Back in old Blighty
At long last I am back in my house in England. Banished to the third floor, mind you, in a sort of writer's garret room, and wandering round looking for all my various books, compact discs and general bits of stuff that the lodgers here have carefully packed away. But still it is good to be back. Wogan on the radio weekdays, Jonathan Ross on Saturday mornings. 2 Meg broadband for 25 quid a month. Bacon. Curiously Strong Cheddar. Those wonderful English girls who often are, well generally from the collarbones up anyway, stunningly pretty. There is something about this climate that allows women to look twenty even when they are approaching forty. And blue eyes everywhere. If only they'd play some sport, get a bit of muscle. And stop piercing and tattooing themselves. Nothing more jarring than seeing a Saxon blonde with porcelain complexion and Windsor blue eyes, and with barbed wire tattooed around her arms and metal studs through her lips, tongue and, I daresay, other more Southerly regions. Grotesque.
So it's back to the chore of looking for a new job. And of course a new life partner. Significant other. De facto (the correct term if you're Australian, it is a legal way of allowing you to be partnered with pretty much anything warm blooded I suspect). Main squeeze. Goose, to quote Barry Hilton. In short, the next lucky lady to bear the Hodgson name as carried by thousands of sturdy North Easterners in England. OK, Geordies then. It has been a bit of a shock to discover that the origins of my family name are to be found "oop North". So far North in fact there is a recognised Hodgson clan in Scotland. Lost sheep stealers from Newcastle on Tyne, I suspect. Nevertheless a proud name it is, and I hope to see it carried on.
So now to the tricky business of winnowing through the millions of online dating profiles and job advertisements (and believe me I've woken in cold sweats at the thought of getting my response letters mixed up here). But that is a tale for another day because it has just occured to me, while filling in yet another damn job application, that many of my old Rhodesian contemporaries have no idea I did in fact end up in the military after all. Not once, but twice. You will doubtless recall, having committed these writings to memory as you should, that I was rejected in 1979 by the Rhodesian Army on the grounds of being too young. So I waved goodbye to my classmates as they went off to war - and 1979 was in terms of casualties at least, the worst year of the war - and I was reincarcerated in Chaplin High School. But, and here is the detail that many of my battle hardened mates will not be aware of, I volunteered to go into the army in January 1980. Air Force actually. As a combat medic. And that is a whole blog on its own, that year - the best twelvemonth of my life bar none. But it was years later in 1988 when I signed up again - this time as a permanent force officer in the South African Defence Force.
And it is this startling fact that will cause the Rhodesians among you to gasp in horror, methylated spirits bottles falling from your nerveless grasp. Because of all the places in the world for a born anarchist and anti-authoritarian to end up, the SADF is the least likely to tolerate my quirky humour and delightfully non-establishment ways. I am all a-tremble with painful memories in writing this, although funnily enough I am currently wearing a SADF t-shirt, the plain brown one that is great for gym use. It was a really strange time - and I've had a few. I wonder if I should actually make this one into a novella? The Top Secret project memoranda that I wrote but was not officially allowed to to read due to not having a security clearance; the counter-interrogation training for pilot cadets (and to this day I am nervous flying SAA or Emirates, where many of them ended up), the gay Major who thought he was a white witch; the Intelligence captain who supplied me with Russian vodka and caviar in Oshakati; the medic captain who had parachute wings and slept to attention... OK OK , a book it is. The secret life of Captain Hodgson. Should be fun.
So it's back to the chore of looking for a new job. And of course a new life partner. Significant other. De facto (the correct term if you're Australian, it is a legal way of allowing you to be partnered with pretty much anything warm blooded I suspect). Main squeeze. Goose, to quote Barry Hilton. In short, the next lucky lady to bear the Hodgson name as carried by thousands of sturdy North Easterners in England. OK, Geordies then. It has been a bit of a shock to discover that the origins of my family name are to be found "oop North". So far North in fact there is a recognised Hodgson clan in Scotland. Lost sheep stealers from Newcastle on Tyne, I suspect. Nevertheless a proud name it is, and I hope to see it carried on.
So now to the tricky business of winnowing through the millions of online dating profiles and job advertisements (and believe me I've woken in cold sweats at the thought of getting my response letters mixed up here). But that is a tale for another day because it has just occured to me, while filling in yet another damn job application, that many of my old Rhodesian contemporaries have no idea I did in fact end up in the military after all. Not once, but twice. You will doubtless recall, having committed these writings to memory as you should, that I was rejected in 1979 by the Rhodesian Army on the grounds of being too young. So I waved goodbye to my classmates as they went off to war - and 1979 was in terms of casualties at least, the worst year of the war - and I was reincarcerated in Chaplin High School. But, and here is the detail that many of my battle hardened mates will not be aware of, I volunteered to go into the army in January 1980. Air Force actually. As a combat medic. And that is a whole blog on its own, that year - the best twelvemonth of my life bar none. But it was years later in 1988 when I signed up again - this time as a permanent force officer in the South African Defence Force.
And it is this startling fact that will cause the Rhodesians among you to gasp in horror, methylated spirits bottles falling from your nerveless grasp. Because of all the places in the world for a born anarchist and anti-authoritarian to end up, the SADF is the least likely to tolerate my quirky humour and delightfully non-establishment ways. I am all a-tremble with painful memories in writing this, although funnily enough I am currently wearing a SADF t-shirt, the plain brown one that is great for gym use. It was a really strange time - and I've had a few. I wonder if I should actually make this one into a novella? The Top Secret project memoranda that I wrote but was not officially allowed to to read due to not having a security clearance; the counter-interrogation training for pilot cadets (and to this day I am nervous flying SAA or Emirates, where many of them ended up), the gay Major who thought he was a white witch; the Intelligence captain who supplied me with Russian vodka and caviar in Oshakati; the medic captain who had parachute wings and slept to attention... OK OK , a book it is. The secret life of Captain Hodgson. Should be fun.
posted by Shane Hodgson at 8:25 pm
1 Comments:
Hurray!!! You're back!!! Welcome home, Orrence :) I like the idea of you sitting all snug atop your English boarding house, clacking away at your memoirs as the Winter weather contemplates its first scratches at your window. Suits you. Perhaps it's time to turn the place into a mini artists' colony, put the old greenhouse to goodly use and watch the lemmings scurry by? Beer, bacon, beard, bard. :)
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