As of this Friday, I have been here 8 months. Wow. I'm doing that time
all over again before I come home - so I wonder what the next 8 months hold for
me? I haven't really got a theme for this blog, just some random thoughts that
have popped up over the past few weeks.....so, here goes:-
I was told a few months ago that I’m a very good
procrastinator. And do you know what? Turns out, that person was spot on. I’ve moaned
about being overweight for years, yet did nothing about it. I hate smoking,
but, same same. And the only thing I actually did get done was selling my house
and moving out here – so maybe the bigger the decision, the easier it is to do?
Living in a ‘beach culture’ country is a nightmare
if you are at all conscious of your figure. It doesn’t matter if you are big,
small, short, tall – every woman has issues about her looks and no matter how
much you tell her otherwise, she’ll brush it off with a ‘whatever’. Confidence
is something that is learnt, not inherited. My mum was beautiful, had the most
amazing skin, sparkly eyes and could knock spots off most other women in the
room. Yet, every time she had to get ready to go out, more often than not, she
would have a small meltdown because nothing fitted her and she hated being
bigger. I spent the most time at home (as Stu and Kim moved out quite early)
and I really believe that living at home with her for so long, I naturally
picked up her eating habits, her lack of self-confidence (although she hid it
well) and her capability of putting on a smile when you feel like sh*t. Being
out here has made me realise that you can change – but only if you really,
really want to. And I really want to - it's a long process, but I hope it'll
have the right result in the end.
My point is this – you may have some issues with
your body, ladies, however, try not to voice them when your
daughters/nieces/little sisters are around. Because, if you look deep enough,
you’ll see that perhaps those concerns you have about yourself are not real or
true and that they are probably due to the fact that older women in your
younger life had those issues, and you’ve just automatically taken them on.
And, if you are one of the few that have absolutely no issues about yourself,
where do I sign up to learn that??? J (And, I'm sure the male contingency who read this
(if there are any), will say all your issues about your body are in your head.
Men love women's figures no matter what size or shape - right fellas?)
I just wanted to thank all those who emailed/txt and called me with their lovely
words after my last blog, which included a few stories about my mum. I rang my
niece Charlotte, a few days after the blog was published, and she said she had
laughed and cried in equal measures – and we then proceeded to laugh like
drains over more family stories. One in particular, I’ll end this blog on. But
it made me realise that my wonderful nieces and nephews (Gemma, Harri, Josie,
Charlotte, Kayleigh & Liam) are the true legacy that my mum strived for.
These 6 adults, who had her influence for a number of years, were scared to
death of her (if they did something wrong, the usual threat was ‘I’ll tell
nan’) and loved her unconditionally – in equal measures. That’s how it’s meant
to be, isn’t it? Respect is earnt, it’s not a right – and my mum absolutely
demanded respect. Her grandchildren were the light of her life and they would
all fight over who was staying over at ‘Nanny Holly’s’ almost every Friday
and/or Saturday night (Baywatch, French stick with ham, Blind Date and the
goody cupboard were a staple diet for them all). And isn’t it amazing that
although they are all grown up now (two are now parents themselves), whenever
we get together, invariably the conversation will turn to those precious days
at St Johns Court, where there was always a roar of laughter, the clinking of
glasses and the smell of a roast cooking. And no matter where in the world any
of us are, and how old we get, those memories will stay with us forever.
To finish….this is just a little story about my
nephew Harri. Imagine a beautiful, brown eyed 2 year old, who wore a Barbour
jacket, flat cap and could say 'goodbye' in 7 different languages. It’s Sunday
lunch at mums; we’re all around the table (even the kids – sitting on 3 cushions
on the chairs, no highchairs in our house – mum wanted them to learn table
manners!). So, there’s Harri with his tea towel wrapped round his neck as a
bib, tucking into a gorgeous Sunday roast, with most of it around his face. Mum
turns to my sister in law Lisa and asks ‘Lisa, what is it that you call
Stuart?’ (obviously meaning some sort of term of endearment)…… and as quick as
a flash, Harri pipes up with ‘Bastard, Nan. That’s what she calls him’.
*Cue hysterical nervous laughter*
That beautiful boy is now a strapping 6ft 2 handsome man, who has a heart of gold and will probably kill me for putting that story on my blog. I’ve got 100 more stories about my darling nieces and nephews, but perhaps I’ll save them for when I’m home, back in the arms of my family and we’ll all get together and reminisce again…..for the millionth time.
Keep smiling, keep making those memories
Hols
xxxxxx
