My mother and the Queen

This is a story of similarities and differences.  My mother was born in 1926, the same year as Queen Elizabeth II. If my mother had lived longer than her 49 years I wonder what she would have been doing this year, the year that Queen Elizabeth celebrates her Diamond Jubilee of her reign.

These two people were born in the same year but many miles apart in different countries. Even when my mother migrated to England in the late 1950s their lives were already starkly different, despite the fact that they had been born just 3 months apart. At the time of travelling my mother, Doris Morgan, was already mother to my elder siblings – there were six small people who looked at this woman (the original DM) as the queen of their world. The other three of us would be born within five years. We would join our other brothers and sister in lifelong adoration of this magnificent woman.

Whilst my mother was settling into her position of mother and wife in the harsh English countryside, the Queen was settling into her first decade as the reigning monarch of the country and Commonwealth. The Queen was then mother to two children. They were raised differently to my family. Although mummy knew lots about the Queen, I’m almost certain that the Queen knew nothing about my mum. That doesn’t matter right now because the people who relied on mummy knew enough about her to feel safe in her protection. In a way we became like citizens of the kingdom of Doris Morgan: we were safe in her care. Her reach of benevolence did not end when her life ended, it has continued to this very day. Mummy’s love deserves celebrating and although she will never celebrate any diamond anniversary herself I am holding my own remembrance celebration for her this year.

I admire the Queen because she has stayed in the same ‘job’ for 60 years – that takes commitment to duty. My mother was so committed to her duty as a parent that she extended her roles to include working three jobs at the same time, raising her children – almost single-handed – and looking after a house and husband that was not always the most gentle man in the world. Despite these pressures Mummy still had desire to shepherd us all in the right and narrow way. She taught us to love each other despite our differences, she taught us to follow our dreams and be independent, and she taught us that it’s wonderful to tend roses when the rest of the garden is purely functional: you see, the roses showed me that it’s necessary to have spots of beauty in your life that bring you pleasure. I still do this and I will continue to make and enjoy these moments as long as I can. Additionally Mummy showed me that when times are hard you can make a way through it if you are focussed enough on your dream. This is a legacy I will remember, forever.

As I think of the days when I hugged my mother on return from school and wondered why she was wearing an anorak in the house, and why it crunched, I will remember that she smiled as she told me that wearing layers of newspaper under your clothes helped to keep you warm and it was a good thing to do. I don’t think the Queen ever had to do that. Mummy made even the seemingly bad things into a positive learning experience: that took courage and insight.

They say ‘necessity is the mother of invention’, my mother – out of necessity – made my young life simple and happy. She didn’t have to do that, but that is the enduring legacy that I carry with me today as I celebrate the year the queen of my life was born and the diamond legacy she has left for me all these years later.

I will always remember that there is a hierarchy to everything – even life. 

Rewriting history

This is something that only the colonial powers do, right?

I beg to differ.

I think we’ve all be guilty of rewriting history: ours and others.

By not mentioning someone and their part in our lives we are, in effect, writing them out of our history. But is that such a bad thing? I don’t think that it always is a bad thing. That person could have had such a negative effect on our lives that we choose to ignore them.

But does that make the affect they have actioned in our existence go away? I don’t think that it does.

Sometimes when I hear about particular people and how they are discussing their life story I do sit and wonder about the missing characters that I know were there. How do I know? Because I was once one of them and I have been erased from the retelling of their story.

This may make me sad, but they obviously have a good reason to do this.

Then I look in the mirror and I see the same thing happening in my life, so who am I in my glass house of mirrors to throw stones or talk about rewriting history?

Ms Angry?

I have no desire to shout at people, but apparently I have done this twice in the past few weeks. This may not sound at all strange to you but for me it is ‘out of character’. It appears I may have to be recast as ‘Ms Angry’ if this disturbing trend (do two instances make a trend?) continues.

The first time was when I politely asked a man to stop putting leaflets through my door, on my car and all the cars in my street – he smiled, then ignored me and carried on regardless. I repeated my request, this was also ignored. Then I called the number on one of the leaflets and registered my concern at this behaviour and this is when I was told that I raised my voice for the first time. Both people I talked to seemed to think that I had not right to object to their intrusion into my personal space. They were wrong in my opinion, and I told them so.

The next occurrence was when I attempted to return a faulty item to Curry’s electrical store and the customer service representative was just plain rude and dismissive of everything that I had to say. He was not just surly to me this behaviour was also shared with his colleagues – so I don’t feel as if I was singled out for special treatment. However, I chose not to accept it and told him so. He laughed at me.

I did not join him in laughter. Instead I told him that just ignoring me and walking up and down the store with my information was not acceptable. From my initial contact with him I knew there was a possibility of trouble. He literally elbowed his colleague out of the way, then took my receipt and guarantee and walked off. First he spoke to a colleague nearby, then he walked past me – ignored me – and wandered off around the store leaving me with no idea of what he was doing or how long I would have to wait. I did waited patiently but after many other customers had arrived, been dealt with and left I was still waiting.

Then he sauntered back and said that he couldn’t do anything about the faulty item. He smirked as he said it and pushed the receipt across the counter towards me.

This is when I, apparently, shouted again. I think that I just spoke firmly – at least that’s what it sounded like in my head. I know that I am capable of shouting as I have done so on two rather memorable and sad occasions in my life – I didn’t like either of them and shiver at the memory because I really was Ms Angry then because my back had been broken by too many straws of abuse.

In the end another, more senior member of staff, came and dealt with the problem more satisfactorily and sent this surly character away.

In these recent instances I was just mildly perturbed, I don’t think I was even approaching feeling annoyance yet; there was a definite difference between these times and the straw back-breaking moments. I think all I wanted was to ascertain some semblance of understanding between myself and the person I was talking to. I guess I spoke in clipped tones and in a register different to my normal calm voice; hence it was catalogued as shouting by the hearers.

I just like customer service to do what it says on the tin, that’s all!

Unique stamps

As a child I used to love collecting stamps.

I still have my trusty, battered but precious, Stanley Gibbons Improved Postage Stamp Album for all the World’s Stamps. It brings back pleasant memories of saving pocket money and buying bags of stamps from all over the world from the classified pages in the Exchange and Mart, then waiting for them to arrive by post.

Some of the countries listed on the pages no longer exist but the stamps that are attached to the pages show that they were there once and important.

I still collect stamps.

Yes, I’m one of those people who enjoys looking at these special little pieces of paper with patterns and prices on them. The Royal Mail Mint Stamp collections are some of the more interesting new additions to my collection. I am particular about which ones I get. Not every new batch of stamps produced finds its way into my Stanley Gibbons Album.

I think the immense range of stamps that are produced around the world is a bit like the people that we have in our lives. They vary in so many ways but they all have a reason for being there. Just like the stamps in my book.

The edges of the stamps (unless mint condition) are often ripped, frayed and worn. If the stamp has been used it has marks all over it, showing where it was posted from and when it was posted. Strangely these marks all make the stamp unique and special. They tell their own story of the character and journey of that stamp. So it is with people. Like the mass produced stamps we have so much in common but we also have our unique marks and journeys to make. Our individual origin and destination is special.

The best thing that I have discovered is that we have a choice, each day, about our destination. We have the privilege to direct parts of our own journey.

The front of the stamp tells us a lot about what is popular, important, interesting or relevant at that time. People are so similar, they show you their faces but to know more about them you have to take time to know their history - where they’ve come from as well as where they’re going. Only then do you begin to appreciate the joys of your unique group of friends – and yourself.