Cemetery Visit

I was born on dd/mm/yyyy in a British military hospital in Germany.  I am a pads brat, and proud of the fact.

The army wife giving birth before my mother died during childbirth.  I did not know that fact until ten years ago, when I was living near Oxford and planning a visit to Germany.  My dad asked me to do him a big favour and visit the grave of the mother in question, which, some months later I did.  It was a gloriously sunny day.  The Rheindahlen Military Cemetery, where she was buried, was billiard-table green and very peacefully quiet.

Two thoughts occurred to me as I stood at the lady’s grave.  Her name is Margaret.

  1. When had anyone last been to see her grave?
  2. The Angel of Death could have taken me, but chose to take Margaret instead.  Even on my darkest days, I have reminded myself of that fact.  There has to be a reason why I was allowed to live.

On Facebook among the anti-Trump, “what I am having for lunch” and cute animal photos, I recently saw some posts from two army wives regarding the Rheindahlen Military Cemetery.  Tragically, these two ladies had lost babies in the same hospital where I was born.  After making enquiries of various contacts that I know, I am intending to visit the cemetery in the next few days to visit the graves of the babies buried there, as well as to take photos and video footage to share with the mothers of these babies.  As a single man with no offspring, I can only imagine the pain these mothers will have gone through, when the Army and society in general were much more “stiff upper lip” than nowadays.  Since those first two army wives messaged me, I have received two or three other requests to visit other babies’ graves.

It is my humble duty and privilege to be living close enough to the cemetery for me to pay a visit.  Door to door: about 90 minutes.  I feel it is the least I can do for my fellow pads brats and families, to pay my respects and say a prayer by their babies’ graves.

Finally…  Some years ago, I remember a story about an army wife wanting to have her daughter’s remains repatriated some years after her burial back to England, where her parents were now living.  In preparation for the planned move, the mother came over to the grave at Rheindahlen Military Cemetery.  Standing by her daughter’s grave situated among the dozens of other babies’ graves, she told her husband:

No.  Let’s leave her here, so she can carry on playing with all her friends here.  They’d miss her terribly.



Have a peaceful day, won’t you!


Bell, Book and Kindle – That Cathartic Moment

De=friending on Facebook.  I do it on a regular basis.  (I think I’ve also been de-friended by others, mostly over disagreements about politics.)  C’est la vie.

To paraphrase Alan Partridge (UK comedy character), “How many cows have you got?  Well, I’ve got 300+ Facebook friends.”  Are the real friends?  No.  Some are.  Some aren’t.  Some are FOAF’s (friends of friends).  I’m also mindful of the old Royal Military Police slogan.

Remember – your mates are not your friends.

Now and again I do a purge.  Some FB friends I never hear from, not even a like.  They are quite easy to delete.

Then there are those who overshare Britain First “if my poppy offends you…” drivel.  Thehy deleted.

Then there are the falsely modest posters.  You know the type.

Day 17 of the “Newer, Fitter Me” Challenge.  Disappointed that I missed my daily 9300 press-ups target.  Another 4, and I’ve made it.

Zzzzzzzzzzz.  If I’m in a good mood, I just stop following posts that FB friend, rather than delete them.

Then there are the serious cases.  Not only do I de-friend them.  I block them, too, so they do not see my posts on mutual friends’ timelines.  I reserve this for the gossips who have nothing to do but play Chinese whispers to others.

I’ve just been out for a cycle ride


Ginge in Germany has just bought a Harley Davidson.

Defriending is good for you.

Have a cathartic day, won’t you!


Lots of people, including myself, have a regular purge of their Facebook friends. My criteria include:

  • Do they ever comment on my posts?
  • Do they ever like my posts?
  • Have I ever met this person in the flesh?
  • Do I have any interaction at all with this person?

If not, I un-friend them.  This is something I do once every six months or so, depending on what’s on TV.  As this is Germany, the answer is, often, not very much.  Un-friending people can be quite a cathartic experience.  Some people, about twenty of them, I have blocked on Facebook, eg one particular person who had a habit of looking at my Facebook page, mis-reading my comments and then feeding drivel back to various relatives of mine.  Just because I comment on a photo, “Dinner with the potential in-laws,” does not mean you need to rush out and buy a posh frock or suit for a forthcoming wedding.

Sorry to disappoint.

In the days before Facebook, and I’ve been on Facebook since, I think, 2007, de-friending required different methods.

  • Buying a new address book, copying over by hand all the contacts I wanted to keep, and then throwing out the old book after a few weeks.
  • Going into my email account and doing the same electronically, including:
    • Deleting all emails from the contact
    • Deleting their email address
    • Putting them on my ‘block sender’ list
  • In one case, a university (fair-weather) friend, called “Deeps,” I even:
    • Looked for any photos of him in my photo albums, as in the proper ones, not online
    • Took out all the photos methodically
    • Methodically placed them into a strong envelope, with no covering note
    • Wrote Deeps’ name and address in block capitals on the envelope
    • Omitted my return address on the back (I had moved house a couple of times since last being in contact with him, two years before)
    • Queued up at the local post office to ensure I had the correct postage, before placing the package in the local post box

In the case of Deeps’ photos, I derived a huge sense of closure.  My only regret: that I had not done so earlier.

Facebook friends are not real friends.  Fair-weather friends aren’t, either.   One reason I love Düsseldorf is, I have some good, genuine friends.

Have a friendly day, won’t you?