Ann Allan: Memories No. 17 The Wedding

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On the 18 August 1970 the day before the wedding, I had recovered sufficiently from my attack of jaundice to go ahead and get married.  I thought I was ok about the ceremony being in Belfast, but on that morning contemplating the fact that I couldn’t leave to get married from my childhood home I was overcome with grief. Sitting at the breakfast table bawling my eyes out my mother thought I was having second thoughts about the wedding. I think it was a build up, of all that had happened coming up to the big day. I reassured her that all was ok, it was just an attack of nerves. I had to head for Belfast in the early afternoon and I had also to make sure that I had everything I needed with me. I couldn’t just hop back to Rostrevor. We had a ‘viewing the presents night’ the previous night and due to the generosity of my guests I had enough tea sets, toasters and Pyrex casseroles to open my own store. Well before the days of Ikea.  I also had some beautiful pieces of Waterford Crystal all of which remain intact to this day.

There was no hen-do. They weren’t the done thing in those days but there was a stag night. It had taken place in the Rose and Crown on the Ormeau Road a few nights earlier. Thankfully I wasn’t there to witness the aftermath which I believe was quite ‘lively.’ The groom and his best man JT slept over in a friends flat and I believe had breakfast in the nearby Wellington Park Hotel. No nerves there.
The morning of the wedding, Wednesday 19 August was warm and sunny. There was only myself and my two bridesmaids in the flat. Unlike today’s brides, there was no hairdresser, no make up artist and no spray tan. I applied my own makeup and you would have hardly noticed that the whites of my eyes were still slightly yellow. 😀  The flowers arrived on time. The cars were at the front door. All I needed was my dad. He arrived in the nick of time with my little sister. An army checkpoint had delayed him. I came downstairs to the front door. The little old lady from the flat downstairs was the only one there to see me on my way. I know if we had been at home the villagers would have been out to see the bride departing.

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The city had been quiet for a few weeks. Rubber bullets had been fired for the first time at the beginning of August. The British Home Secretary had threatened to impose direct rule if agreed reform measures were not carried out. Sound familiar? Not much has changed in 48 years. Hard to believe.
As we made our way up the Crumlin Road to the Holy Cross Church at Ardoyne we were escorted by two army Saracens out on patrol. In my wildest imagination I hadn’t anticipated having an escort to the church, especially from the army.  When I stepped out of the car, Gordon’s Uncle Billy was waiting with his cine camera. Billy and his wife Chrissie were the only two of the Scottish contingent to brave the situation and travel to Belfast. Not sure whether it was the fact that Gordon had succumbed to the charms of a Catholic that put them off or the situation in Belfast but the Allan side was under- represented. However thanks to Billy the wedding was recorded for posterity and I’m going to let you have a look.

As I tried to say my wedding vows I teared up and it was obvious to the congregation I was very emotional. After all we had been through we were finally here. My little sister who was kneeling behind burst into tears and had to be consoled by one of the officiating priests. I learned afterwards that my wedding caused controversy within the clergy in Ardoyne. Why? Because Fr. Marcellus gave communion, both bread and wine, to Gordon. It was unknown in those days for a Protestant to receive communion and some were not happy about it. I think it confused the congregation even more. Some must have been wondering what foot he actually kicked with. God knows what Granny Fallis, a card-carrying Baptist must have made of it but the old girl said nout and appeared to enjoy the day.

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The reception was lovely. Everyone enjoyed their meal of dover sole, lamb and raspberries in Curaçao. Not together of course. Everyone but me, that is. I still couldn’t eat and had to be content with an omelette. There was no after party. To entertain the guests my lovely cousin Siubhán played the harp beautifully. No disco, no dancing and no late night.

Gordon had been treated to drinks all afternoon and by 6 pm he was ‘rightly’  I decided it was time to leave. My going away outfit was made by my mother in law. A dress with a jacket. She was a wonderful dressmaker. As I was leaving one of my aunts came over to say goodbye. ‘ We’ll be praying for you’ she said. I pictured the guests falling on their knees and offering a decade of the rosary after we left.

We were leaving on the midnight flight to London that evening.  Yes there was one from Aldergrove in those days. It cost £5 for a return ticket.  We waited in my aunt’s house on the Glen Road where Gordon got something to help sober him up. I didn’t mind flying then but I was a bit nervous and wondered if it was an omen when lightning hit the plane on the way over. We arrived in London after two in the morning. By the time we got to our hotel on the Cromwell road it was nearly three. To say the hotel was underwhelming would be an understatement. There was no lift and our room was on the third floor. No en-suite and the room was basic to say the least. But the next morning we discovered that there was a coloured TV in the lounge and we’d never seen one before.  We were very impressed and wondered if we would ever have one ourselves. We spent a few days sight-seeing and went to see Paint your Wagon in the cinema at Leicester Square.

'Oh, those are just for show. We don't have electricity.' ‘Oh, those are just for show. We don’t have electricity.’

On day three we headed for the train at Victoria Station. We were going to Calais on the hovercraft from Dover and then by coach to Ostend. That was a strange experience. We were flying along on the top of the waves but couldn’t see out. We were strapped into our seats and weren’t allowed to move for the 30 mins. With a lot of others, we piled on to a coach that would take us to Ostend. The driver called out the names of the passengers to make sure we were all there. As I had booked in my maiden name that was the one he read out. It was 1970 and the looks we got were hilarious. We both looked very young which added to the interest of our fellow passengers.

Ostend was probably an unusual choice for a honeymoon but it was picturesque and I loved it. We traveled into Holland for a day and the weather was lovely. We also visited a beer festival which featured the ‘dancing waters’ Don’t ask! The trip to Ostend cost £15 each and that included transport and hotel !

The honeymoon was soon over and we headed home. Northern Ireland was shrouded in autumn mists when we arrived home.  That was 53 years ago, I’m not sure it has totally emerged from them yet.

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Ann Allan: Disillusioned

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Few will have the greatness to bend history itself; but each of us can work to change a small portion of events, and in the total; of all those acts will be written the history of this generation.

Robert Kennedy

I’m slowly becoming one of the disinterested and disassociated voting public. I can see now why people don’t vote but what I can’t see is why the people who vote, vote for the people they vote for. ( Take your time you’ll get there).

We hear the old adage you get what you vote for and unfortunately we do. But is there any choice? The same old faces reappear at election time. They trot out the same old cliches and those who get out and vote, vote for yesterdays men and women. We listen day in and day out to their arguments, their whataboutery and their archaic and outmoded beliefs. They quote in some cases from the bible, using the ‘good book’ to justify their beliefs. Hard luck if you’re not a believer. How many times have you also heard ‘ the vast majority believe such and such’ No we bloody don’t. We are a mixed society and becoming more secular in our make up. If you are going to quote the vast majority I need figures, statistics to back up what you say.

We are verging on a stagnant society. Some want to move on, some want to stay in the past. We seem to take one step forward and ten steps back. I have young grandchildren. They know nothing about the troubles apart from what they study at school or have heard from listening to the family reminiscing as to what it was like growing up in the 70s and 80s. It could be the Boer war being talked about because it was not their ‘war.’  It was our ‘war.’ It is in the past and our grandchildren want to live in the present and look forward to the future.  I do too.

To those who lost family and are waiting for the perpetrators to be caught it’s probably not going to happen, albeit in a small number of cases.  I’ve heard some discuss the question as to whether victims perpetuate their victimhood?  I think that depends on the person. Many of us go through life without any major tragedies in our lives but there are those who will suffer. Those who do suffer a tragedy can deal with it in one of two ways. They can let the perpetrator/s ruin their lives permanently and be a victim or they can decide not to let the perpetrator win and take away anymore of their quality of life. They can accept what has happened and move on. The reality is that while victims  are waiting for justice life is passing them by. The joy of living is removed from their lives and they relive over and over again events that are in the past.

We have been told that there is little hope of bringing perpetrators to book.  Can victims  accept that in their case it may not happen? Can they put the past behind them and learn to enjoy life again with the acceptance that they may never get the justice they are seeking? I would like to see a line drawn under the past. I would like to see compensation paid to all victims to help us move forward. This would not include victim makers but those who were maimed or those families who lost a family member. I would like this to happen so that my children and grandchildren can break free from the past. I dont want them paying the price for a war that was nothing to do with them and one that they don’t even remember.

I would also like to see the number of terms a politician can serve restricted to two terms. It works for the American presidency so why not here?  That way maybe we could freshen up the faces that we can vote for and that might help weed out those who are in politics for the wrong reasons. We wouldn’t then be stuck with them untill they fall of their perch.

I know there will be many who will disagree with me but that’s all right. We are all entitled to our opinions and that’s mine. We are struck in the past celebrating events that are long gone. Continually looking back and it’s not as if we learn from continually looking back, it just breeds another generation who can’t get past the past.

C’mon people, it’s time to think of our children and future generations. Don’t leave them with our legacy of the past.image

Ann Allan: Memories No 16. The Best Laid Plans…

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imageSo the wedding was moving from the country to the big smoke. Ok, Belfast. But there were a lot of pea soupers in those days. Some nights the fog/smog was so bad that you could see little in front of you. However I digress. The focus had shifted and new plans had to be made. The new church had been booked as had the new hotel but that was it. In those days deposits were unusual and so cancelling the original hotel hadn’t been a problem. ( If you haven’t read Memories 15 you won’t have a clue what I’m on about! )

Ann Allan: Memories No 15: Public and Personal Turmoil

The original hotel I had picked for my reception, Ballyedmond Castle Hotel was raised to the ground by a firebomb left by the IRA in 1979. I was so sorry that I hadn’t been able to bring my guests there. Rostrevor was minus another hotel yet again, the Great Northern Hotel also having  been destroyed by a firebomb in 1978. My sister in law had her wedding in the Great Northern. Such a beautiful setting, backed by the woods and the mountains and sitting by the edge of the sea. What a waste! Today fifty years later Rostrevor has no hotel, though plans have been drawn up and awaiting investors. The destruction of two well-loved hotels didn’t bring us any closer to a United Ireland. But I’m digressing again. Great Northern Hotel Rostrevor
At the  beginning of July the wedding preparations were put in motion for the second time. Invitations were printed and sent out. Most guests were surprised at the venue but didn’t comment.

With my parents living in Rostrevor, a good two hours drive in those days from Belfast, it was left to me to make most of the arrangements. I was given the name of an organist who, if I remember rightly, lived in Brompton Park. We had no transport in those days so we made our way up the Crumlin road on a bus. Thankfully it was a peaceful day and we were lucky to get there and back without any trouble.  We picked a few hymns. Panis Angelicus is the only one I remember. I would walk up the aisle to Handel’s Largo and we would walk down to Mendelson’s Wedding march.

Photos were next. There was a photographer in Church Lane that I had passed many times so he was duly booked. There was little discussion as to what photos should be taken and as a result there was not one photo taken in the church, apart from signing the register. The photographer was unused to photographing in a Catholic Church and was unaware of protocol. I laughed later when Fr.Marcellus said that he could have stood on his shoulders to get a good photo if he had wanted.

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On Friday 3rd June 1970 a curfew was imposed on the Falls road. This was to last 24 hours while the Army carried out searches looking for weapons. Five civilians were killed. The curfew was broken by women from Andersonstown marching into the area with supplies.

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Meanwhile I was getting on with my wedding plans but fate seemed to be playing its part. Gordon had been complaining of not feeling well. He had a very sore throat and felt generally unwell. He was perspiring at night so much so that the bed needed changing every night. He was diagnosed as having glandular fever. Unfit to look after himself ( he was so weak ) and with his parents away on holiday for two weeks, my mum accepted the role of carer and Gordon moved into my family home. My mum had to look after him for the fortnight and it looked  as if he would not be fit enough to get married.

However, totally on my own in Belfast and being the eternal optimist I carried on with the arrangements. There was a flower shop opposite the Europa Hotel. We chose fresh sweet-pea head bands for the bridesmaids and my little sister was to carry a ball made up of sweet-pea. I chose white and yellow roses for my bouquet. I wrote to Gordon every day telling him how the plans were going but there was one event I didn’t mention.image

I was in my flat one evening when I got a shout from one of my flat mates that I had a visitor. He was at the front door. I went downstairs to find an old friend waiting for me. He said that he heard that I was getting married. He asked me to reconsider. I laughed and asked why I would do that. To this day I’m not sure exactly what was said but I know the gist was that he loved me, always would and that I should marry him. I told him I was very flattered but Gordon was the one for me and the wedding would be going ahead. I didn’t see him again for another 7 years.  Didn’t think it was what G needed to know at that time but I told him later.

On August 11 1970 Two Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC) officers were killed by the I.RA. when they set off a booby trap bomb planted in a car near Crossmaglen.

Two weeks to go to the wedding. Time to go with the parents to Dunadry Inn to finalise the menu. The cost of the menu was two guineas. Guineas were faded out after the introduction of decimalisation in 1971. There were 100 guests and this menu was one of the dearer ones. I returned there on my thirty-fifth  wedding anniversary with the menu but they were unable to replicate it for the same price.image

Transport had to be arranged to take the guests from Rostrevor to Belfast and then onto the hotel. Not everyone had a car in those days but those that had cars offered lifts and the local taxi firm had all its taxis booked for the day. It was then that it dawned on me that with all my arrangements and distractions I hadn’t ordered any cars to take the bridal party to the ceremony so fingers crossed I set off to find a firm with the date free.  Wilton cars on the Crumlin Road came up trumps and a ‘ princess limousine ‘ was duly booked. A call to Ormo bakery on the Ormeau Road guaranteed that a cake would be delivered to the hotel on the day before the wedding.

Flat hunting was also a priority. We wanted something unfurnished and I was lucky after scanning the Belfast Telegraph night after night to find a suitable ground floor flat in Wolseley Street. For £28 a month we would get one bedroom, living room, kitchen and bathroom. There was, at that stage, no mention of the sitting tenants that inhabited our new home. But we learned to live with them –mice! The only piece of furniture we had was a bed ( we had our priorities right ). It had been standing in the hall of my flat and as soon as the deal was done it was carried by four male friends from Fitzroy Avenue to Wolseley street.  Gordon was getting his strength back and it looked as if nothing could stop us now.

In 1970 I had to resign from my job in the Civil Service and reapply for it again. I had about 10 days from resigning to the wedding day so on my leaving day a party was held in a local hostelry. I had been on antibiotics for some infection or other and didn’t realise that drink and the pills don’t mix. I woke up the next morning with yellow eyes, sick as a dog and my parents arrived to take me home. Jaundice was the diagnosis!!! Bed rest was recommended.  The wedding was once again in jeopardy.image

http://youtu.be/rHKQYFgkcB8  Panis Angelicus

Girl in a Wig: Don’t Mention Kylie

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imageJULY 27, 2015

When I told people that I was getting treatment for breast cancer I generally got one of the following responses from people.

1: A list of colleagues or relatives who had it and survived. Or died.

2: Famous people who had it and survived. Or died.

We all try to make sense of things that are unusual by trying to link them or anchor them to something in our experience. Hence the “S at my work had it and she’s doing fine 20 yrs on”. It isn’t worth trying to explain different grades, types, stages and prognosis . The reality is one size of breast cancer does not fit all. Your cousins neighbours sister’s type will probably have been different in some way or other. But I still heard about it.

The same applies to celebrity cancer . I got a list of celebs including ” your woman off The Killing” “That ginger one-off Sex and the City” , ” her off Loose Women” and of course ….Kylie Minogue. “Look at how great Kylie is now, she’s just done a World Tour”. I got that a lot.image

Anyway I’ve taken time out from planning MY world tour in order to note down some things that are helpful in supporting someone though treatment for cancer.

Helpful

Offers to help with school run, child minding or shopping.

Texts or emails. Gossip, everyday chat or stories. These keep you focused even on days when you feel so rough you can’t speak.

Turning up with meals on the day of /after chemo. My neighbour did this each time and it really made a difference. Simple things like chicken bakes, lasagne, casseroles. These were brilliant.image

Entertainment: books, magazines , DVDs- these are great. Don’t have to rush out and buy anything. Just share what you have that you think may be of interest.

Not helpful

Staring at the person with a sad look on your face. I’ve had this. It isn’t pleasant to be the object of pity, especially when you don’t feel you need to be pitied.

Crying. I felt guilty that I made 3 different people cry by telling them I was having treatment. Contain your emotions people.

Telling the person about every death you’ve known from cancer. Or tragic stories . Really not helpful. I also got one or two who had watched The C-Word on TV then said ‘I thought of you’. Again, there are lots of variations within the diagnosis.

Telling a person they ‘look fantastic’ with a surprised expression. I get this a lot. I must have looked really rough prior to my diagnosis then.

Staring at the persons boobs, even if it’s a subconscious act. It has happened quite a bit to me. Even though I’ve said it was only a lumpectomy and I am luckily not much different, I’ve still had to restrain myself from saying “eyes UP” . Please don’t.

Telling a person they are ‘brave’ or ‘a survivor’. Or they are ‘battling’. Nonsense. I’m just me, having some treatment. It hasn’t altered who I am . Likewise having a diagnosis does not make you a saintly “victim” . If you were a bitch before diagnosis, you’ll still be a bitch after. It isn’t an excuse for special treatment from the world around you. Even though at times I wanted to whip the wig off Mo Mowlam style and stamp my feet to get treated like a princess for once. 😉image

Most helpful thing to do

Treat the person as normal. Talk to them as normal. Plan to do things as normal, when you can. Don’t always talk about treatment. And…please don’t mention Kylie. Again.

https://www.breastcancercare.org.uk

http://www.girlinawig.wordpress.com

Sarah Walsh: I’m Perfect Just as I am.

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Chatter has gone global. I am delighted to publish Sarah Walsh’s courageous account of dealing with her disability. Written when she was just thirteen it shows a great maturity on her outlook on life. Ann Allan

My name is Sarah. I’m in a wheelchair and I’m 13. But that’s only the outside stuff, the obvious things. I have Irish heritage on my dad’s side, and Scottish on my mum’s side. I was born 30th May in Canberra. I have a thing called Ulrich Congenital Muscular Dystrophy which basically means weird skin, weak muscles, thin bones and this is all caused by a lack of collagen 6. But the weird thing is, I didn’t have that diagnosis until I was 7, so for 7 years of my life I was basically living a lie.
Over the years I’ve had many significant moments, all worthy of being in this speech. But there’s only one moment that really deserves to be said aloud. That moment is my first MD camp.image
You see, in 2007 I had an operation to try to help me walk, but it had the opposite effect. It stopped me walking altogether. So, I kind of wasn’t myself for 2 years, saying things like “I hate myself” and apologising when anything happened that involved my wheelchair, as I felt it was my fault I was like this. Really, when I think about it, the only thing that ended up taking me out of that phase was this camp.
I can remember that I wasn’t too thrilled to be going. I don’t like being out of my comfort zone, and the idea of making new friends really scares me. Of course, seeing that nothing ever happens in Canberra, we had to go to Sydney for this camp Narrabeen Sports and Rec camp to be precise. The drive took at least 4 hours, so naturally I was bored out of my mind. When we arrived, you can imagine I was nervous as I just couldn’t imagine 30 kids in wheelchairs being in one spot all week. It would just be hectic and there wouldn’t be enough space. Or so I thought.
So we went to meet my carer,  Kelly,  who would help me with everything throughout the week (the carers were physiotherapy students). We went to our room and a few minutes later my roommate arrived. Her name was Bodene and her carer was Elise.  Bodene was 4 years older than me, but that didn’t stop us from clicking straight away. After we settled in and had the first awkward conversation and figured out that Bodene and I were completely obsessed with Twilight, we were told we had to go out and do the first activity.

We were put into groups and, because this camp was near Halloween, we made banners for our groups with Halloween kind of names. My group was called the “Bloodsucking Campers”. Unfortunately, Bodene and I weren’t in the same group but it was also a good thing. A little friendly competition never hurt anyone.
The rest of the week went by in the same way; spending time in our room getting to know each other, an activity, and back to the room partying and getting to know each other better. The more I got to know Bodene, the closer we got, and I found myself somehow forgiving myself for what happened on ’07.  Forgiving the surgeon and realising that I can be who I was; I just needed to understand that I won’t be the exact same, that things have changed. When I realised that, I was able to have more fun, throw more of me into the activities and not be so reserved.image
My favourite thing on this camp had to be the Halloween party! It was awesome!! It was on Wednesday night, so I had basically fully become a child and was doing everything I wanted and doing it with a smile on my face a smile that almost never left my face, which hadn’t happened since the operation.  We all had face paint on, and it wasn’t the face paint you get at fetes, this was movie worthy face paint! Warts, blood and all! The hall was filled with all sorts of things: streamers, Halloween decorations and Halloween food,  all of which Bodene and I helped set up.

They also had karaoke. I was so happy there was karaoke because I’ve always wanted to do it and I said to Bodene, “Dude, we have to do that”, but of course she said no, because she was too chicken! So I went with Elise because I didn’t want to go up alone. Then the next few times I did it, Bodene did it with me! I remember saying goodbye on Friday was really hard. There were quite a few tears, but I knew I was coming back next year as I just had so much fun and, for the first time in ages, I was fully myself and felt as though I belonged somewhere.image
This camp has helped shape my identity by making me realise that I’m not alone in what I’m going through. If I’m having a rough time, all I have to do is call my best friend and ask her for help seeing she’s already been through most of it.
This camp also shaped my identity by making me who I was when I was 10: a person who always smiles and makes pathetic jokes but still laughs like crazy at them. Without this camp, I would still hate myself, wishing I was “normal”. I’m perfect just as I am. And that’s the most important thing this camp has taught me.

Ullrich Congenital Muscular Dystrophy | MDA
https://www.mda.org/disease-name/ullrich-congenital-muscular-dystrophy
31 Mar 2015 – Children and adolescents with Ullrich congenital muscular dystrophy or Bethlem myopathy are invited to participate in a study of a daily …

Girl in a Wig: Normality

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Been thinking about blogging a lot recently. I started this to offload my own thoughts and feelings and also act as a journal. I have had some published via Chatter at http://www.apvallan.com a local blog and the author of this has been very encouraging.
I have deliberately not looked at other blogs in this whole area though. I did have a look at one recently and while our stories were similar in some ways the author was having a difficult time. I also saw comments on her lblog that as I have described before were almost competitive. That is – who had the worst side effects/ diagnosis etc. Competitive cancer.
I really can’t be arsed with that.
So, my pledge to anyone who reads this is that when I’ve got enough of the stuff about cancer treatment out of my head, I’ll be blogging about normal stuff. That was always my intention anyway.
Normality.
Because in the end, whilst I’ve had a bit of cancer taken out, I’ve had lots of treatment as an insurance policy. I’m probably in better shape than a lot of people as my health will be monitored closely for the next couple of years. I’ve had a clean MRI and CT scans with no signs of everyday wear and tear or things like arthritis lurking away.

What you focus on, grows. My focus is on normality.

http://www.breastcancer.org.uk

http://www.girlinawig.wordpress.com

Ann Allan: Memories No 15: Public and Personal Turmoil

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1970 was the beginning of a new decade but not the beginning of the end of the conflict.

1970 was the beginning of a year that would see me marry and take a step into the unknown, crossing the sectarian divide, unsure of what would be on the other side

1969 had ended on a personal high knowing that at long last Gordon had been accepted by my family and I had been accepted by his.

Plans were being made for an August wedding in my local church in Rostrevor, with the reception planned for Ballyedmond Castle hotel ( now the home of the late Eddie Haughey or Lord Ballyedmond to give him his full title ). image The date was set for the 19th August which was also my parents anniversary and so that box was ticked. I turned 21 on Valentine’s Day and had a small party for a dozen of my close friends. I was allowed to serve my male guests a beer each and my female friends a Babycham. My parents were under the mistaken illusion that my friends and I were teetotalers. If only they had known. We didn’t however shatter their illusions. They accepted that I smoked and as it was not considered dangerous in 1970 they did not object. We all thought we were super cool sitting with a cigarette in our hand. Little did we know what the long-term consequences for some of us would be.

image           On the political side there were now two divisions of the IRA, the Provisionals and the Officials. In March the Police Authority of Northern Ireland  was set up together with the RUC reserve. The reserve was not phased out until 2010.

My wedding plans continued. My bus route to work in the morning took me from Botanic Avenue to Howard street and then a walk to Chichester Street to get a bus to Dundonald House. Every morning I passed Robinson and Cleaver. imageTheir corner window featured bridal dresses and one morning I stopped in my tracks . I looked in the window as I did every morning and there it was.  I had found my dress. It was the most beautiful dress I had come across and I was determined that it was the one I was going to walk up the aisle in.  At lunch time clutching my 3p I waited patiently for a telephone box to come free.  I dialled home waited for the beep, beep and put in the money. imageMammy, I said, I’ve found my dress. You’ll have to come up to Belfast so you can see it.  No mean feat in those days. My mum didn’t drive and dad wasn’t too keen to drive to Belfast so she had to take the bus. Luckily she loved the dress too and the little bonnet with the veil that the assistant suggested would go well with it. It cost £29 and looking back I know that was quite a lot of money in those days.  Probably around £600 in today’s money. Another box ticked

Riots took place in Ballymurphy in April between the Catholics and the army. As a  result the UDR was formed. The UDR was seen by the Catholics as a replacement for the notorious B -Specials. They were mainly Protestant and many ex B- specials joined.  They were despised by a large section of the catholic community. In the UK Edward Heath was elected Prime Minister defeating the Labour Party.

Continuing with the wedding plans, a request was made to the local Parish Priest for permission to marry in Rostrevor. This was around the middle of May.  At the beginning of June or thereabouts I was returning from Sunday mass ( I went to humour my father, after all he was paying for my wedding ) when I saw the local Parish Priest,  Monsignor Boyle, hovering at the church door.image He called me over and summoned me to go to the Parochial House and wait for him. I did as he said and the house keeper showed me into the parlour. He came in. He was quite old, very doddery, deaf as a post and all in all quite intimidating.  I was waiting for him to say that all was fine and of course I could get married in my local church, where I had been baptised, sung in the choir and distributed petals on Corpus Christi ( It’s a Catholic thing ).  I’m sorry, he said,  but if you persist on going ahead with this marriage I will not permit you to get married here in Rostrevor.   However, I am prepared to marry you in Killowen ( a small nearby parish ) but you will not be allowed any guests or congregation. I was feisty then. I still am now and I had no intention of letting him talk to me like that. I shouted at him that he could threaten all he liked but it would make no difference.  It was something you just didn’t do to a priest in those days,  to answer back, but I did and when he was in mid sentence I got up and walked out leaving him gobsmacked. I’m pretty sure he had never been challenged like that before and possibly never was again.

I marched through the village and headed home. image I just about held back the tears until I saw my mother. She  was fit to be tied when she heard what he had said. It was Sunday and I headed back to Belfast distraught that all my plans were in disarray.  My bridesmaids were making their own dresses and we had decided on an all white wedding and they had chosen a lovely pleated georgette. I had to let them know that plans had changed and the wedding was now in jeopardy. A ladder and Gretna Green were looking more inviting. However, on return from work on the Monday evening my mother phoned. She and my dad had been working hard all day and had managed to contact a cousin who was a priest in Ardoyne. He was happy to marry us and the date was free. They had contacted the Dunadry Inn at Templepatrick  and they could accommodate the reception. No daughter of mine, my mother said would ever have to marry in a church without a congregation.  All arrangements for the wedding now moved to Belfast.

Meanwhile the situation in NI and particularly in Belfast was getting worse.

In June loyalist groups attacked the Short Strand. The IRA defended the Short Strand from the grounds of St Matthew’s church, the very church I had lived beside for almost a year. A close friend who was a volunteer with the Knights of Malta ambulance service was behind the lines in the church and told of his fear as a gun battle raged on the Newtownards road. Three people were killed that night with each side declaring they were attacked by the other side.  The day after 500 Catholic men from Harland and Wolff were told to leave by their fellow Protestant workers. They never got their jobs back.

Thankfully a lot has changed in the intervening years but we are still a long way off from a society that can live side by side in peace and harmony.

Next time: The wedding. In jeopardy again ?

Anon: Girl in a Wig, Looking Forward

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Radiotherapy

June 1st 2015: Began radiotherapy.

July 1st 2015:  I finished radiotherapy. In between had 23 sessions ( called fractions). Each of these entailed a trip to the Regional Canimagecer Centre to get zapped.

The waiting room is massive, apparently they treat 300+ per day there. The desk is manned by volunteers from the Friends of the Cancer Centre and also I saw a gentleman volunteer playing guitar one day . It all helps keeps your spirits up. There is some horrendous artwork though, one huge piece in particular was what looked like a playground in blood red. Made me think of Terminator 2 and laugh every time I saw it which possibly wasn’t the artist’s intention.

Anyway you get a pager and can wonder about in the vicinity until the radiographer pages you. Once you’ve been paged they take you off to one of the rooms where they check your details. After partially undressing you get on the bench, get lined up to the lasers and then zapped. This bit only takes a minute .

Contraptions

Anyway, radiotherapy itself was fine. To anyone having to have it, the staff are all very nice and it only takes a few minutes. If you drink lots of water and moisturise as advised it is fine. I managed to avoid any skin damage luckily but it can break down a bit. What I do have though is a very brown tanned circular patch where I had the Boost treatment. This is a few fractions where the beam is focused in a very small specific area. This also entails a bit more drawing on you with felt tips, this time using a template to trace the area. Not so fun with male radiographers doing it. I tried to make it normal by chatting about the weather etc but really- strangers drawing on your boob is not normal.

Wasn’t too unhappy to finish though. I had got sick of trekking to the hospital every day and not being able to wear deodorant under the nearest arm to the area being zapped. Apparently the metallic particles can effect the radiation -which makes me wonder what exactly we put onto our skin without thinking.

When it was all over I did feel a sense of relief. The active treatment phase is over and I’ll just be reviewed regularly from now on. That plus 10 yrs of taking tamoxifen .

But….far better than the alternative. At least I have an alternative

image

http://www.breastcancercare.org

Ann Allan: Send in the Clowns.

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imageDid you like myself and thousands of others stand beside the police at Twadell Avenue and watch a small bunch of thugs launch a horrific attack on our police force? Thanks to the fortitude of RL we watched from behind the camera,  as young boys and teenagers held Belfast up to ridicule throughout the world. We gaspedimage in horror as a missile hit its target and a policeman slumped to the ground. We saw him having to be literally dragged away by other policemen eager to protect him and get him to safety. We were able to see at close hand what these men have to put up with when crowds are brought on to the street without supervision.

Which begs the question, why were the nationalists out at the other side of the road? Why didn’t they go to their homes and leave the police to deal with the situation, or have riots now become a spectator sport? We hear about police brutality.  We were only defending ourselves, is the usual excuse. Well last night there was no police brutality, the police were stoic and patient. I would have been tempted to have gone across and grabbed Joey/James the clown and shoved him in a paddy wagon until he calmed down.

Close up pictures of the crowd showed middle-aged women laughing and egging on the young bucks who thought it clever to attack the police,  because the Godfathers are their idols and they listen to their outdated rhetoric.  Young children looked on, cheering when a missile hit home. Where were their parents? Behind them? Enjoying the spectacle with a can in their hand?  I would suggest that in future the water cannons have a coloured dye added to the water. It would make identification of these thugs a lot easier. Maybe I’m naïve, but I have been around a long time and last night was my first look at a riot from the policeman’s perspective. I scanned the crowds for evidence of a politician or a community worker grabbing one of the rioters and telling them to go home but I didn’t see any.  This was a PR disaster for the orange order in Belfast. It was a peaceful and enjoyable day everywhere else.  Going to bed last night I read that youths in the Bogside were intent in undoing the good work achieved in the city. For goodness sake, somebody, sort it out or we are saddling another generation with this crap.

Send in the clowns, don’t bother there here.

Ann Allan : What is Culture?

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1.The arts and other manifestations of human intellectual achievement regarded collectively.

image2.The ideas, customs, and social behaviour of a particular people or society.

The above are the popular definitions of culture. The word culture has become a dirty word in Northern Ireland, misused, misunderstood and sensitive. I’m not out to offend anyone by my observations as I come from a mixed community background since 1970. I also grew up in a village, before I crossed the great community divide, where there was a toleration on both sides of parades, both on the 12 th July and the 15 th August. A bonfire was a small family occasion where a few logs burned in the middle of a safe non contentious area. No pallets, no tyres, no flags or emblems, no election posters and no ‘holy’ statues.
Move forward 45 years when one would expect that as a society we would have moved forward. But no! Ask one of the bonfire builders why they are building a bonfire and you’ll get the cliché, It’s our culture. Should they be pursued and questioned what they meant by culture I doubt you would get a lucid or reasoned answer.
We hear the cry respect our culture. I’m sorry culture to me doesn’t entail:

The paving stones on the street painted red, white and blue,
Flags flying from every lamp-post for weeks, some in tatters.
Flags of other nations flying. What is the flying of the Palestinian and Israeli flag all about?
To improve the situation and to move towards some semblance of toleration. Let’s start with both sides removing any flags that:
1.Are from other countries
2. Are from paramilitary groups which are threatening to any sections of the community.
This year we have even seen the swastika and the confederate flag. These can only have been put up to offend some sections of our community. The flags are also flown in areas where the community doesn’t want them but that doesn’t seem to be taken into consideration.
In some areas where bonfires are built way in advance of the twelfth, the streets are littered with rubbish both before and after the 11th night. How can anyone take a pride in their area with this being allowed to happen? I feel for those house proud residents who have skimped and saved to buy their houses.  We have seen this year how residents had to move from their homes in Chobam street to accommodate a bonfire. Result people  inconvenienced. Rate payers foot the bill. Fire service on duty to make sure houses not burned down. This is not culture.
Speak out against this situation and you are likely to fall foul of the organisers and some members of the loyalist community. I have friends in the loyalist community so please don’t say I am biased.
So if you want me to endorse your culture, take the sectarianism out of the picture on both sides, promote the good aspects like the bands and the encouragement of young musicians. Don’t turn our streets into what looks like public dumping areas. Enjoy the bonfires. Remove the sectarian aspect and it could turn out to be an occasion without ridicule and rancour.