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. 

It's Nuffin without Puffin

I answered a call from The Gen. on Monday evening. ‘Darling I have some terribly sad news, Professor Puffin was killed today. I'm so sorry’ he told me. I dissolved into tears.

I woke on Tuesday with a heavy heart, knowing it was not going to be an easy day. I sat blubbing on the train to Victoria. As we pulled into the station the elderly gentleman opposite me smiled kindly and said, ‘don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll get better.’ My blubbing turned to wails, ‘I loved him and he’s gone. My cat died’. The gentleman looked rather shocked and moved quickly towards the door. One thing is for certain - that’ll be the last time he ever tries to offer a crumb of comfort to a weeping 20-something.

I was the first in the office and as the boys came in one by one, they took one look at me & decided it was probably best not to ask. I knew they knew it was cat related though they were probably puzzled as to why it warranted such anguish. Ross emailed to ask if everything was ok. I replied apologising for being ‘a bit of a mess’ (massive understatement) before telling him Pro P had been brutally murdered by a car (massive overstatement). I was glad the three of them felt the best way to deal with high level female emotions was by ignoring them. I started my mourning process digitally by uploading photos onto Twitter, Facebook & Instagram. My lovely friends were very sympathetic. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever love my own child as much as I loved him’ I announced to no one in particular and anyone who listened.

 On Wednesday, Benji and I walked to Sloane Square together after work.

‘So are you recovered?’ he asked.

‘From what?’

‘From whatever it was that meant you were in floods of tears, like a broken dam, yesterday.’

‘Benji, Professor Puffin is DEAD. I’ll NEVER recover.’ We carried on walking. The subject was quickly changed so he could tell me about a tramp he once saw that had shat himself. After that beautiful anecdote, he paused.

‘The way I see it Rosie, is that at least you still have Professor Puffin.’

‘What?! Benji, he’s the one that died. We still have Google.’

‘Well, it was 50/50 on the names. You know what I meant.’

 We had a Board meeting on Thursday. ’I’ll pay you £50 if you can burst into tears during the meeting’ Ross said.  As the various members arrived, Francie came up to me. ‘I’m so sorry to hear about your cat Rosie, Ems told me.’ The £50 seemed a little bit more achievable. Professor Puffin wasn’t on the agenda though I was tempted to bring him up when it came to AOB.

As Thursday drew to a close and we started packing up, the boys were talking about how slow the week seemed to have gone.

‘Urgh, it’s been a veritable rollercoaster of emotions’ I joined in.

‘Yes, we noticed’ said Ross

‘I basically had a year’s worth of period emotion in one day’

I watched them visibly shudder and cackled. I always enjoy a good period joke in an office of boys, even if it arose from a loss.

Now that the first hump of emotion has died down & I’m able to think vaguely more rationally about life sans The Professor, one dreadful thought has struck me. What the hell am I going to talk about on dates?

Sir David Cattenborough

Playing by 'The Rules'

'Darling, you really need to read 'The Rules'' the quixotic PR Cannibal told me. She'd come over for supper the other night and I'd just told her about yet another date I'd been on that hadn't exactly gone to plan.

It's a book I'd never read though I knew all about it. The Estate Agent had it as her reading material of choice when we went to Croatia a couple of years ago. While sunbathing off our hangovers, she'd often, disbelievingly, read out snippets to us that we'd then laugh over as ridiculous. For those that are more successful in the dating arena and don't need to read them, 'The Rules' teaches women how to 'play hard to get' and snare their Mr Right. It's the opposite to 'The Game' which tells men how to get a woman into bed just by looking at them. Chapters in 'The Rules' include 'Don't Sit or Stand Next to a Guy First or Flirt with him First' and 'Don't Talk Too Much in the First Few Weeks'. Essentially, it says you need to be a woman of mystery. There are a whole host of things you shouldn't do (accept a weekend date after Wednesdays, don't ever offer to go Dutch) and a lot of affirmations you should tell yourself whenever you enter a social situation (I'm unique and interesting, men must come to me first).

Realising the next morning that my approach to dating needs something of a drastic overhaul, I went out to invest a little bit of money in what I hope will be a little more lasting than a pack of Marlboro lights. I couldn't find it in the 'Self-help' section so did what I had wanted to avoid and asked the lady at the cashtill where to find it. I was a little perturbed when she asked if I wanted 'the one for women' (er, well, obviously) but apparently there are a lot of people in Clapham Junction who want this book too as the original one wasn't in stock. Good news for me though because that meant I got buy the new & improved Rules - all the old ones plus a heap of new rules about what not to do on Facebook and Twitter. Oh, and Skype and online dating sites and email and text message.

Having spent the past day reading it, and once I'd overcome the excessive use of exclamation marks, the trouble I'm finding so far is that everything the book is saying goes against what I've been taught. As a girl of the Sex & the City generation where it's acceptable for women to have the same attitude to men over sex and love, and having been brought up with cries of 'girl power' ringing in my ears, to be told I'm going wrong because I'm not equal to men when it comes to love & relationships & that in order to find that special someone, I need to be demure & quiet, means it's not just my attitude to dating that needs to change, but the way I am on so many levels. To me, there's something quite archaic about this self-proclaimed dating bible. I'm guilty of breaking pretty much every rule. I've put myself out there, I've chased guys, I talk too much, I always offer to pay half or get drinks (I think it's rude not too), I think nothing of speaking to a guy first, to name but a few broken commandments. I've ended up being upset by some guys but not the majority. I take the attitude that if they don't like me as I am, they aren't worth it and I chuck them into my, increasingly full, man bin. I've done this because I never thought there was anything wrong with being that person. Like a magpie, I would just think, 'I want that nice shiny object so why not try and get it'.

There are always exceptions to 'The Rules' though. The Journo and her lovely husband are the best example of this. They got together at a Halloween party several years ago. The next morning, she didn't know his name. Eight years later, happily married and with a baby, they give me hope that you can make mistakes, not  be the perfect perception of how a woman should be and the right person will accept you for it anyway.

In the meantime, though, as my own personal set of rules hasn't been overwhelmingly successful, I'm going to have to put my trust in Ellen Fein and Sherrie Schneider. I'll just be adding one rule to their set, one that I've come to realise is a definite no above all others - don't mention Professor Puffin on a date. Talking about my cat is a sure fire way to never see a guy again.

Professor Puffin

Charity Depression - When Social Media Goes Wrong

Oh dear, it's kicking off on Twitter again. The pitchforks are out and people are spoiling for a fight. This time, though, it's not between reality TV celebs or even involves Tom Daley style trolls. It's between The Sunday Times journalist India Knight and the charity Mind, the UK's 'leading mental health charity.'

Over the weekend, she wrote an article about the sudden increase in celebrity literature that discusses their struggle with depression. The article begins 'Are there people left standing who still believe that depression is “taboo”, and that by speaking about their own they are bravely shining a light — “just a little beam, but I do what I can” — into the darkness?' Surely you can see her point? Coinciding nicely with Christmas present buying, to have a whole bunch of celebs, some more credible than others, chucking out their 'woe me' stories does make me feel that underneath whatever mental anguish they've experienced, they are only doing it to line their pockets. It wasn't a comment about depression, it was a comment about celebrity. It's a bit boring but I suppose seeing as they aren't missing limbs or suffering from some visible ailment, they've got to have something that makes life seem just a little bit less amazing and something that we can relate to. 'Don't worry non-celebrity person, I too have had my crosses to bear.'

Statistics alone, though, show that depression isn't relegated to the celebrity sphere. It is something we can all relate to because 1 in 4 people will suffer depression and anxiety in one year. Perhaps they (the celebs) feel that by talking about it, it might help more people, that's certainly not a bad thing but to truss it up and package it under the celebrity banner makes me cringe. To be honest, I feel it's wrong. I believe I can say this because I have suffered from depression since I was 16 and 2 members of my immediate family also suffer from it. Yeah it's shit and some times are harder than others. It is most definitely hard to understand if you've not experience it but there you go.

What I think is even worse than celebrity depression stories though, is the way that Mind Charity have reacted over social media towards the article. I also believe I'm in a position to discuss this because I've set up and run charity social media pages for the past 3 years and blimey have they got this wrong. They tweeted this morning 'Today we ask #whatsstigma in response to @indiaknight and her distasteful article on depression being money spinning 'misery lit' Join us!' Yes, charities definitely have a duty to bring discussions to the fore and prompt conversations with people about a whole variety of issues but anyone running an organisations' social media - especially for such a large and well respected charity (possibly not now) - will know the basic 'think before you tweet' rule. What's sad is that it has not had the desired reaction at all and people have told them so. Social media back firing for anyone is bad but for a charity it's truly awful, especially in the current economic climate. Was anyone in a position of seniority aware this was going to happen? I can't believe it would have been allowed if it had been run passed them. 

For those who are not au fait with twitter, here's what's wrong with this tweet:

•  India has over 75,000 followers and Mind less than double that at 32,000. She's a respected, articulate journalist - did they really think she would take it lying down? 
• In amongst the back peddling they are now doing desperately, they tweeted in response to someone, 'you're right, it went somewhere we didn't expect.' Er, are you kidding me?! They tagged her in the tweet meaning it will go straight to her. She retweeted it to her followers, who leapt to her defence. 
• The tone. They might have felt her article was distasteful but so is this tweet. It's bitter and vitriolic. With only 140 letters, you have to be careful because the tone can go wrong so quickly.
• There's no link to the article. So suddenly, Mind followers will see this, get on their high horses with no idea what it's actually about. Further to that, the Sunday Times has a paywall so for the more rational social media users who want to get both sides, if they aren't subscribed then they are left even more confused.
• They misquoted her article in tweets. Unprofessional. If you're going to argue against something, at least get it right and understand what they are saying. Did they even read the article?!
• They have now deleted the tweet. Another rule - If you mess up a tweet, don't delete. Their twitter now just looks really confused and they seem even more unprofessional than before. 

What they should have done:

• Write a response and posted it on their website with a full explanation of what India was saying in her article 
• Then put it on social media and feel free to tag her twitter account with a friendly but firm 'we would like to suggest otherwise...' style tweet
• Put some thought into the 'campaign' don't go all guns blazing. What did they actually want to achieve from it?
• Make sure you understand what was being said in the first place 

What they should do now:

• Send their digital team on some training days. 

I very much hope that this episode won't have a lasting negative effect on Mind. I suspect that, like everything in the fast moving world of Twitter, it will be forgotten by the time offices are closed tonight but I do hope they - and other charities - will learn a lot from this. Like celebrities, charities aren't untouchable when it comes to criticism in this online world we live in.

London Games 2012; A Love Story

There's a void in my life. A massive gaping hole that for 17 days was filled with a glorious, whirlwind romance that has suddenly, inexplicably come to an end. It consumed my waking hours and dominated my dreams. Yes, please pass me the kleenex, the London Olympics has finished. I'm not really sure what to do now (except perhaps eagerly await the Paralympics) and I'm certainly not really sure what I did with my time before the Olympics. 18 days ago, I really had no idea how attached I'd become to these incredibly Games.

I wasn't interested in the Olympic Games before it started. I hadn't actually even realised that it had taken 7 years of planning to achieve. I don't remember the Beijing Games and I didn't watch them. The media stories around 2012 were negative, the weird logo and strange mascots and I'd had no interest in applying for tickets. To be honest, I think I really rather resented it. I thought London would heave with tourist, travel would be a nightmare and it would be an inconvenience to my daily, plodding life.

About three days before the Opening Ceremony, things started to change. I arrived in Victoria on my way to work and saw some Olympic volunteers, ready, willing and waiting to help anyone who needed it, the posters were up and there seemed to be more of a buzz in the air. I suddenly thought 'this might not be as bad as I anticipated.' The main turning point when my frostiness melted considerably was when a thoughtful friend sent me a blog about the Olympics. Not just any blog though, a blog about the top 50 hottest Olympians that were going to grace our shores. (Personal favourites; 39, 36, 32. Yes, my type is tall and muscly. Ladies it's worth a read). This was more my type of Olympics, I was now officially excited.

I went home on the Friday of the Opening Ceremony and watched every minute of it with my parents. I thought it was fantastic, though heaven knows what the 6 Nepali athletes thought of it. From that moment, I was lost to the Olympics. Watching with bated breath the Men's Road Race on Saturday and feeling the devastation that Team GB didn't pull through despite the weight of expectation and hard work of Bradley, Cav and the guys to seeing our first medal come through after Lizzie Armistead's fantastic effort at the Women's Road Race. It was a drug, I was hooked and needed more. And certainly more I got.

After the furore of the BBC's Jubilee Coverage, they stepped up to the mark and provided the nation with some incredible Olympic coverage seemingly 24/7. I could sit in the office and ignore Club Testosterone's rubbish chat because I had plugged in my iPhone and was watching it all, engrossed, thanks to the Beebs brilliant app or all 5 of us would stop what we were doing and cheer the Olympians on. I wasn't the only one. My mother, not known for her sporting prowess or even interest in anything sports related, could barely move from her chair (apparently the cats were on her lap though which prevented her). She could have taken over from Jake Humphreys or Matt Baker as a commentator so knowledgeable was she on all events. 'Oh he didn't jump very well then' (Phillips Iduwo), 'should've tucked up better then' (Diving) 'she should've over taken then' (Women's Road Race). That's how much the Olympics captured even those least suspecting it.

Men's Swimming quickly became my favourite sport. Of course this was because I admired the skill, ability and drama of the sports. That's quite a big lie. I appreciated all of that a little but really it was the rows of men in teensy shorts with incredible bodies. Never ever has a swimming cap been more of an aphrodisiac or speedos my preferred outfit for a man. Ryan, Nathan, Chad, Helge, even Phelps but only when he kept the cap on, were the ones I lusted after. Diving was naturally my second preferred sport but who could not enjoy it when the face of the sport is the lovely Tom Daley, 18 and with so much hope placed on him, and always appearing so modest.

I loved the underdogs too, willing the slowest across the finish line. My absolute favourite was the rower from Niger, Hamadou Issaka who had started rowing a casual 3 months before the Olympics and, rather than speed up each race, continued to slow down. He received a standing ovation when he finished his first race, considerably behind the other rowers.

The Gold near misses from the eventing team and cycling road race team united the nation from the start, willing on our nations hopefulls. Then Heather Stanning and Helen Glover brought home the first Team GB gold and what a moment that was! Any Olympic haters much surely have started to come around then. This first gold seemed to trigger a gold rush and the following 28 medals, not to mention the 17 silvers and 19 bronzes, saw us sitting a proud 3rd on the medal table. Andy Murray, Mo Farah, Jessica Ennis, Nicola Adams, Peter Wilson, the rowers, oh there are so many to mention! I don't think even the Royal celebrations of the past year have seem the United Kingdom so united. Team GB had gone beyond our wildest dreams and done so much better than we had expected. For the first time in a long time, the nation was proud of what their representatives had achieved. 

Another reason why the Games was so wonderful was because it was the first time every country had fielded a mixed team. The judoka, Wojdan Shahrkhani, was the first Saudi Arabian female to compete in the Games while Sarah Attar was the country's first female runner, competing a few days after Shahrkhani. She competed completely covered, a stark contrast from the other female runners in their bras and pants. There was never going to be a chance she would win but nobody cared, she is a trailer blazer and a role model for future Saudi athletes and her participation was more important than her performance. We mustn't forget either Tahmina Kohistani, Afghanistan's only female athlete who ran in the 800m. She has overcome immense prejudice to be involved, fighting against those who oppose women doing almost anything. Personally, I think that to have these athletes, who have fought against so much controversy to be at the Games, in our country, is one of the best things about London 2012. 

The 'Inspire a Generation' tagline is a winner. More than one generation has been inspired by London 2012. I wish I had pursued my Olympic career. My greatest sporting achievement was being Athletics Captain for my house at school & that was only because the housemistress felt she had to give me something to do to keep me out of trouble. If only I'd taken it more seriously then who knows what could have happened (very little I suspect). I have decided though, that perhaps I should take up swimming and do so with gusto, possibly in time for Rio2016.

What's there not to enjoy about swimming?