L'amore e la felicità in Italia

My 2015 wedding season finished over the weekend with a three day affair in Tuscany. It was an incredible weekend filled with so much love, laughter, my favourite people and just a splash too much chianti.  

I find there's something about weddings though, as a long-time-single person. The more I go to, seeing the eyes-only-for-each-other-happy couple, the more I can't help but wonder if this will ever be me. If I'll get to know what that's like because lets face it, not everyone gets married. I wouldn't say I worry about it but it does make me feel, well, lonely. I was with a few of my closest friends at the wedding who are now paired off and the Tuscan couple radiated love like I've never seen at a wedding. It was beautiful but it heightened my own sense of singleness.   

As the Tuscan wedding night rolled on and before we succumbed to the limoncello, the party was ushered outside to watch a fireworks display. I had hung back with the estate agent & her boyfriend while my other friends had bounded further into the scrum of spectators. Fireworks are romantic, there's no denying that, and I didn't want to intrude or feel like the unnecessary third wheel so I moved further away from them & sat down, as they enjoyed the moment together. Watching them, I felt a wave of aloneness wash over me. I wished I had someone to share this with too. 

Suddenly I heard the estate agent shout 'ROZZLE!' I looked up to see her, one arm around her man and one arm gesturing to me, laughing. 'Rozzle!' again. 'Come into my circle of love!' she ordered. I beamed and headed over to join them. We stood there together, arms round each other under the glittering Tuscan night, 'oohs' and 'aahs' jostling with John Legend's 'All of me' and the crackle of fireworks. Standing in a three, knowing that, although I couldn't see all of them, some of my most favourite people were near me, I realised how unbelievably happy and surrounded by love I was. 

I wasn't even close to being alone, not with this lot in my life. 

Un-Hinged

I had my first date in a while last night (when I say a while, I actually mean a year). I found myself sitting across from an unassuming gentleman in an insalubrious Be at One in Covent Garden.

The venue wasn’t the best. The low hanging lights had been fitted with red bulbs and created a bordello like ambiance that was unnecessary for a Monday night. Our chat battled against what I’m pretty sure was Now 3; tinny and turned up slightly too loud for an empty establishment meaning questions and comments needed to be repeated more then once.

The talk covered the usual neutral topics that you can expect when the only contact you’ve previously had with someone has been through a dating app. It ebbed and flowed, interrupted only once when he pointed out a mouse that was hanging around the bar. Jobs, family, travel, I love horses, he doesn’t, we’d both spent some of our childhood in Hong Kong, him longer then I. We did at one point hit on food phobias, me – bananas, him – tinned tuna (I dread to think what conclusions Freud would have drawn). The lowest point was being asked what my passions were. I had believed this question was the prerogative of distant, elderly relatives but apparently not. All I could think of at that moment was Enrique Iglesias and The Millionaire Matchmaker (TV at its best). I squirmed awkwardly, opened and shut my mouth a few times but managed not to blurt out the aforementioned enjoyments. I made a mental note to have some passions up my sleeve for the next time that question is lobbed at me. We moved on. For some reason, I think he thought I was quite sporty (it was very clear he was) though I’m not sure how he’d come to labour under that misapprehension. After three hours, we called it a night and emerged from the Be at One cellar, said our goodbyes and headed in separate directions.

I was in bed by the time the Quixotic PR returned home from her own Monday night date. ‘How’d it go? How’d it go?!’ she demanded excitedly, jumping on my bed.

‘It started off fine, he was nice but have I ever told you about the time I got 7 majors and a dangerous in my first driving test? Towards the end, the examiner screamed ‘what are you doing?’ grabbed the steering wheel and drove us off the roundabout. I realised at that moment, if I hadn’t already failed, I’d definitely failed then. Well, I had the dating equivalent of that tonight when he asked what music I liked and I announced I was going through a One Direction phase. It’s a definite automatic fail.’

She laughed. ‘Don’t worry. Mine was married to a woman who left him for a woman. It can only get better.’ 

My Great Grandfather's stolen war medals

This month marks the 50th anniversary of the death of a great military man. I will forgive you for thinking I'm referring to Churchill - I'm not. I'm talking about my great grandfather, Lt Col Alexander James Trousdell DSO MC. He had an amazingly varied army career. Sadly the fruits of which, his medals, are no longer here to show it. 17 years ago they (along with 19 other medals from 9 family members spanning from the Crimea to Northern Ireland)  were stolen and we still desperately want AJ's medals back. 

On 11th December 1909, AJ commissioned into the Royal Irish Fusiliers and joined the 2nd battalion in India a few months later. By April 1910, after two months, he was casevaced back to the UK, his legs paralysed by polio. Despite being mobile, he was discharged as unfit for any service on 27th July 1912. With the outbreak of war in 1914, AJ was recalled to the Colours and served in Flanders and France. In December 1916, as a Captain, he was briefly appointed Commanding Officer of the 1st Battalion. As a result of his wartime exploits, he was awarded a DSO and an MC. His military career ended with the war and he left as a Major. 21 years later another war called him back. At a youthful 50 years old, he rejoined as a Lieutenant and commanded a Battalion of the Royal Army Ordnance Corps. He left, finally, as a Lt Colonel. 

His First World War medals - the DSO, MC, a Victory Medal and a British War Medal with a Rosette showing he was Mentioned in Despatches - were stolen from his aunt's home in central London in 1926. The War Office (now MoD) agreed to replace them. Both sets of medals were engraved with his name. 

As he was a little on the old side, he served only in the UK during WW2 so, like everyone, was awarded the Defence Medal and the War Medal. 

My Grandfather (also of Royal Irish Fusiliers), AJ's eldest son, inherited the medals. The WW1 replacement set and the WW2 pair were all mounted together. Sometime in the 70s/80s, Grandpapa received a call from the Royal Irish Fusiliers museum asking why he was selling AJ's medals without first offering them to the museum. To Grandpapa's delight, the original stolen set had turned up. He promptly bought them and mounted them in the same case.  It is unusual to have two sets of the same medals which made them even more special. 

The medal set was given to my father (yes, also Royal Irish) but being on his own military career path, he asked that Grandpapa hang on to them, knowing that he was keen to keep them for as long as possible. This was a fateful decision. 

On the weekend of 22/23rd May 1998 my grandparents had a rare weekend away from their house in Beckington. While they were away the house was burgled and pretty much everything they owned was stolen. They, and the family, were completely devastated. 

A total of 29 family medals that covered a period of history from the Crimea to Northern Ireland and involved 9 members of my family, including AJ's, were taken. Grandpa's own 6 medals from WW2 and subsequent campaigns were part of that 29. The only surviving replica is the box in which the original medals were kept. 

On a recent battlefield tour in France, Daddy traced AJ's war. 'I found pretty much where he was during the first day of the Battle of the Somme which was pretty moving' he recently told me. '50 years on from his death I recall with gratitude this gentle man who was such an enormous influence in my early life. It is my everlasting regret that his medals have never been recovered.'

17 years is a long time to be looking and we know they could be anywhere but we want to find them. If you're able to help us, in anyway, retrieve these treasured medals, we will be eternally grateful.