Safe Place... 19/366

My mum got me this gorgeous wee box for Christmas.

I saw it in the window of my absolute favourite little shop, and squee'd at it. 

I never really needed boxes for anything till I started wearing jewelery again.

You see, when I had post natal depression, I kind of lost myself for a while.

And I lost that interest in taking care of anything that was mine. 

Or even keeping a hold of them.

That included some of the most gorgeous bracelets, earrings and pendants. 

Some that my Gran made.

Things I'll never be able to get back. 

So now that I'm back on my even keel, steady and generally more myself than I've been since pre-kids, I've gone back to wanting to wear pretty things. 

To indulge myself once in a while to something fanciful. 

Like a gorgeous bracelet,

or a cute wee ring.

Because it turns out I really *am* worth it. 

Just like you. 

Who knew, eh?

The Memory of Sounds

You know what I mean, right?

You hear a song that you haven't heard for years, and it takes you back to that time.

Much like smelling something that reminds you of someone, or somewhere.

It's amazing what a sound can remind you of.

One of my favourites is hearing bagpipes.

See, when I was wee, I lived in a place called Dunoon.

It's on the West Coast of Scotland, and every year, the last weekend of August, they host the Cowal Games.

Pipe bands come from all over to compete.

The main street is closed off, and it's a HUGE deal.

The ferries are packed, and it's impossible to *not* be part of the hype.

Living where I do now, I hear one of the schools' pipe bands every so often, and it takes me back to when I was that little girl.

I remember sitting in a hot classroom on the friday afternoon of that weekend, the windows open and the excitement in that room building with anticipation as we listened to the pipes from the stadium.

I remember the leaders of each band throwing their huge ornately decorated batons up so high in the air as they walked their band down the high street.

In fact, I remember once my dad having to pull me back from the crowd to stop a badly thrown one nearly hitting me square on the head!

I remember the smell of the fish and chips from Church Street, which was on a side street perfectly in the centre of the main courseway.

The cool air in the evenings watching the fireworks from our porch when I was too small to want to be so close to the excruciatingly loud bangs.

Then when I was older, going to the pier to stand and watch them light up - everyone cheering and smiling with our breathe visible (it may have been August, but we were on the banks of the Clyde, and it still got cold at night!)

I remember the times when it poured with rain the whole weekend, but that didn't stop anyone turning up.

The streets were flocked with people bustling by, trying to get a glimpse, and of course hanging out of the pubs with their drinks (not that I paid any attention at that age).

Every time I hear the pipes it brings all these memories back to me.

Happy memories and feelings of belonging.

That excited feel of something big coming.

Yeah, I really love hearing the bagpipes.

The Beginning of the End: Chapter 2

S was the stitches that kept us from completely ripping apart that day. She took me out of the pub, still not sure what had happened. Took me round the corner to the wee nook she’d just been smoking in. I could smell her not quite stale smoke still lingering there.

He... he... he cheated, with - C. How could they do this to me? My husband and my best friend. What had I done to deserve this? I looked at S through my tear-stained eyes. She was wide-eyed in disbelief. Even she couldn’t believe he’d done this to his wife. He was always the nice guy, never talked bad about anyone, never did anything to hurt anyone. How could he be so STUPID?

I felt like I’d been punched in the guts. Winded so badly I couldn’t quite catch a breath. How could he?? How could he do this to me? To us? To our boy?

I didn’t understand. There had been times when I was tempted, but I never actually DID anything. I wouldn't have been able to live with it, knowing that I’d betrayed him.

The worst part at the time was that it had happened almost a year ago, and everyone in his circle of friends seemed to know about it but me. Every single one of them, and not one had had the decency to tell me.

Not one.

The beginning of the end: Chapter 1

His eyes stared into his pint glass, empty, but full of anguish. He had to tell her. Either that or she was going to find out anyway. That’s what it had all been about after all, and she had no idea. She would never forgive him.

His voice broke as he spoke softly in the pub they’d sat in, telling her what he had tried to bury to that box in the depths of his mind for the last year.

Her face began to contort from the usual easy-going smile she had.

Disbelief.

Had she misheard him?

Anger. Hurt. Her heart... breaking.

Someone was shrieking “why? WHY?? How could you do this to me?”

He looked up to see it was her.

She’ll never forgive me, he thought. I’m going to lose her, lose my baby boy. Lose everything.

At that point her friend came back in from having her fag. She’d only been gone two minutes. Just two minutes and our lives had changed forever.

“Get me out of her” she said to S. She needed to get out of there. Tears streamed down her face as she gathered up her bag and coat to leave.