03:00Back to School AgainSo, September has arrived and, thankfully, so has the (slightly) cooler weather. The change in temperature on the first of the month was almost spooky, almost as if the Cyprus thermostat had been set on a timer. The oppressive humidity has dissipated and it is now safe to lay a thin cotton sheet on the bench and not fear waking up drenched and mummified by the bedclothes as a result of futile nocturnal wranglings. People are starting to emerge from the refrigerated havens of their homes, where they have been holed-up against the temperatures, and are walking around like zombies blinking at the sudden onslaught of natural daylight.<br />Another pressure is also off here at Akrotiri, and one wonders if the breeze has picked up or we are experiencing a collective sigh of relief from all the parents. Yes – the children are back at school- hurray! However, after six weeks of lay-ins and lazy days watching DVDs under the air-con (or whirring ceiling fans in our case) , it’s a bit of a shock to the system when the alarm goes off at 6am and you realise that you have just sixty minutes to rouse your reluctant offspring, prepare breakfast, pack a snack box, locate the PE kit and play a grudging game of “guess where I hid my school shoes, mummy”. Mean while at the same time you are trying to find yourself a clean set of clothes which are deemed acceptable at the school gates, brush your teeth and wash down your third cup of coffee. For those unaccustomed with the Cyprus way of life, school starts at 7.20am, in order to avoid the worst heat of the day, and ends around 12.30pm. This takes a little getting used to, and, as I’m approaching my fourth year at Akrotiri, I think I’m finally getting the hang of it!<br />My office have been a hub of activity over the last week or so as it there that parents have to register their children to use the school buses, especially the one which transports the secondary school students from Akrotiri to St John’s secondary school at Episkopi. The majority of my callers have, typically, left the process to the last minute, as other priorities have taken precedence, so I’ve been knee-deep in paperwork and anxious mums and dads. I’m glad to report, however, that all students appear to have made it to the bus on the first day of term, and I was not greeted at my workplace door with an angry mob bearing torches and pitchforks. Well, so far, so good anyway.<br />Over the summer there have been a lot of new buildings spring up. Our new Med Centre is almost complete, and the shiny white walls and glassy frontage look quite resplendent, especially when compared to the tired and aged building that has been previously used since, I suspect, the 1950s. My street, too, is also undergoing renovations, a lot of the old Cawood bungalows have been bulldozed to make way for a new housing project. It’s quite sad to see the old homes fall, especially as several friends who have since left the island, were good pals and neighbours living there. In fact, I couldn’t resist hanging out of my bedroom window the other day, video camera in hand, to document the destruction of the house opposite mine, and to post it on facebook for the previous resident to witness. The new homes are already well underway, so I’m taking the chance to enjoy an extended view from my windows before the new builds dominate the horizon again. What is really encouraging to see is that the builders have taken care to avoid and protect some of the old trees that were part of the gardens of the previous homes. Inside the site are scattered a variety of ancient and wizened olive trees, gnarly cedars and elegant pine trees, many of which have been homes to the birds and wildlife nearby. A great majority of these trees have outlived by many years the stay of the residents of our streets and it is a relief to see that they will remain to provide shade and pleasure for more years to come.<br />While on the subject of buildings, I thought I would share with you one of the visits I took to the Troodos mountains, during which time I took the opportunity to visit the long-abandoned Berengaria Hotel. Nestled beween two restaurants on a roundabout at the village of Prodromos lies a small dirt track. Venture up here and you will discover one of the hidden gems of Cyprus. The Berengaria (or Verengaria) was built in 1930 and was considered the height of luxury in its time, with marble floors, flock wallpaper and splendid chandeliers. The rooms boasted magnificent views across the Troodos and the courtyard with its pool were a peaceful haven from city life. It is said that princes from the Middle East were known to reside there, and only the fortunates from the upper echelons of society could afford its luxuries. According to local lore, when the owner died, he bequeathed the hotel to his two sons who argued extensively over property rights and eventually left the hotel closed for so long that it ran into disrepair. After some time, it became apparent to the locals that this magnificent building with its even more magnificent fixtures was standing empty, and so, over time, they slowly but surely stripped it bare of all its finery, leaving the empty shell that now stands. There have been several attempts to renovate the place but each time has been beset with such obstacles that many now believe the building to be under some kind of malevolent curse.<br />But don’t let that put you off, the old remains are well worth exploring and it doesn’t take much imagination to envisage the opulence that existed where now remain broken beams, shattered glass and the inevitable graffiti-scrawled walls. It would be nice to hope that one day Berengaria will be restored to her former glory, such a formidable building in such a breathtaking location is surely deserving of some loving care.Well, that’s all I have to say for now. I’m off to battle the pile of school uniform that needs labelling, and take a sneaky afternoon nap. These early morning starts are exhausting!IAmWonderWomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04257583449055087868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1670718301634741081.post-63440877298594167242010-09-30T10:58:00.002+03:002010-09-30T11:17:21.930+03:00Leaving on a Jet PlaneWell, the Lundies have landed back in Akrotiri after our mammoth three-week tour of the UK.<br />Having negotiated the motorway networks of England, Scotland and Wales our final challenge was enduring the process of checking in and embarking the flight full of holidaymakers bound for our current homeland. Being a seasoned traveller, and also having worked at Heathrow for eight years, I have formed the opinion that there is some kind of force-field secreted within the body-scanner security arches which wipes from the average traveller the last remnants of common sense and empathy for their fellow human beings.<br />This is particularly compounded on the kind of flight that chooses not to allocate specific seats to its passengers (you know who I mean, no need to name and shame just yet!). It is with more than a degree of exasperation that I witness people who, I am sure, are compassionate, considerate individuals in their every-day lives, mutate into mercenary, twitching psychos at the merest hint that the airline ground-staff are due to announce that “the flight will be boarding shortly”. You can almost see the red mist descend as they survey their fellow passengers, determining which are the weak and defenceless who must be thrown aside like skittles and make the ultimate sacrifice in the quest for the window seat with the best leg room. It is in this air of paranoia that I find myself unable to resist messing with the heads of the susceptible few. A favourite game is to listen out for a barely audible airline announcement from another gate, and to get up and proceed to the doors of the boarding gate and stand there expectantly. Ten points is scored for every person who agitatedly jumps up to form a queue behind you before you subtly slip away making “baaa” noises under your breath....<br />Anyway, enough of my ranting, thankfully my entire family made it on to the plane and, having waved goodbye to the green fields of England for another year, we enjoyed a relatively incident-free flight.<br />On touching down in Cyprus, we were met with an entirely different scenario. As we disembarked on to the tarmac of Paphos airport we were greeted by a wall of heat. In Cyprus, it’s hot....no, really, very hot. It’s the kind of hot that invites the locals, even the leathery, weather-beaten men of the villages to regard you with a frustrated sigh, a melodramatic wipe of the brow and a slightly amused shrug. Having enjoyed the wettest spring in years, Cyprus is suffering the hottest and most humid summer on record.<br />Enter our home at the moment and you could easily be forgiven for thinking that you have stumbled upon the set of “Apocalypse Now”; the ‘whoop-whoop-whoop’ of the fans on full speed are reminiscent of the legions of helicopters, and sometimes I wonder if our roof needs to be cleared for take-off by the nearby air-traffic control tower. Only weeks ago, we delightedly watched the weather reports of the UK from this sun-soaked island and smirked at the tales of rain, cloud-cover and thunderstorms, now those very same forecasts are like the tantalising promises of a far-away land. We’re British, we’re never happy!!<br />August is typically a very quiet month, both here in Akrotiri and island-wide. Many of the Cypriots take long holidays and close their businesses and the schools enjoy an extended break. Meanwhile, a great deal of Akrotiri residents take the opportunity to visit families back home while the kids are off school. It is an unfortunate situation in some ways for August is also typically the time that we see the greatest number of new arrivals to Akrotiri, mainly families who hope to settle in before the children begin the new school year in a new school. At this time I tend to reflect on what a bewildering and disorientating time it must be for these new arrivals and trust that the systems that have been set-up to integrate the newcomers can rise to the challenge of providing the information and support that, naturally, these people crave and deserve. So far, I have been impressed, particularly with the work of the schools that aim to make the transition from one education establishment to another as stress-free an experience for the students who arrive here. Certainly at Akrotiri Primary, their efforts are commendable with a specifically allocated staff member who not only welcomes and personally introduces the new children to their classes, but also dedicates time to ensure that the children who are due to leave Akrotiri are informed and prepared for the changes they may expect on their departure. It is certainly a unique challenge faced and the constant turnover of pupils, together with the other expectations of any school working within the National Curriculum, provide a great deal of work for the staff there. And on top of this, the school manages to provide a warm and relaxed atmosphere (even when the air-con is on full-blast!) So top-marks to Service Childrens’ Education, and keep it up!IAmWonderWomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04257583449055087868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1670718301634741081.post-88647190518628390242010-09-30T10:58:00.001+03:002010-09-30T10:58:54.055+03:00..and now for a short commerial break...I’m writing this blog entry from the relative coolness and gentle cloudiness of the UK, where my family and I are spending our annual return visit to the UK.<br />Before we left, Cyprus was experiencing the hottest heat-wave in recorded history with temperatures reaching over 40 degrees and the humidity over 90% (what happens, when it reaches 100%, do the skies liquefy or is that, technically rain?). Every night in the bedroom, my husband and I considered yet more new and imaginative positions – on top, underneath, facing this way, facing that way, dangling over the bed, on the floor........-but we simply were not able to find a comfortable sleeping position that gained maximum benefit from the ceiling fan and that did not feel like we were being blasted by a hairdryer. Perhaps one of our less sage decisions was not to opt for air-con in the house but to act like staunch Brits and “tough it out”, however at the time, the mountains of paperwork, assessments and obstacles seemed like too much effort. Oh the regrets!<br />Now we have had to content ourselves with stalking the streets looking for the properties that have the welcoming white electrical boxes attached to the outside and finding excuses to invite ourselves into the homes of these unsuspecting residents. The other alternative is to risk getting ourselves arrested as suspect shoplifters when we are observed loitering just a little too long inside the deliciously cool environments of retail establishments with no intention of making a purchase. I have a feeling that our pictures may be appearing on posters and flyers by the side of shop tills very soon.<br />So it is for that, and a few other reasons that we have taken our annual three week trip back to the UK. During this time, we will be traversing the length and breadth of the British Isles – taking in southernmost Kent, mid Scotland and South Wales in 20 days. Quite an epic trip but a necessary one if we are to spend times, some obligatory others more pleasurable, to catch up with family and friends.<br />It is times like these that I learn to appreciate how good Cyprus life if, especially when I have to attempt to find answers to the probing questions of my four-year –old, such as “why is the rain cold?” and “why is the sea all muddy?”<br />It is also a time where I find myself incredibly grateful for the benefits that BFBS TV have to offer us, particularly in the lack of advertisements. After just one afternoon sat in front of the British Goggle-box, I have been bombarded with a million reasons why my life is just not good enough. Apparently I am a total nobody if I haven’t claimed compensation for an accident that wasn’t my fault, cashed in the equity on my home, compared the market on the myriad insurance policies available, sold my unwanted gold or bought a DFS Sofa. And don’t get me started on the kids’ advertisements. My precious little angels, who, for so long have been sheltered from the rigours of commercialism are now starting to believe their lives are not complete without the latest gimmicky, ‘gotta-collect-em-all’, instantly breakable piece of plastic trash made in Taiwan.<br />This is why we tend to spend Christmas in Cyprus, it provides a welcome respite from the dauntless targeting of little minds by the Fat Cats of the toy companies which usually starts before the Halloween pumpkins have even been extinguished. Thanks to BFBS TV’s lack of adverts, Santa usually has total free-rein over what he brings on Christmas Day and the children are always delighted as they had no idea what to ask him for in the first place.<br />Anyway, Christmas-Schmistmas, back to the joys of summer. I hope any readers in Cyprus are managing to survive the hellish furnaces of the climate out there. As for me, I’m off to walk barefoot on the lovely green lawn and dance in the next rain shower. A stranger in a familiar land, and loving it!!IAmWonderWomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04257583449055087868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1670718301634741081.post-59876442747979728342010-09-30T10:55:00.000+03:002010-09-30T10:58:06.709+03:00So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, GoodbyeOver recent weeks, the one word I have most frequently, and reluctantly found myself uttering has been ‘goodbye’. Yes, it’s the summer holidays here again at RAF Akrotiri, a time where, traditionally, as the temperatures rise the number of familiar faces declines and families finish their tours and pack up their houses to move on to the next posting. There is a distinct whiff of Domestos in the air as the poor individuals battle with the rigours of the march-out, preparing their homes for the arrival of ‘new blood’ in the weeks to come. This year, I’m feeling the sting as it is my third summer in Cyprus, and a large number of very good friends who arrived on the island in the same season as my family and I are reaching the end of their time here on the island. This is where the life of a civvie has its downfalls. Yes, you do get to spend longer in the sunshine on this beautiful island but the price is watching friends come...and watching them go. It’s a bitter-sweet situation.<br />It’s definitely friendships and the great community feeling that keeps places like Akrotiri alive. The base is populated by hundreds of families all flung thousands of miles from their familiar lifestyles – friends, family, the support systems we all surround ourselves with. Everyone here is in the same boat and soon becomes apparent that it’s ‘sink or swim’ if you wish to spend a fulfilling and enjoyable term here. Fortunately, the people here have worked very hard to set up a variety of little ‘life-boats’ and are always on the look-out for the strugglers. If the welcome had not been so warm when I first arrived, then I am sure we had not have applied to be extended, but, I’m delighted to report that I have always felt and continue to feel a great part of the community here. Sometimes, too much so, that it tugs quite heavily on the heart-strings when goods friends have to leave.<br />Friendships here are formed quickly and strongly, it’s incredibly important to know you have people to turn to when a long-distance call back home just doesn’t cut the mustard. Also, it’s all too easy to feel isolated when you feel unable to turn to a neighbour, friend or relative for practical help in moments of crisis. The residents of Akrotiri seemed to have a deep, ingrained understanding of this need to connect and are always willing to reach out to one another. As a Community Support Clerk, this is profoundly important to me, for, there are times when I know to refer our customers not to formal organisations or a faceless system, but just to give them a phone number of a kind individual I know for sure will offer their services above and beyond the call of duty out of kindness and empathy. A prime example of this is the Headless Chickens group formed by a group of mothers all affected by being left at home with children while their partners were posted out of area, sometimes for up to six months. Although the Welfare Office does a sterling job in providing practical help, the Headless Chickens go the extra mile in arranging child-friendly dinner dates, getting together for coffee mornings, and supplying a support network amongst their members for child-minding etc. They also understand each others’ situations much more specifically and deeply than those not affected by the enforced absence of a partner ever could. They can be found on Facebook and are well worth looking up.<br />Other similar groups include Akrotiri Friends, aimed at providing meet-ups for newcomers, especially the singlies, to the Base, The Akrotiri Blokes Club who are a bunch of house-husbands that meet monthly to (and I quote) “ drink beer, discuss sport and exchange childcare tips....borrow tools and get advice on fixing your motorbike/ computer/ other broken stuff.”, and Akrotiri Ladies’ Events whose aim is to organise a variety of events (ranging from Red Carpet cinema nights, to Fashion Shows, Watersports Days, etc) the profits of which are used to provide grants for the myriad of other clubs, organisations and special interest groups that exist here.<br />The Community Support office itself also offer a CAMEO (ComeAndMeetEveryOne) session every fortnight where people who have recently arrived can come and chat over free drinks and ice-cream and learn about what’s happening at Akrotiri and exchange hints and tips about Cyprus Life (naturally, the important things such as the best discount shoe shops and who does the best kebab), the kind of info you won’t find except through word of mouth. The sessions aren’t restricted to newcomers, anyone is welcome whether they have something to say or want to make new friends.<br />The sheer tightness of the community and the proximity of all its’ residents has caused some people to bemoan what is referred to the “fishbowl syndrome” After all, it is hard to maintain your privacy when you are likely to live a few doors down from your childrens’ teacher or the colleague you had to reprimand that day, or you may find yourself rubbing shoulders at the local fish counter with the doctor who performed your smear test. But frankly, I have welcomed the opportunity to shake off the typical British stand-offishness that has polluted so many societies back home. Having lived in London and its environs and not even knowing the first names of my next-door neighbours I find it a refreshing change that every day there is always a smiling face greeting me not too far away. I think the sunshine helps, warm weather makes you smile. A friend (yet another departed from here) likened living in Akrotiri to living in a 1950’s movie, perhaps a little like the fictional Bedford Falls in Frank Capra’s “It’s a Wonderful Life”. A town where, ultimately, the residents pulled together to make it a better place for everyone, what better compliment can there be?<br />The only downfall I can consider is that, inevitably, every time I go to the local supermarket on base I find myself engaged in a chat with someone about their lives, their stories etc. That’s utterly fine until you remember that you’ve been standing chatting for fifteen minutes or more in 38 degrees heat with a tub of ice-cream in your bag that has now reverted back to milk.Oh, and the other downfall...when fantastic friends have to go. I’ll never get used to that. Although I have to say the technological wonders of Skype can soften the blow, and visits to the UK are never dull as we have friends to revisit in almost every corner of the British Isles.<br />So I’m dedicating this blog entry to all those who have recently seen my signature in a goodbye card, exchanged hugs over a farewell kebab and who have enriched my lives ten-fold. You know who you are, don’t be strangers and thank you for being a valuable part of my time in Akrotiri. Good luck in your new postings, wherever that may be.IAmWonderWomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04257583449055087868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1670718301634741081.post-45792104070449008942010-09-30T10:54:00.002+03:002010-09-30T10:55:41.621+03:00Scorpions, Spiders and Snakes, Oh My!Today a mysterious parcel arrived courtesy of the wonderful BFPO system. It was addressed to my four year old son. After a bit of head-scratching and box shaking we concluded it was a prize from a competition we entered through BFBS’ very own Room 785 Childrens’ channel. My boy was very excited, what could it be? Paper and packaging were rapidly torn and scattered throughout the living room and what was revealed was....a Bug Hunting Explorer Kit!!! My son was apoplectic with excitement. My heart sank.<br />Now normally, I am all for encouraging my offspring to explore their local environment, but back in the UK it is a different matter. In the typical English Country Garden are such delights as placid earthworms, fluttering butterflies, dopey woodlice and harmless little spiders. The worst encounter you are likely to have are with a wasp with issues or a stag beetle who got up on the wrong side of bed that morning. Not so in Cyprus – here a whole selection of terrifying and frankly dangerous creepy-crawlies await.<br />When you first arrive at your quarter in Akrotiri, the local HIVE and Housing Office supply an information pack to peruse. As you sit down with your cuppa on the standard-issue sofa (designed in a way that the cushions continually slide off the main frame in an alarmingly flammable manner), you flick cheerfully through leaflets titled “Travel & Visitors”, “DIY & Electrical”, “Supermarkets & Shopping” etc, all packed with loads of hints and tips to make your stay in Cyprus an enjoyable one. However, reader beware, for lurking at the back is a horrific tome entitled “Creepy Crawlies”. When you encounter this info sheet, I suggest you prepare yourself before delving into its pages of horror. DO NOT read before bedtime unless you have a penchant for nightmares. Also, ensure you are curled up on the sofa with your feet off the ground , trust me, for as the terrifying tale unfolds, you will instinctively retreat to a foetal position for fear that whatever creatures lurk beneath your chair will drag you to your doom by your ankles. And woe betide any family pet whose tail accidentally brushes over your feet as you read....<br />So, in this info-sheet-of doom, you will learn all about the less welcome residents of Cyprus – Mosquitoes, Cockroaches, Scorpions, nasty biting Centipedes, Brown Widow Spiders (the slightly less venomous cousin of the Black Widow) and Tarantulas. And that’s not even mentioning the snakes!!Now, if you complete your reading of this paper without either violently evacuating your lunch or packing up your few belongings and catching the first plane back home then I salute you. I know I spent the first few weeks of my life in Cyprus walking around the house with my eyes pinned on the carpet just in case my poor feet encountered imminent death-by-scorpion, and getting out of bed each morning involved an Olympic leap calculated to be just a few inches further than the hairy-legged reach of the man-eating arachnids that obviously dwelled beneath the divan.<br />Eventually, however, I settled down from my phobias and reconciled myself with the fact that the insects of Cyprus and I would have to form a truce if I was to maintain my sanity and they were to live a full life not prematurely ended under one of my boots. To tip the odds in my favour, I got myself a cat, which proved to be a fatal error. It turns out my cute little Cyprus Tabby is most adept at catching and cornering enormous cockroaches and humungous spiders, but is less talented at killing, usually leaving the prey stunned in the corner of a room, ready to wake and pounce the moment I enter. But, that aside, I am slowly learning to tolerate the copious entomological wonders that set up home under my roof. Hardly a day passes when I am not confronted by a cockroach as big as my thumb either scuttling across the kitchen floor, hanging from the shower curtain as I emerge, wet and naked in search of a towel, or even grinning up at me from the Chinese wok that I was just about to fill with vegetables for dinner. And now only my immediate neighbours hear my blood-curdling screams, as opposed to the whole street, so that’s a definite improvement.Other fauna that have passed my doorstep include the mahoosive ants that traversed my carpet in a military line, the scarily large (can you see a theme here?) hornets that drowsily dangle their legs inches from your scalp, mossies the size of bluebottles that bite you through your jeans and the nest of Brown Widow spiders that took up residence in the cupboard under the stairs. And then there was the snake that slithered into the garden. After a mass evacuation of our back yard, we observed the slippery character from behind the safety of our French windows and concluded it was one of the harmless varieties, not the evil Blunt-Nosed Viper that can be found by less fortunate souls. We were happy to adopt a ‘live and let live’ policy in this case until we discovered it could climb trees.<br />That altered the rules of the game radically and my 8 year old girl at this point reached an unprecedented level of hysteria at the thought of one dropping off a branch onto her head. So it was up to Mummy and Daddy, armed with a rake and a spade, to rid our garden of this uninvited guest. Around 90 minutes later, the threat had been neutralized, following an hour and a half of shrieking, leaping and beating of tree branches. I have since been told that Cypriots consider it very unlucky to kill a non-venomous snake but, frankly, I’ll take my chances.<br />Besides, the adrenalin buzz of holding my quarry aloft at the end of a very long rake, unleashed my inner Great White Hunter. Only momentarily, mind you.<br />Asides from the kind of beastie that wants to kill you, Cyprus is also home to an amazing array of fascinating and beautiful creatures. Amongst the pines of the Troodos mountains can be found the most colourful and awesome butterflies, there are blue and green beetles of every shape and size, bright red firebugs and incredibly noisy cicadas. A drive with the window open through the nearby roads flanked by orange and lemon groves can be almost deafening as the thousands of rattling bugs warble their way through the day. In addition, we have been host to Monty the Praying Mantis and ‘his’ 30 odd siblings that burst out of an egg case I found attached to my office window. They lived quite happily in a glass aquarium in my living room until they started displaying cannibalistic tendencies and we decided to humanely liberate the survivors.<br />So, come to Cyprus unless you’re arachnophobic, ophidiophobic or none too partial to cockroach infestation. There’s a warm welcome from creatures with six legs, eight legs or no legs! (the two-legged inhabitants are, on the whole, pretty harmless though).<br />Right, I’ve gotta go, my four year old is looking rather excited with something he’s trapped in his Bug Hunting Explorer Kit. I’ll be approaching him with a cheerful, enthusiastic Mummy-smile on my face and a can of “white death” bug-spray concealed behind my back!IAmWonderWomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04257583449055087868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1670718301634741081.post-12802198199743100422010-09-30T10:54:00.001+03:002010-09-30T11:21:14.554+03:00Loving the AlienIn my last entry I spoke of adapting to and embracing Military Life when my family and I moved to RAF Akrotiri in 2007. When we first entered the system, it became very apparent that we had to urgently and adeptly learn a new language. I’m not talking about Greek, as spoken by the locals here, what I’m referring to is MOD-Speak.This is a curious form of Olde English designed to baffle and confound, no doubt a form of anti-espionage tactics, and mainly consists of anacronyms and abbreviations, peppered with a healthy dose of metaphors. It also appears that most military personnel, not content with the names their parents no doubt carefully chose, prefer to answer to nicknames, even when being addressed formally. I found it most confusing to be greeted with phrases such as “Nobby, the 2IC of the REME has gone AWOL” actually translated as “Major Clarke, the deputy officer of the Royal and Electrical and Mechanical Engineers appears to be skiving off”. And in my past life living with civilians, the only ‘BFG’ I was aware of was Roald Dahl’s Big Friendly Giant. But, eventually, I found my ear adapting to this foreign gibberish, and I even dared to dabble in returning a few phrases myself.<br />Ironically, living in Cyprus, the one language I have failed to master is Greek. Much to my shame, after residing here for almost four years, my bi-lingual abilities extend only as far as ‘please’, ‘thank-you’, ‘excuse me’ and a swear word which comes in very handy when some idiot cuts you up on the roundabout in his BMW (most effectively executed with a universally recognised hand gesture). For most of my language failings I fully accept the blame, however, part of the problem is compounded by the fact that 99% of Cypriots have a very good command of the English language. The Cypriots in general are a wonderful and very quirky race of people. They have always extended, at least on the face of it, a very warm welcome to a bunch of eccentric foreigners who have occupied and isolated some large tracts of land on this beautiful island. Admittedly, the British presence has generated a good amount of employment and revenue for the Cypriot people, however we must never forget that the island belongs to them and they were here with their trading routes, stunning architecture and sophisticated education systems while we still trying to work out how climb down out of the deciduous forests.<br />One of my first encounters with some of the ‘locals’ was just a few days after arriving at Akrotiri, and was quite a memorable one. I was pottering about in my kitchen when there was a knock at the door and I found, waiting on the doorstep, two swarthy boiler-suited gentlemen brandishing rakes. The elder of the two, pushed a cigar to the corner of his mouth and grumbled, “we here to clear garden”. So, dutifully, I showed them to the back gate and indicated that they should get on with what was required. Returning to my kitchen I busied myself with the chores to the background noise of hedge clippers and strimmers. All of a sudden there was a tap at the window and the younger of the men, shouted through the fly screen “You take clothes off?”.<br />Naturally I froze on the spot, aghast, wondering what to do next. Obviously sensing my confusion the young gardener repeated the question “You take clothes off, please?”. At this point I was struggling to maintain eye contact in an assertive manner whilst backing carefully towards the knife drawer when suddenly my gaze caught the young man’s pointing hand. His arm was stretched in the direction of my washing line, gaily adorned with clean clothes which the considerate young man had concluded would be dirtied by the dust generated by the garden clearance. I breathed a sudden sigh of relief and the ensuing hysterical laughing that emanated from me probably only confirmed the Cypriot belief that the British are not just eccentric but positively bonkers.<br />From thereon, I embarked upon my journey of discovery of the lovely people of Cyprus. Some conclusions I have drawn in my 44-month investigation so far include the following:Cypriots are incredibly laid-back individuals, whose sense of time and urgency are the polar opposites of the MOD’s pressing deadlines. There is a concept here of ‘Cyprus Time’, which on average is usually at least one hour, and more frequently one day or more, behind any allocated appointment or booking. The locals have a much-used phrase: “Siga-Siga”, whose literal translation means “slowly, slowly” but it is more accurately interpreted as “whatever”, “whenever” or the literate expression of the shoulder-shrug. The job will be done, just not when you expect it.<br />The one exception to the chilled-out attitude of the locals is when they get behind the wheel of a car. For some reason, the act of placing the key in the ignition can transform a placid, relaxed individual into an impatient, near-homicidal maniac, for whom any obstacle on the road, be it a line of traffic, a tractor, a herd of goats or an old lady on the zebra crossing, proves to be no obstacle at all. The art of overtaking in Cyprus is best achieved on blind bend, whilst conversing on a mobile phone and drinking an ice-cold frappe.<br />The Cypriots have an unprecedented love of the mobile phone, yet seem to have still to grasp the concept that these telephones have a sophisticated and highly sensitive microphone. Most conversations overheard are experienced at a high decibel level and, to the untrained ear, sound remarkably similar to a violent domestic incident. This scenario is in fact very rare and most of the shouting and wild gesticulation is of a genial nature.<br />In Cyprus, as in many Mediterranean countries, the OId Lady rules supreme. Unlike in the UK, where the majority of our Senior Citizens are treated with a shameful disdain and neglect, in Cyprus, the older matriarchs are proffered the utmost respect. It appears to be an unwritten rule that the longer one exists on the earth the more one feels entitled to have things your own way. This rule applies most profoundly in supermarket queues. No matter how long you have waited at the delicatessen to be served your halloumi and tahini dip, if an Old Lady is within twenty feet of the queue’s end, she will feel fully entitled to elbow , shuffle and viciously handbag her way to the front, reducing even the most assertive grown men to submission. Any individual who attempts to usurp this power ploy will be greeted with disapproving stares, teeth-sucking and badly veiled envy. It is best to concede defeat in this case and hope that these women are working solo.<br />Continuing with the shops and supermarkets theme, I need to touch on the Cypriot shopkeepers overwhelming generosity and touchy-feeliness when it comes to the presence of children, particular those who look obviously ‘foreign’. My two red-haired, pale-skinned children learned very early on in our tour here that an endearing smile and a cutely tilted head was very often enough to obtain them freebies and/or sweeties in the majority of shopping outlets. The same applied to restaurants and cafes where lollipops and ice creams flowed bountifully at the flick of an auburn curl. It took a little longer for me to shake my reserved British sensibilities and conclude that the touching, hair-stroking and even kissing of strangers’ children was a form of compliment and not the pre-emptive strike of the ‘paedos’ that the British tabloids would have us believe lurk on every corner.<br />So there we have it, a capsule view of living ‘amongst the natives’. In conclusion, I have to say I find the Cypriots to be a wonderful, warm and fascinating bunch of people whose quirks and foibles only add to the richness of our experience so far here in Cyprus. I am proud to call some of the Cypriots working at Akrotiri my friends and hope to remain so for many years to come.IAmWonderWomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04257583449055087868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1670718301634741081.post-53254790435223581572010-09-30T10:50:00.000+03:002010-09-30T11:18:26.727+03:00Moving On UpFour years ago, a simple text message received from my husband proved to be one that changed not only my life but that of my family. The two words read simply: “Got Cyprus”. This brevity of term was the culmination of an ongoing saga of previous months of decisions, application form filling, frantic car and train journeys to interviews and endless telephone and email watching. The arrival of this news heralded the end of the stress and hassle and the beginning of an extended holiday on the Island of Aphrodite.Or so I thought.....<br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Isn</span>’t naivety a wonderful refuge? Little did I know, as I accessed the inbox on my mobile phone that I was, in fact, opening a massive Pandora’s Box of bureaucracy, frustration, negotiation and an enormous culture shock that was the transition from Civilian Life to working with the military overseas.<br />Now, please don’t get me wrong, nearly four years on and we’re still rubbing shoulders with a bunch of hard-working, dedicated souls who have earned our ultimate respect, and, frankly, even had I been warned exactly what I could expect, I still would have no regrets. But, one has to admit, it really has caused me to look back and realise that life as a military wife is no walk in the park, even when the setting is a Mediterranean paradise such as Cyprus.<br />Having spent nearly 20 years as a civil servant, I truly believed that I was “<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">au</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">fait</span>” with the subtleties and apparently meaningless methods that the government applies daily to confound, confuse and mesmerise us into submission, They call it ‘paperwork’, a modern form of witchcraft which has the ability to transform a simple, achievable task into a labyrinth of u-turns, dead-ends and spaghetti junctions. This was our first challenge- to negotiate the mountainous pile of referenced, cross-referenced and indexed forms that came our way, in order for us to justify our existence as creatures in a system that appears unable to permit breaking wind without a rubber-stamped approval. We foolishly took for granted the assumption that two government departments held the wherewithal to communicate effectively between one another and soon learnt that no degree of security clearance with any other authority held any sway whatsoever with the painfully drawn-out system of vetting we had to withstand before we were to set foot on Cypriot soil. We soon learnt that any date of arrival quoted to us was actually gleaned from an entirely different and unique calendar used solely by the Ministry of Defence. Thus, our estimated moving day slowly transformed from October, through to Christmas, eventually settling to January.<br />When the confirmed moving day was set in stone, we faced our next challenge – preparing to move all our worldly goods some 2000 miles to a remote island. Here is where I offer my utmost respect to those individuals and families who find themselves having to face this mind-blowing task every few years. The job basically involves taking all the furniture, ornaments, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">bric</span>-a-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">brac</span> and beloved possessions contained within a typical home, and attempting to shoe-horn them into a large metal box, not much larger than your average car-port. It is a surprisingly emotional task as the first step inevitably is the paring-down of items into essential and non-essential and it is this point that you develop a heart-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">rendingly</span> sentimental attachment to the teapot that Auntie Matilda gave you as a wedding present, and that has resided in the cupboard under the sink for the past decade. If you have children, this issue is compounded further as they have an uncanny ability to foster a sudden and unprecedented need for any toy which they have unfortunately just witnessed being deposited a nearby bin-bag. On the other hand, you also discover friends you never knew you had when word gets out that you have box-loads of items to give away for free, and you find yourself on first-name terms with the ladies of the local charity shops.<br />When you have consigned all your possessions to a mini-Stonehenge of cardboard boxes, bubble wrap and brown packing paper (having checked for the umpteenth time that the family cat has not made a cosy home amongst your spare duvet covers), it is time to sit and wait for the Big Red Van to spirit your hard-attained goods across the sea, where hopefully, you will be reunited some six weeks later.<br />At this stage, if you do not have the untamed hell of the march-out clean, may I recommend you hold your leaving party in the empty shell of your house before it is re-decorated for future residents. Forget the ‘bring-a-bottle’ etiquette, by the end of the night, you’ll be foisting all your left-over booze and dodgy liqueurs to anyone who’ll take it.<br />And so….the fateful day of our New Lives finally arrived one drizzly day in January. Having said all our emotional farewells and handed the key of our house to the Letting Agents we packed ourselves and our multiple suitcases into our hire car and headed up to RAF <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Brize</span> Norton. The terminal itself, although small was a refreshing change from the cold, faceless world of commercial airports, the staff were understanding, warm and helpful and did not bat an eye at the frankly ridiculous excess of baggage we shamefully produced.<br />The flight itself, although a little noisier than your average Easy-Jet plane trip was also surprisingly comfortable and stress-free, even with two children under 6 who attempted every trick in the book to try the patience of their parents, the cabin crew and all their fellow passengers.<br />Touching down at RAF <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Akrotiri</span>, it still <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">hadn</span>’t dawned upon us that we would now be calling this place home. The warmth of the Cypriot climate, the smell of the Mediterranean, the buzz of the drowsy mosquitoes all alluded to holidays we had taken in the past and it <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">wasn</span>’t until we arrived at our new home that the truth began to seep through.<br />I was very fortunate in that my first-impressions of our allocated quarters were positive. I’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">ve</span> since heard many, many horror stories of people who have arrived at homes that have seen better days and, despite the sterling efforts of the local Housing Office, sadly betray the woeful inadequacies of the MOD budgets. My heart goes out to these people, who, many, miles away from home, in a strange country find themselves having to make a family home with very limited resources. It is fully to their credit that not only do the majority achieve this, but they also do it with a positive spirit and cheerful disposition.<br />Our worst challenge was negotiating the baffling contents of the “get you in pack”, enduring the tortuous discomfort of Military-issue furniture and learning to live without a microwave for the first six weeks of or new life. Needless to say, the day the Big Red Van arrived with our <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">worldy</span> goods was an occasion for great jubilation, heralded by a celebratory microwave dinner and a glass of wine in non-plastic cups.<br />I am pleased to report that settling in to military life at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Akrotiri</span> was a painless and surprisingly easy affair. People here were extremely welcoming and had a great degree of empathy for the newcomer, understanding better than others the impact detachment from family, friends and all things familiar.<br />Once I had reconciled my original resistance of being a “Wife Of” (in my opinion an archaic and insulting concept which my career-minded, post-suffragette sensitivities railed against heartily), I was able to relax into the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Akrotiri</span> way of life.<br />Most profoundly, as a civilian moving into a military environment, I found my respect for its’ personnel increase exponentially. From my ‘other life’ in my comfortable, suburban existence, it was easy to subscribe to the common belief that soldiers, airmen and sailors families made their lifestyle choices and therefore should expect to suffer the demands and consequences of their jobs uncomplainingly. I also am ashamed to admit that I had jumped upon the bandwagon of having very little concern or sympathy for those involved in the troubles in Afghanistan. Meeting the families involved with these brave individuals put paid to that flawed and frankly bigoted opinion. Witnessing first-hand the strength of character and courage exhibited by every member of these families, be they the servicemen and women or the field or the partners who have to maintain a secure and happy home-life whilst living in fear of the knock-on-the-door, has humbled me incredibly. I now feel a great privilege to walk amongst these extraordinary people.And, of course, doing it on a sun-soaked, beautiful holiday island is a bit of a bonus.<br />In my next blog, I’ll talk about learning to live amongst “the natives”, the lovely, curious, baffling yet warm Cypriots.IAmWonderWomanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04257583449055087868noreply@blogger.com0