Here Comes The Rain Again

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.

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.  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.

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.

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).

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.

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.

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.

Silence is Golden

Yesterday I attended my first Remembrance Service at Akrotiri

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

It was when I looked around the congregation that I finally understood the gravity and austerity of the day.

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.

Not yesterday.

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.

 Amongst these good people stood those who had witnessed first-hand the living hell of conflict.

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.

So in those two minutes, I gave my thanks. 

Thanks to those heroes and heroines that we commemorated that day.

Thanks for the fact that, through their bravery and selflessness I possessed the freedom to live in safety.

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.

We WILL remember them.

She's In Fashion

Well..,get lost, Giselle, leg-it Linda and naff off Naomi, there’s a new kind of supermodel in town.

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^th, 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^th annual incarnation, was the culmination of months of hard work by the voluntary committee of Akrotiri  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  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.

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  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.

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.

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.  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.

Had you perchance to pop in to the Akrotiri Officers Mess on the morning or afternoon of October 8^th, 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  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.

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!

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  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.

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.  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.

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.

As the evening drew to a close, the raffle was drawn and a host of impressive prizes were distributed. All  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.

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.

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.

Poetry In (e)Motion

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,  Facebook will be awash with embarrassing images and a frenzy of  frantic ‘un-tagging’ will occur on many a morning after.

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,  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,  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.

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:

Tradition dictates in some old trains of thought

That the wife of “the boss” is a staid kind of sort

Swathed in her twin-sets and pearls she resigns

To a life of dull dinners, of cheeses and wines

She should never be seen in a t-shirt and sweats

On a trailer bike loaded with children and pets

Or knee deep in soap suds whilst mounting a slide

Dressed in a sumo-suit, baking inside

But rules are for breaking and we wouldn’t dare

To deny that you break them with courage and flair

And for that you deserve your own private arena

While we tell you reasons we love you, dear Tina

Tina Bee, you rocked the airwaves like a pro

Starting from nothing to having your own show

The whole of Akrotiri will miss you more than they can say

And on a personal note BFBS wishes you could stay

One of Tina’s many hats is as SSAFA Chair

And to help celebrate 125 years she came up with a dare

That in her spare time she would produce a cookbook

‘Simply Cyprus’ – which if you haven’t already seen is definitely worth a look!

In addition to this, barely a week goes by

When Tina isn’t busy with a fundraising idea

Whether it’s baking cakes or on a treadmill outside Ermes

Or hosting ‘Jazz on the Lawn’ with pimms and fresh strawberries

You lead by example and are always there to support

Which is why you so richly deserved your recent award

SSAFA and the committee will miss you immensely

But we will strive to continue and build on your legacy!

The folks at St Pauls have seen many a strange sight,

but nothing quite matches Tina B in full flight.

With Maya in one hand and a freshly baked cake under each arm

she sprints to the altar to rescue Woody from self-harm.

JB is the consummate professional

exuding leadership with passion and flair

but even Tina’s great powers of persuasion

have difficulty controlling his hair!

At school we have known you, As mother of Maya,

We are sure, just like Mum, she will be such a flyer,

You have helped us ‘Get Snug’ and also ‘Chillax,

And we hope your next move you’ll enjoy to the max.

When you led Aki Ladies, we all followed madly

While you pitched in and pitched up and did it all gladly

You’ve dipped us in chocolate, gymkhana’d and trotted

And dug in the sand where the treasure was plotted

You’ve made us eat crab, not just meat but the body

In Little Plates restaurant, deep fried by dear Roddy

Not to mention the times you have strutted your stuff

On the catwalks of messes, have you not had enough?

And so there we have it, your Cyprus-based life

You’ve been more than a Mum and much more than a Wife

Your deeds have touched many, impressions are left

That the folks here who know you  will soon be bereft

The good you have done has been with such finesse

And many a time in some cool fancy dress!

The Big Shoes you leave will require some tough filling

Let’s hope your successor is able and willing

Dear Tina, we thank you for all of your care

Your time given freely, your energy spare

So we all raise a glass, maybe sob in a tissue

It’s doubtless that Aki is going to miss you.

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.

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.......

She's Just a Devil Woman

*this blog entry will not be featured on the BFBS Blog*

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.

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. 

I’m so glad that these people don’t live with me.

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.

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?”
My PMDD has ruined more holidays, trashed more days out and screwed up more anniversaries then I care to remember. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!