Category: Life, Love & Observations

The Fighter

Although this was not actually written about the great man himself, it was more a generalisation about the process. But,  with the sad passing of another legend Muhammad Ali I thought that I would post this today.  RIP to the greatest boxer a true fighter and the reminder to “Float Like a Butterfly, Sting like a Bee”

Think for a moment of the fighter.
Promoted his future will be much brighter,
He’s training for his very next bout,
But during this he doesn’t shout.
Can’t guess from the shape he’s in,
But this guy is determined to win.
Not sure he’s Bantam or Welter weight,
Can’t tell exactly from his gait.
Nutrition and fitness are his loves,
Dressed in shorts and his gloves.

The date arrives he behaves with bravado,
Showing the world he‘s no desperado.
His belief in himself as he will rise,
Willing his opponent to meet his demise.
Thinking of all of the money he’ll make,
If he’s prepared and what risks to take.
What he’ll do is calculated,
His form and result to be debated.
The time has come to grace the stage.
Experience will show with his age.
The effort he’ll give with all his might,
The victor he’ll be this very night.
With Herculean effort he’ll fight to the last
A case filled with trophies of the past.

 

 

In The Days of Green Ink writing…

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I wonder when it was that I stopped writing in Green Ink, I used to all the time…. Before that it was almost always black, we had to write in Blue when I was at school and from then on I shied away from it, rebelling. Which is slightly odd as Blue is actually my favourite colour. Now more often than not, it is Purple or Pink, I guess they must have run out of Green and I picked up a job lot of coloured ink, I am looking forward to using the Turquoise, it isn’t the same boring old blue.

I do love a fountain pen… I don’t use it often enough now, using it mainly for writing cards or special notes.

I am currently putting the handwritten poems which I have just found from way back when into some semblance of order, well at least in one place on the laptop.
I found them other day, in the bag which I mentioned in a previous post. A total blast from the past. But so many other things in there too along with my old poems, among them a book where I had written recipes, in one place. I don’t remember whether they were favourite ones, or if I had copied them from a newspaper. Some people had scrapbooks for such things, but I have written them out instead.

It is funny how going through this I noticed how, dependent on what I had written and when, my handwriting changed. As I grew up, I did away with the loopy I’s and flamboyant T’s, but from time to time it still maintains a creativity of it’s own. Back when I wrote these, my handwriting was very controlled Probably like the rest of me. The recipes however maintain a different script to that of the poems, following similarities with my writing today as though somehow more relaxed. It is different again now, noticeably so. I wonder what the experts would make of it now if it were deciphered.

The Daily Post – Handwriting

 

Abuse, Trauma and Trust Misplaced

Before you assume that I am very gullible and naïve please, let me shout from my corner with my explanation. I was brought up to speak the truth, to be good. To respect my elders and follow their advice and do as I was told. As time went on following these rules I was about to become very unstuck! The very people who were supposed to teach, protect and you can learn from, abused their positions, my trust and Yes, they definitely taught me Lessons in Life that I would rather not have learned. Things that would shape me in years to come, tormenting my mind and sabotaging my thoughts, whilst haunting my dreams.

Don’t get me wrong, I am more than aware that Life could have been so much worse. I am Thankful each and every day that over the years, the experiences stopped. They were usually one off’s and once I had removed myself from the offenders then that would be it, until the next time. Until someone new decided to take an opportunity which wasn’t there, to overstep the line once again. I am thankful every day that I did not have to suffer an endless onslaught of abuse lasting years. At least that gave me the chance to rebuild myself in between. There are different levels of abuse all wrong and all leaving scars which may or may not ever heal. I pushed each time to the back of my mind, hoping that if I left it there and forgot about it, then it would be gone. Little did I know that it would merely lay dormant until some other trauma brought it out again, all right back and threw it back in my face. I got angry with myself, and over time I was more angry at having been so gullible as to be fooled over and again than I was over the perpetrators. How could I be so stupid and how could I have trusted them? I must have been doing something wrong for it to keep happening to me… and generally beating myself up mentally about my misfortune.

Did I wear my heart on my sleeve? Kind of… Did people around me know the things that I had gone through? Very few did. Some are delightfully clueless, whilst others’ like me chose to bury and forget what they did know. I dealt with it alone preferring not to speak of it and thought that was working well for me right up until yet more trauma arrived and opened up Pandora’s box once again.

I thought that it was strange when I woke yesterday morning and felt compelled to write down on paper the episodes. It started out as a list of where my trust had been misplaced (Hmm, a little of that self blame creeping back in there!) then it somehow grew into a list of childhood and teenage sexual abuse that I had experienced.

Now why on earth would anyone want to write a list, that list? I cannot answer that, I have found out that over the past few months that writing is a major part of my own healing process and it sometimes catches me unawares but when I write it down, things get better. It enabled me to write down how I actually felt about things. Last year I discussed several of these episodes with a counsellor for the first time ever. I had been referred having been diagnosed with PTSD following the trauma of an accident. As the sessions went on I had a feeling that the time was right to talk about some of the other things that had happened in my life, which had suddenly all come back to me since the accident, sometimes reliving the nightmares, quite literally I was not sleeping and had no confidence after the accident. It had had all been brought back by the trauma I had suffered recently. But in these sessions, she told me something of great importance which was a turning point for me and for which I am eternally grateful.

For anyone who has suffered childhood abuse and asked why it happened to them, I will pass on what she said to me.

“It’s not you, It IS them. You did not DO anything to encourage this behaviour towards you and YES, you should have been protected from it by the adults around you time and time again.”

Some 33 years after I was abused for the first time as a child . I had summoned the courage to speak about it stating that the abusers were either dead or long gone, they could not harm me for speaking about it now. Someone finally told me that I did not bring it upon myself and that I did not deserve it. If it had not been me, then it would have been someone else, If I had not thought so quickly as to how I could escape, things could have been much, much worse. No-one had thought to tell me that previously. It was such a relief to hear those words and I bawled my eyes out. Thanking her profusely. The release was immense. I eventually left the car park some time after my session and drove for about 2 hours, just wanting to be on the open road.

Am I healed? I actually doubt that yet. But I do believe I am getting over the damage it did for so long. I am no longer waving that Victim flag saying “Come and Get Me, have another go, see if you can break me this time” Instead I am now brandishing my sword with the war cry of “Don’t you Dare” Dressed in my armour, complete with chinks in it, battered and scarred but still fighting. I am surviving and at times I have been a mess and barely winning, sometimes not knowing how to carry on, but feeling that I have to and I pick myself up.
They say that What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger… It is certainly true for me, By becoming strong, therefore I AM. My positive thinking is a part of my armour which protects me and as my anthem goes.

Something inside so strong.
I know that I can make it,
But you’re doing me wrong.
So wrong.
Thought that my pride was gone, Oh No!
Something inside so strong…

Sending shivers down my spine as I write those words down and spurring me onwards toward Victory.

After writing my list, I felt very uneasy as though something awful was going to happen. In retrospect I think it was just the aftermath of all those emotions being given head room again. I had a sense of doom all day, so I stayed indoors the safety of my home, I found things to do and ventured in to the loft yesterday afternoon, on a search for something entirely different. In doing so I found a carrier bag, it was full of old things, recipes, poems, coursework, drawings and letters and photographs and so much more. I have not yet read all that was in there. I knew that I had written out poems years ago and kept them in a book, which I had decided I must find, but I came across it quite by accident. What was a shock to me was to find a notepad. I did not recall writing in such detail my abusive experiences 23 years ago on paper. Back then I often wrote things down to get them out of my head rather the same way as I do today, but I had no recollection of having done this before, when I wrote them out earlier that morning. I am shocked at the matter of fact way I explain what happened way back then. That I had kept it and also that it has been with me in the several house moves since then, hidden away in the loft as well as the back of my mind. If only I had been given the opportunity to speak to someone about it back then, it might have made such a difference and I have been literally carrying it around with me for years.

Later, I ventured out with my family walking the dog in the evening. Nothing awful happened, it turned out OK. My partner brought Hope out of the Garage for me, for the first time in months. She is sitting outside the house in the road, with fuel, taxed and ready to drive out she needs a good run after her rest. Away for months, under wraps it is wonderful to see the bright blue shining outside the window despite the rainy day and a smile returned to my face. I was exhausted at the end of the day, but unable to rest until the early hours, again passing the 3am threshold before sleep took a hold of me but Today we will drive.

Hope is what it represents. & Hope is Waiting

The Daily Post – Angry

 

One Mans’ Waste is another Mans’ Treasure

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One Man’s waste is another man’s treasure. So they say….
I am the first to admit, I hate waste. I was brought up in a home where we did not have much to spare, what little we did have was often passed on or found. As a consequence, My parents and grandparents we great at recycling, (and hoarding) so I guess that it became second nature to me to have second hand furniture, clothing and to learn how to give things a new lease of life, or just enjoy them when someone else had finished with them. Also to hang onto things, often until way past their usefulness has probably passed. When I grew up, it wasn’t known as recycling, that only became a popular phrase, as I was growing up, the phrase was learning how to just “make do and mend.” It instilled a certain level of practicality in us children, where we looked at how things were made and how they could be repaired or even turned into something completely new. So much of that seems lost now.

I am in turmoil. You see whilst walking the dog earlier, I came across a house which had been cleared. We walked past it yesterday too, or was it the day before. It looked interesting, the house had been sold and as a consequence emptied. Totally emptied! The front garden was now piled high with the belongings that someone had once held so dear. You see, to someone like me, there might be gold there! Some wonderful preloved thing, just waiting to be found. It is difficult for me to comprehend, how someone can just clear out and dump someones possessions all out in the garden. No Skip. Just loaded up so that they can barely get down the pathway, what on earth does that solve? The house is sold, clearly they didn’t want it but surely you would get a house clearance in, or donate to a charity instead, after all there are plenty of them around.

Lots of people would make use of these things. A washing machine, fridge, cooker, the odd nick-nack. I wish I had a truck and a spare pair of hands sometimes. Oh and a lock up.
Unfortunately we live in a wasteful society now, where everything is considered disposable, without thought or consequence. I find this difficult to deal with and try to find another option: re-use, recycle, re-purpose or donate. My other half thinks that I gather “unnecessary toot” wonders what I would do with it, but it just requires a little creative thought. I can see the potential in most things, this is both a blessing and a curse at times.

There are still poor people in the world, at times I am one of them. Those who don’t have much, are missing something in their home and cannot afford to go and buy it. Cannot afford the latest things for their children and yet still want to encourage, nurture and let them think outside the box. That someone might be grateful to sit on an old chair, with a new cushion, or repainted in a pretty colour.

They might want a suitable table where their child can paint pictures, draw or read a book in a quiet corner. That desk and chair might just be welcome.
Perhaps if I could get that truck, lock up and spare pair of hands, then I would have a curiosity shop, full of such things to inspire a new generation, that dumping stuff for the local youths to smash up and litter all over the roads, really is not the way forward. To needlessly destroy things of beauty that were once a cherished part of someone’s family home. Sometimes passed from generation to generation. Sometimes they are not worth anything at all, in monetary terms, but have huge sentimentality to others.

As I sit in my house, surrounded by items of furniture, either bought or collected through the years, mismatched it tells a story, or several. Some inherited, some replaced but all has it’s use and place within the home. New is not always better, it holds no story to tell. It’s life has only just begun, but does it have any staying power, will it endure? I would rather take steadfast old than crumbly new any day. They don’t make it like they used to.

I regret that I did not rescue a piece of furniture from the roadside a couple of years ago. It was robust, solid wood and well crafted. Made to Last and had done so since just after WWII a 1940‘s post war oak cupboard. It had been disposed of for days, I tried to think of a way of getting it home, since I could not lift it alone and my partner had damaged himself (as he often does) so was unable to assist me. Over a period of several weeks, the rain got to it, which split the wood. Someone poured something over it and the varnish began to peel. The drawers were removed and smashed upon the floor. Paint was then thrown all over it.
A few weeks later and the top was also pulled off and slung across the road, broken and beyond repair it was then stacked by a tree for the dustmen to take away. The furniture that had once stood proudly and polished, cared for in someone’s home. Gone forever… Such a waste. Things around here so often are, it causes great sadness.

Envy, Just Look at What You’ve Missed…

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Just look at what you’ve missed…
So, don’t be jealous, be thankful.

I had a poor childhood, we often went without.
I was Bullied at School.
I was abused as a Child.
My first ‘real’ boyfriend cheated on me with my friend.
I had a miscarriage.
I developed an illness which is incurable.
I had a stalker.
I almost lost the love of my life to surgery, twice.
I have suffered in pain for years.
I have had several horrendous jobs, some resulting in redundancy.
I have suffered loss and grief time and again.
I have been raped.
I have suffered with depression.
I have considered suicide on several occasions.
I have disfiguring injuries.
I have had major surgery, which has changed me.
I will never have the joy of bearing children.
I have no child to care for me when I am old.
I could have lost my soul mate to Cancer.
I have had my life threatened with violence.
I have had people threaten to burn down my home.
I have been at rock bottom so many times that I have a seat there with my name on it.
I am fighting battles which I have not yet won.

So before you envy me for the things that I have in my life, think and be glad for all the things you have missed out on.

The Daily Post – Envy

Patterns & Textures

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How Bizarre! I don’t know what it was that went Pop! Inside my head last night leaving me feeling rather sick and dizzy and a little spaced out for most of the night, but to say that I feel a little bit odd today would be an understatement. I have not taken anything which would alter the mind or vision I hasten to add, but it left me feeling decidedly strange. I am hopeful that whatever it was that has given me a sore ear again today is not a return to the past three months of whatever caused havoc but a conclusion to it and I will finally feel so much better, instead of very nearly almost.

On the plus side though, I am rather transfixed by patterns and textures today and have spent a merry hour or so photographing all sorts of things around the home, so not much is getting done here today and You, you Lucky People get to see what I‘ve been up to….

Hopefully it will not be too boring for your though and it’s all in the name of creativity. It was another blogger, Austin Kleon who started me on this. This morning, I recalled looking at something he had done on one of his blogs. Like some of the greats which catch you totally unawares, it has sat there in the back of my mind since then, it challenged me to look at what constitutes art in a different way. He also seems to be a fan of recycling in what he does and this had me opening every envelope I could find with a printed interior, rather than throw them in the recycling, I thought I might do something with them myself, such as cover an old notebook with them, or on a grey day, (like today) begin to colour the endless patterns. Pattern can jump out from the oddest places once you start to look for it.
Then checking myself for thinking I must think I have too much time on my hands, I settled for photographing them instead.

No doubt I will add to the collection over time, before my new notebook cover takes shape.
I think I am a long way off from the leather bound one, which I have intended to make but streets ahead of my desperate reporters notebooks.

English Lessons, Touch Typing and Speed Tests

It’s funny how I was taught to touch type at School, it was a proper Pitman exam. I chose typing since it might set me up with a job when I left school and I couldn’t leave quickly enough. I thought that being a secretary might be an interesting job. It would also be useful as technology progressed to learn how to use a computer, if I knew where the keys were then it might give me a head start. Back then there were very few computers in school. Although there was one in the technical drawing classes which I also chose. Those were for the CAD design element pf the course and my enjoyment of that particular class has stayed with me. The architect within straining at the leash to get out there despite my lack of tutoring. But for the Pitman typing exam, the very fierce teacher walking around the desks, where our knuckles were wrapped with a ruler if we looked down at the keyboard. Our typewriters tapping loudly in an otherwise silent room. It is odd, how my thoughts return to that exam, so many years ago.

I passed I was pleased to say, I guess that may be why I am happy to type most things these days. With the invention of the computer and my preferred tool, the laptop since then I find it much easier.
My first PC was an ancient discarded one which had been thrown out at work as they upgraded computers, I asked for that one to use at home, since I could not afford to buy one back then. Over time I did my own upgrades to it, with more capacity and as parts were worn out and as time went on, replaced bits of it. For the past ten years I have used a laptop at home. I decided that if we travelled, we could take it with us, it was small, which meant I could put it away when not in use, since having moved from a relatively big place to a small one by then, space was at a premium. I also found that having worked on a PC all day, using a mouse caused considerable strain upon my already weak wrists in the evening also, so I thought that using a laptop, where the mouse is positioned differently under the keyboard would hurt less. I was right about that and so I began to use it more and more at home.

From time to time I think about my typing speed. Previously having worked as a Secretary and PA it is often a requirement for you to be able to type more than a certain amount of words per minute, and since I am writing more and more now, I would hope that my speeds are improving, but I haven‘t ACTUALLY checked that. I thought about doing an up to date test just to see where I am, but the idea is that you just keep typing until your minute is up. This has always been a problem for me. I like to get it right first time. If I make a mistake, then I find that I immediately go back to correct the word or grammar, instead of continuing onward to the end as you are supposed to.
It sits there annoying me from the page and I cannot get past it, stealing my concentration from the next point. As I type this, however quickly it may be, I find myself correcting as I go once again. Oh to be so carefree as being able to continue and do it all later. I don’t always spell check straight away as a rule. It depends what I am typing and whether it has any of the wiggly lines which mean that something is wrong. If it doesn’t then I am lulled into a false sense of security, sometimes only to find that I may have missed out a word or something of that ilk. I know you are supposed to write first and edit later.

In my English classes as a student, I was always getting told to write it all first as a draft, then a second to edit it followed by the final draft which I would then present. I must admit, I found that difficult, I tended to write just the first, edit it as I went and present the final one. But it seemed to work for me and my brain would move onto the next task, without dwelling upon what I had done. I didn’t like the endless repeat once I had written something I wanted to get it right as soon as possible and on to the next bit. Those words of Mrs Lennox, my English teacher are still rattling around my head often as I write today. She was a tough one who seemed to have a heart of stone , to match her steel grey crop and stare and was universally disliked. I was unfortunate to have her as a teacher of English, in three of my five secondary years. But Mrs Lennox demanded respect and she taught well, she was harsh but you listened to her, or else…. In the last year as I studied for my exams however Mrs Jackson who replaced her, was even worse, Like a drill sergeant, she looked like one and stalked around, took an instant dislike to me and despite my being in the highest set for all of my secondary years, she wanted to throw me out of the exam 3 months before I took it. This was back as GCSE’s had come in to replace the old exams, the whole of the new ones were built on coursework, which was evaluated at the end of a two year period. I had suffered head injuries in a road accident at thirteen which left me with crippling headaches on top of the Endometriosis which had started but I did not actually know I had back then, so I had spent rather a lot of time off school sick with migraines which would sometimes last for ten days at a time. I begged with her to allow me to take the Language and Oral exams, since she told me that I could not, she told me that I had no hope of passing the exams and that she had no time to give me, so I may as well give up. I refused to give up on something that I had been best at for most of my school life. I told her that I was not bothered about reading and deciphering literature (she wasn’t impressed since that was clearly her favourite part) asking her instead to give me the Language assignments to finish at home and for two months I sat up late into the night to work on them, whilst she goaded me in every class telling me that I would not finish them. I think it was her attempt at making me do it. I was determined that she did not get the better of me and I would have it and marched in to see her the morning it all had to be handed in. Having had only two hours sleep, I asked her that since I had done what I promised I asked her to do one thing for me that she would mark it as though it was someone else‘s work, not mine. She looked shocked, since I had hit the nail right on the head, I knew she disliked me and it was out there in the open. I got a pass, not a great grade, but a pass nonetheless in both the Oral and Language exams.

As I contemplate whether I should try and re-train my brain, to allow me to continue right up to the end of the minute, without tracking back. Just to see what the score would be, it occurs to me, “Do I really need a job which tells me that I must be able to type a minimum of 60 words per minute?” I can touch type, which is far more than a lot of the secretaries I have seen in the last ten years, I can also audio type, “What is that?” I have been asked by several of the same ladies. I speed write when I make notes, so there is no need for shorthand either. These requirements of the position now seem rather outdated along with high heels and a short skirt, although many bosses still demand this attire in their domain.
I think I will wait to do the re-training for speed will have to take a back seat, whilst I have writing to do, it’ll all be alright in the end.

The Last Day Trip

Sitting at her desk, she was writing a dream that she had experienced. Before it disappeared for ever, wrapped up in her thoughts.

Brought from her dreamlike state back to life, it was over in a moment, but one she was glad to share. Seated in front of her window she heard the clip-clop of horses hooves upon the road outside. She raised her eyes to see it, just in time as a beautiful horse drawn hearse was going by. Four Horses take him to his party. Plumes atop their bridles, polished and shiny to match the carriage, the black cars following slowly behind. Traffic slowing whilst they follow the route down the road. It is not an uncommon sight to see the hearses pass here. But the sight of the horses, stops her in her tracks. Struck by their beauty, a shiver went down her back, spine tingling she sat motionless. She paused, her head bowed in a mark of respect. The floral tribute for Grandad proudly displayed on the roof. An immaculate carriage carried the coffin swathed in the British Flag, transporting somebody’s hero. Hopefully, by the fact that he was a Grandad, he had a good long life filled with wonderful memories, happy to go along with the sad ones he doubtless had encountered. It was understated classically designed, not garish in any way, cream with a splash of red and green. Just Beautiful.

On their way to his final day trip, on this beautiful sunny spring day he will be wearing his best suit, with his medals pinned proudly to his chest, the casket laid open for those who wish to say their last Goodbye. People will gather in his memory, for his funeral someone will sing his favourite songs, they will tell the gathered friends and loved ones, of his accomplishments. They will proudly speak of his life and tears will flow along with a celebratory toast for a long life lived and well spent. Laid to rest or cremated, whichever way I hope that he is at peace. Joining friends and loved ones who have waited for him, receiving a Hero’s Welcome whilst he waits for the rest.

The Wedding Speech, that hasn’t quite happened.

I was watching the tail end of a film last night. It got me thinking and also a bit tearful. There was a wedding scene. I know it’s OK to cry at a wedding, if you are happy for people. I wouldn’t want to be crying out of sadness after all.

In the last few days I have been thinking about the wedding dress and bridesmaid’s dresses safely stored up in the loft. I have often thought of getting it out and looking at it, my own dress. I think about the fact that we came so close to it, becoming husband and wife before my partner became ill and we chose to postpone it. We haven’t rebooked the date. There have been several opinions as to how we should have our wedding. Having booked the church years ago we planned it around places which held some sentimental attachment to me and it all having gone rather wrong we thought about having an extreme opposite to the Church Wedding and thought about a Beach wedding somewhere hot. A friend of ours recently suggested that she and her husband could meet us a Gretna Green on the way up to our house and they could be our witnesses, then we could have a party. I also favour a wild Scottish beach, with our wonderful dog as ring bearer and our friend the laird to take the ceremony with a small celebration in a country house afterwards. But my partner is not so keen.

But, it got me thinking watching that wedding scene, of a chap who had been rather out of the picture in his daughter’s life, her parents were divorced and the Mother had remarried. It would have been rather nice to see the whole film, but we had been watching Saturday Night Dross instead and didn’t know it was on, however since it was TV, it is bound to be on next week or again soon.

It was time for the speeches at the reception and the groom handed over to her step-father as her father to speak. Suddenly, her birth father stood up and asked that since he was her Father, he might speak. He said some beautiful things, like how proud of his daughter he was how beautiful she looked there in front of her family and friends and then handed over to her step father to also speak, it was very civilised. It was lovely to hear and I started to bawl. Somehow it was like flicking a switch to me.

The last wedding that I attended, the bride’s father’s speech had me weeping like a child, it was many years ago and before we got engaged. I had no idea that my own love would ever ask me at the time. Her father took us on a real journey through her growing up and what a wonderful person he thought that she had turned into. Unfortunately we saw a very different side of her later that evening when she wasn’t getting her own way and was screeching at him, but he could see no wrong, totally blindsided. The poor man, but it must be nice to have someone that can see no wrong and I hoped for him that it was just the emotions of the day which had her overwrought.

What got me thinking last night though as I wondered if we ever get married, was whether my own father would be there, what he would say about me if he got up to speak. If we had the beach wedding somewhere, then he might not even attend. But I genuinely do not know whether he has any wish to make a speech, or even be there if or when it finally happens. I would not want him to be there out of duty alone, I only want the people who are happy for us and want to be there, at our wedding.  I am reminded, by my conscience that I promised my partner’s Mother when we got engaged that she would see us married, she wanted to speak, she was very pleased for us and knew that we loved each other so much. It pains me that she didn’t get her wish, she loved a party and was looking forward to it, before Alzheimers’ took her from us. She will be there though, in spirit at least when it happens and we will drink a toast to her. Unfortunately, I will not get to wear her beautiful necklace that she wanted me to on the day, she had wanted to me to wear it and intended to bequest it to me when she had gone. Alas someone else got there first and it disappeared.

The bridesmaid dresses in the loft may have become outdated, they would suit the beach wedding idea perfectly though, with the backdrop of a bright blue sea behind them. But despite me buying an extra one in case they outgrew them, ten years have gone by since and I think the ladies for whom they are intended may want to choose something a bit different now. Like mine their figures have changed in that time. Hmm, maybe I should try on the dress again too, but since there is no date planned at the moment there’s no rush.

As for my own Dad, well I guess that only time will tell and I hope that when we finally get married, if he wants to be there, he will find something nice to say.