Incoming

By Gary Curtis

"Garry Curtis is a solider, whom some might say is of misfortune, rather that the opposite. Yet, he is a man, who has lived not one but several lives in an existence of remarkable colour and variance. His story is frank and heartfelt, expressed in a street language that he knows intimately. From his earliest childhood memories to the career

• Language: English
• Publisher: Upfront
• Release date: Apr 20, 2018
• ISBN: 9781784565503

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE: …and so it begins

Waiting to be Cas-e-vac’d after getting injured in KAF

Afghanistan, Kandahar March 2012

Booooom!!

Danny and I are inside the Portakabin, which is my home and also my office, talking about nothing, when we’re rocked suddenly by an earth-shatteringly loud explosion. Automatically, we do the tortoise head ‘thing’. Ostriches do the same. Instinct dictates that you make yourself smaller, as the windows rattle violently and the dust flies.

It is about 10:30am. Danny Roach, ex-London fire-fighter and Royal Marine Commando, is here on KAF (Kandahar Airfield). He’s in charge of the fire engines and has a small band of fire-fighters to look after and command. It’s been busy for him in KAF. Complex attacks on the base, with drones grounded by IDF (indirect fire).

The station is on the runway apron almost next-door to the Role Three Med Centre, with continuous Med-e-Vac choppers wokka-wokka-wokka-ing throughout the day and night, either with injured soldiers on-board, from the coalition, or local nationals ANA (Afghan National Army), ANP (Afghan National Police) and civilians. It is next door to the KAF supermarket, the PX (American NAAFI).

We wait in the feeble protection of the ’kabin surrounded by surprisingly effective blast walls but there’s no top cover. We wait a few seconds for the sound of mortars, or rockets, being launched on either side, or any other incoming explosions, but there are none. We walk outside and look around my compound. Off to my left, about 300 metres away, is one of the main entrances to Kandahar Airfield (KAF). I’m in the middle of a training process to teach the new guard force for another entry point to KAF.

We see the smoke rising. The guard’s on his feet and is told to watch out for a secondary attack. Danny and I climb onto the Portakabin roof and can see that a Vehicle Borne Improvised Explosive Device (VBIED; pronounced: ‘Veebid’) has been detonated by a suicide bomber in a unrecognisable mess of vehicle.

Complications after my Surgery A London Hospital 2012

KAF is a sprawling coalition HQ. There are many agencies here, as well as the military and, of course, a huge contingent of REMFs, a lot of whom never get close to the perimeter fence, let alone going outside the wire. Having said that, they’re integral to the total team effort. Lads at the FOBS are on hard routine, if you come through KAF, it’s paradise compared to being outside. There’s no animosity from me. They do an extremely important job of keeping things moving.

KAF is also one of the main trauma hospitals in southern Afghanistan, alongside the British base called Camp Bastion, over in the neighbouring province of Helmand. We can see the panic of the Afghan security forces. It’s the same as usual. The same pattern. AKs being fired and people scattering in confusion.

Is this a complex attack by the Taliban on our base? I am thinking hard and trying to weigh up the situation in a nanosecond. No more explosions. It is a good sign. Complex would have meant more explosions and a much heavier rate of fire. That said, we can’t rule out a secondary attack, or device detonation. I can’t switch off. I never switch off. Alertness punches into overdrive. Suspicions are raised all around.

I ask my second-in-command to lock-down our little camp, which is sited within a significantly larger camp. Every agency and the different specialists have the same situation; they reside in camps within camps. I tell them to secure the gates and let nobody in, or out. Nobody…apart from me and Danny, of course. Placing my pistol in its holster, I check quickly to see if it’s made ready; one up the spout. I knew it was but it’s habit.

Danny and I walk towards the main gate. We are in civilian clothing. We are not carrying rifles. While looking all around, checking out people, soldiers, emergency services, my mind’s racing through scenarios, ten to the dozen. Listening for distant launches, looking for the shifty individual in the crowd. We make eye-to-eye contact with ANP and ANA soldiers, with their weapons at their shoulders and barrels pointing high, firing off a few rounds uselessly into the sky.

There are many casualties. A huge tanker truck’s ablaze. Both Danny and I, being ex-London fire-fighters, know that this can become a conflagration, with accompanying explosions. KAF’s fire service arrives to extinguish the flames. Cars, debris and body parts are alight. I can hear the time-bomb ticking sound of ammunition cooking off from the obliterated PSD high-profile vehicles.

Body parts are everywhere. It’s always amazing how suicide vest-bombers heads pop off. There is fuck all left though of the VBIED (Vehicle-borne Improvised Explosive Device), bombers…just snot and smoke. We can see clearer now that two-up armoured SUVs are blown to bits. They have fatalities. The fatals are Americans from a PSD team (Private Security Detail).

Okay, Dan. I’ve seen enough. None of my locals are involved, dead, or injured. I’m relieved. I could see none. As for the body parts, before you think, ‘How does he know I’m not CSI?’, I know that our lot travel in small groups. Not all of them would be killed, so they’d report to me. Let’s go mate! No need to be here. We’ll go into lock down, until the Camp gives us the all-clear and the C/P can be used again.

There is nothing we can do. We walk back to our camp and see more emergency vehicles heading along the dusty perimeter tracks. Part of me wants to slow them down, as the talcum powder plumes of dust envelop us. Covering eyes and faces, we ply through the dense, gritty fog back to our camp.

We start the day over. It’s training today. Weapon handling, along with arrest and restraint techniques. Later on, we’ll do vehicles and personal searches. Dan’s been watching me take the training and helping out in some areas, when I undertake the dry weapons course.

Possessing a personal interest in unarmed combat and self-defence, I have taught many people the art over the years. Among the pupils were the fighting companies at 42 Commando, prior to our Northern Ireland tours in 1989. Fortunately, when I joined the Royal Marines, the guy seen as the ‘Jap-slapping guru’ was Sergeant Bernie P. We got on like a house on fire and I took to it like a duck to water. Having learned and practised as much as I could, the skills stood me in good stead, when I joined R Company at Royal Marines Poole (RM Poole).

Back in KAF, we start the training session. It is carried out at a snail’s pace and in manageable sections to ensure that the Afghans get it right. As time progresses, we’ll get faster and more technical. Of course, being me, I like to give as good as I get, which means pretty full-on. Naturally, not to the extent of hurting a candidate but, when they practise on me, I ensure that they work harder than they might on their mates.

We do the practice through most of the day into early afternoon. Danny and I then drive from our camp the few kilometres to the main galley. It’s a huge tent, where we want for nothing. Typical Americans; cans of pop, ice cream, steaks, lobsters, crab legs…they know how to look out for themselves. It’s a welcome break from working out in the sticks at the FOBs (Forwards Operating Bases) and I did my fair share of them, back in Helmand, while on an FCO task and existing on rations.

Danny and I finish and pop over to the PX (the American retail centre that sells everything from candies to cookies, magazines to domestic machinery. It is a shopping mall on a smaller scale). By comparison, the unit at Baghdad’s International Airport is humungous!

We go for coffee...hot chocolate for me, as I can’t stand coffee…to sit and chat with Martin F., who’s working with another private company. I’ve known him for a while, since our days in Iraq. After 30 minutes of putting the world to rights and dripping (military slang for moaning) about everything and anything, we go shopping in the PX. I buy a couple of boxes of pot noodles for the locals I’ve been training for the guard force.

Back at our camp, I pass around the pot noodles, tell the lads to eat and we recommence training 30 minutes later. Dan and I continue our chitter-chatter from earlier but a few minutes later I can hear a strange and irregular scraping noise emerging from the locals’ Portakabin. Quizzically, I pop my head around the doorway to see one of the lads squatting on the floor. He looks up at me, with a huge smile spread across his face.

Thank you, Mr Garry. he says gratefully.

Okey-dokey. No probs. I respond.

As I make a second take, to my absolute disbelief, all of the lads are eating the pot noodle…dry. The scraping noise is them digging out dry pot noodles. I struggle to contain my laughter.

Fuck me, you daft buggers! Water! You need to ADD water!

They all look at me and smile. The kettle’s switched on rapidly.

Following the training session, I return to my cabin to complete the training records for the powers-that-be, who insist that we need to document and be accountable for all of this. Somebody in a grey office somewhere has determined that paperwork is necessary. I loathe paperwork.

As the day passes into darkness, I start to feel rather unwell. By 05:00am, I am Technicolor-yawning and doubled-up in agony. Waking my 2IC (second-in-command), I tell him that I am heading across to Role Three (the medical centre). Donning flip-flops, throwing my body armour in the back of the 4x4, I grab my pistol and make a silent prayer that the Taliban does not attack me now!

The last thing I expect, as I pull out of the camp and drive along the road that parallels the runway, is a cat running into the road. Berdumpp, berdumpp…the wheels drive over it. Fuck me!, I think, even the cats are suicide nuts. I stop. Get out. I couldn’t see it. There’s neither cry, nor yelp, in the darkness. Oh shit…THIS PLACE!

On my arrival I see the doctor. He’s a decent fellow; an American. No surprise at a US-run camp.

Doc, I feel like shit! My guts hurt and I’ve been sick a few times, I grumble.

Do you reckon you’re constipated? He asks sarcastically. I scratch my head. He has got to be taking the piss…he is! His smile tells all.

Let’s get you in for a cat scan. Inappropriate, considering the recent collision!

Had this been Camp Bastion, under the control of the British forces, I would have been given Ibrufen tablets and told to come back in a few days. Still feeling wretched, I have the scan and the Doctor is soon poring over the results.

Okay Garry. We’ve some good news and some bad news…

Go on, I say.

Well, the good news is your time here in KAF is over for now…

Yeah… I say awaiting a response to the riddle.

The bad news is we’re going to have to operate on you, because you’re leaking shit into your body cavity and that’s what’s making you vomit, you are poisoning your own body.

It’s an ‘Oh fuck!’ moment. How the hell has this happened? Then it dawns on me…all the blows to the guts with the rifle butts and boots flying in must have done the damage.

Okay…but I need to let my bosses in Kabul know, so they can get a replacement down for me.

Alrighty…you got an hour.

Making a call to my closest friend on camp, Danny Roach, and the office in Kabul, the system will take over. Minutes later, I am back in the clinic being prepared for surgery. They don’t mess around at Role Three. Fortunately, I have enough time to call Sam in the UK. She starts to cry and begs to be kept informed. I make another call to Danny to do this, as I’ll be out of it. He agrees.

Sammy and I have been together for about five years at this stage. However, with the amount of time I spend out of the UK, I’ll bet that we’ve seen each other for less than a year of that. She says that she’s happy with the situation. I am being prepared for surgery, when all hell breaks loose and the Medical Centre sirens blare out. ‘Oh shit’, I think, ‘It can’t be another rocket attack…’. Medical staff are swarming into the Operating/Crash Room, busying themselves on a row of stretcher-type trauma beds, as I watch in wonderment. I hear an American voice.

Okay guys…we’ve multiple IED victims and they’re British and US service personnel, I have no further details…

If it is British and US, this must be an SF (Special Forces) operation gone wrong. It turns out to be just British soldiers struck with a huge IED. I recall that they were in a tracked armoured fighting vehicle…and all died.

Excerpt from Internet:

Six British soldiers have been killed in southern Afghanistan, when their vehicle was hit by an explosion. Five from 3rd Battalion the Yorkshire Regiment and one from 1st Battalion The Duke of Lancaster’s Regiment had been on patrol in Kandahar province on Tuesday…

Most kindly, the Doctor/Surgeon informs me that I’m no longer a priority. I’ll have some drugs pumped into me and I’ll be ‘cas-e-vac’d’ to Germany possibly. The drug cocktail works, as I am wheeled into a ward containing five injured US servicemen (mainly suffering with broken limbs). Still, the nurses seem to be up for a laugh.

The door to our ward opens and in walks the biggest entourage of photographers and generals and whoever else that can clamber onto what is clearly a major arse-kissing mission. The camp commander, whose name escapes me, walks up to each of the US guys and presents them with their Purple Hearts.

The contractors don’t receive a glimmer of appreciation. We don’t seek it but, to have a whiff of acknowledgement would be nice, as a very high number of PSD/contractors have been eating the same dust, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the military and, more often than not, holding off the advances of a load of rag-head banzai-lunatic insurgents waiting for Mil QRF to give us a hand.

While I don’t want to dwell on it, a bit of recognition for our services would be welcomed. For the most part, we spend a lot of time outside the wire being as low profile as possible, trying to blend in, to conduct our tasks. More often than not, we’re asked to give briefs about various areas, on the operational ground, as it helps to bring the soldiers up to speed.

We don’t do it all the time, because their Int (Intelligence) guys will come and talk to us and do the brief to their own people, after all, it’s common sense to use us, as we’re current on everything out there, on the ground. Unless you’re on an FCO contract, you don’t even get a medal. Luckily for me, I was helping with a load of the BP Lads (Bearing Point Project), medical, ranges and all sorts for the new guards for the Embassy in Baghdad.

I was FCO proper, while in Helmand, so I’ve now been awarded the FCO Campaign medals for both countries. To get them is a pain in the arse; MP’s (Members Of Parliament, or the ‘war groupies’, as we called them) don’t go through this shit. We needed to get letters of proof from our employers to back the fact we did indeed work for, or with, the FCO. While serving as civilian contractors in Helmand, many of the guys have been awarded the Military Afghanistan Campaign medal, rightly so...like I said, we spent much time out there on the ground and in some places, like at Gareshk, we worked and did dual patrols with HM Royal Marines Commandos. This was mainly because our client at the time needed to check the bridges fondly known as Tom, Dick and Harry.

So, there I am, in a hospital bed, all this circus going on around me in the ward. I drift off to sleep but I awake to find the 2012 Hunk Firefighters calendar laid on me…along with opened condoms, which the guys had spat in to make it more ‘realistic’! They were placed on my bed, my pillow and the floor around my bed, with some of the items close to my mouth.

I was thinking, ‘What the fuck is this?’. Being in our industry, you know that it is going to be constant wind-ups from the guys. It kills the boredom and makes the stress of being away and of the work we do slightly more tolerable. Anyway, laughter erupts from the corridors and into my ward walks Craig and Mick, followed by three, or four, of the American nurses.

I start to laugh, too, but my guts hurt really badly. The nurse tells me:

Garry, you need to speak with your company, to get you flown out of here to the UK for surgery.

Okay.

I speak with Kev, who informs me that the powers-that-be in Dubai offered to pay for a seat on a commercial aircraft.

"The Doc went mental and demanded they get me a private aircraft for the ‘cas-e-vac’. The company agreed reluctantly…but the lies and the way that particular company was treating me is disgusting and, fortunately, I kept the emails to prove what they had said about pay.

The ‘cas-e-vac’ team pilots, along with the Doc that came to collect me, flew in a private aircraft that had to get special permission to fly at a lower altitude with me on board. Well, that was none too fucking reassuring…knowing I was flying over bad people, who might try a pot-shot at anything overhead. Why this was happening, I didn’t know, but I’m guessing it’s to do with the effects of pressure changes on the ruptures in my stomach. I’m not sure if it is a Learjet but it is a private air ambulance that’s dwarfed by an array of prop aircraft and the mighty C17 sitting on the pad. Fast air, the fighter jets and drones are on the other side of the runway.

Once I get on-board, the doctor gives me an injection, the next thing I recall, we’re in Dubai and getting reloaded into an ambulance…still all drugged-up I fall asleep.

Many hours after leaving KAF, I wake up. Wow! I’m out of the ‘sand pit’. Now I’m lying in a super-posh hospital. A nurse enters, with my notes, and puts (or tries, at least) to put a line into my arm. I point out to her:

You’re not in a vein.

In the teams, we practice over and over again, doing live cannulations on each other. In fact, Ollie used to pass out. He hated needles, which made it good fun to practise on him! Nurse responds:

Yes sir. I am in your vein. She strides out of the room. It only takes a few minutes before my forearm starts to blow-up and look like Popeye’s.

I hit the buzzer and she returns. I point out the obvious fuck-up. She looks a bit sheepish and tries again…this time in the other arm, with success. Later, the Doctor from this posh hospital walks in and says that they’re going to operate on me in the morning.

I thought ‘Fuck that!’, after what that nurse done…No…no, no, NO!

Doctor, can you sign me fit-to-fly please? I want to be near my family for surgery. He thinks about it and agrees. I thought he’d say no, as I’d just flown-in at low altitude. I don’t think the paying punters of Emirates would have taken kindly to flying low, getting happy snaps of the Eiffel Tower as we flew next to it…I am joking, of course, not that low.…!

One of the heads from the Dubai offices, of this well known Canadian company I’m working for, drops in to visit me. We chat about what’s happened and what’s going to happen next. He tells me:

Garry, go home. You’re on full pay, as you were injured at work. Don’t worry. Don’t rush back until you’re fit.

Well, that’s a relief. Being self-employed and sick, or injured, is a bloody nightmare…no, it’s horrendous and I wouldn’t wish for anyone to go through it. I also receive an email from the HR man at the firm, stating that some senior guy called O***** has rubber-stamped the action. Full pay for duration of sick leave, with my job waiting for me, upon my return to full health.

Bollox! What a crock of fucking empty wind!

I arrive in UK. The company hasn’t arranged anything for me. I organise a taxi to get home and see Sam, my kids and the family. I book a consultation at Northwick Park Hospital with a surgeon, to whom I owe my life, Mr Ian Jenkins.

I’m thinking ‘Well, I can’t be all that bad then’. It’s now been a couple of days. Okay, I’m pumped full of drugs but I’ve not been sick, or cramped, or even vomiting. I figure that I’ll be in and out and back to work in a few weeks…how wrong could I be? Nobody prepares me for 18 months of hell…pure fucking hell.

They prep me for the surgery. I’m in the ward, in my gown, wearing white pressure socks. Sam’s there, smiling and chattering away. They wheel me into surgery. I kiss Sammy and say: See you in a little while. We share looks. I hold her hand. She walks as far as she is allowed, tears streaming down her face. I’m holding them back. It’s okay, babes…I’ll be out soon. Don’t worry.

They wheel me into a pre-surgery room, just off the theatre. The anaesthetist also served at Camp Bastion, receiving hands-on battlefield trauma experience. We chat and laugh. He tells me he’s going to put me under. I tell him I’m going to fight it, to see if I can beat it. He knows better.

Bringing me around in the recovery room, Mr Ian Jenkins tells me that I had a condition that around 80% of westerners suffer from, called Diverticulitis. Apparently, it’s to do with our diets. Small polyps on the intestine wall had burst, after receiving all the blows from training the Afghanis. I could’ve died but I didn’t. The op had taken 14 hours.

At my side, is my best friend, my rock, my life…Sammy’s been a stalwart, always supportive. She’s concerned and I can see it, but she’s there and I’m happy to see her. Eventually, I am taken back to the ward. They tell me to try and get up and move around as much as I can. I should walk about and I’ll be fine and back to work in no time.

I feel okay. Really. It was done by keyhole surgery. I take a groggy walk down the corridor, with Sam next to me.

Mr Jenkins comes to see me. He mentions how severe it had been and that a foot of intestine had been removed. I sleep but I awake next day in the most incredible pain.

Fuck…fuuuuuck!…Arrrrghh!…God help me! Fuuuuuckkkkk!.

The nurse and one of the surgeons rushes in. Mr Jenkins is off-duty. The surgeon talks with him on the phone. They are already preparing me for surgery.

OH SHIT! THE PAIN!!

The anastomotic surgery performed on my intestine had sprung a leak and was trying to pull apart. The repair takes 12 hours. When I come around, the pain is incredible. I see my dad. He has a look of concern.

Arrrrggggghhhhh!

What is it son?

Dad! The pain…Ohhhh shit!

The nurse comes over.

Garry, use the blue button.

What fucking blue button?

She hands me a little blue button. I hit it and a morphine release masks the pain. It has a safety device to resist overdosing.

On the bed, I’m able to look down at my belly.

‘No way…this can’t be happening’. I’m upset and angry.

The wound is from just below my solar plexus down to my pubic area. I’ve got a colostomy bag attached and tubes sticking out everywhere, I look like a Frankenstein thing…Jesus!

‘Shit! What have they done?’.

I drift off.

I’m in a private room. Great! No-one farting and coughing around me.

I’d contracted septicaemia, blood poisoning. I am fighting for my life. I’m in a bad way…very poorly. Mr Jenkins is already telling my family that a less fit individual would have succumbed to it, possibly.

For three months I was not eating…just fluids. They inserted a line in my neck to feed me liquid food…special, green-looking crap. I was looking like a horror film extra and I felt so bloody weak. Tubes coming out of everywhere but, every day without fail, Sammy was there. Every day she’d go to work and then travel to me.

I had a tube up my arse…another in my cock and one in my belly and another in my nose.

‘FUCKING HELL! THEY’RE MAKING HOLES IN ME TO INSERT MORE TUBES!’.

I try to get out of bed. As I stand up, I also tread on the tube that’s going up my arse, connected to some kind of fluid-collection bag on the floor. Whooaaa! Sheer pain flies through me and my eyes widen, as the arse tube falls on the floor. At the top of the tube is a small inflatable section intended to keep it in my arse…not the warmest, fuzziest, or most pleasant experience.

The duty nurse is called. She says the doctor will have to reinsert it.

‘Fuck that! It can stay where it is!’.

I mention it to the medics on their rounds, I’m sorry if offend anyone but that has guaranteed me that I will not have a gay relationship! They all laugh but it did go back in...Oo-er, missus!

Eighteen months and four massive surgeries later...I was human again. The colostomy had made me feel sub-human. It was wonderful to be ‘bag-free’ and to shit out my arse, while sitting on a toilet and reading a newspaper.... Life is looking okay.

Sammy

Me and the most important person that was ever in my life Sammy, Prior my trip to Ukraine, I ruined this poor girl’s life and she had been my absolute rock my best friend...Sorry, will never be enough,!!!!

I’d been in a long-term relationship of 17 years, with my children’s mother, Sophie, before Sammy. I was working overseas. I was on good money but I hardly ever travelled home. That relationship was dead in the water, after Sophie had the affair. I moved on pretty quickly. I came home but not often. I would spend time with my children and take them away on holiday. Thank God I had Levi, my elder daughter…Poppy is my youngest. After a shower and before we all went out, I would have to do her hair. What do I know about hair? Levi was invaluable to me on holiday, in the early years. I was a plastic playboy. Good money. Women. Holidays. Heaps more. Trust me, I soon got bored of it. I wanted to share my life again.

After a year of loneliness, I was looking for stability. I looked around on-line. I spotted this girl with an amazing smile. I meant gorgeous. She looked like a model. Who am I kidding? She’s way out of my league. She’ll never be interested in me. Surely! However, I chanced it and wrote a message. No response. As I’d thought; out of my league! Fuck it! I knew it. I knew I had no chance with her.

I tried again but this time got a reply. We began to write often, which progressed to talking on the phone. I was due home for Christmas. I like to see the kids and always try to get out of the country on holidays. Yet, there’s one major problem with our work and it’s that we don’t have any decompression time, One day, it’s full-on hostile crap….but 24 hours later I’d be in a queue at Sainsbury’s, listening to people ‘drip’ about this, or that. Steam billowing from my ears. ‘Blimey, people! Get a grip…!’.

I was due home. Sammy and I got on so well. She’s awesome and we fell in love really quickly. It’s not something I do a lot. Not really. We agreed to meet at hers upon my return.

I got home, showering quicker than a teenager after school gym. I got ready to drive to Hertfordshire; Turnford, just off the A10. Christ! I was shitting myself about meeting her. On my way there, while driving along the motorway, I must’ve looked a right nut-case, talking to myself…going through imaginary scenarios...

Pulling up at her house, I parked the car and could see her standing in the doorway. Oh my God! My heart was bouncing out my chest. Oh blimey! Deep breath…deep breath, be cool….here we go.

As I walked towards her, she looked a million times better than I’d seen on-line and she was so beautiful…and sexy…fit, so bloody fit.. ‘WOW!.... Don’t fuck this up Gazza!’

As we talked, the distance between us closed down. I caught a glimpse of the garden and thought that whoever tended it was a bit good. The grass was better than a bowling green. The white stones below the front window were immaculate. She stepped down and we cuddled. Hello, I said. Wow! Her smell. Her softness. I’d never felt anything like her. She was like silk…absolutely divine. I knew, at that moment, I would marry the woman. I told her step-dad just a few weeks later… Tom, I’m going to marry her!.

We cuddled some more, before walking inside. I sat down and thought her house looked beautiful. It was immaculate. She sat on my lap and we kissed for the first time. We took a taxi to the town of Hoddesdon. It wasn’t the hottest nightspot in the world but it could have been a rubbish dump, I didn’t give a shit, because all I wanted to do was spend that time with this woman.

The night was brilliant. Holding hands, dancing and just laughing. Laughing so much. As the night drew to a close, I was already booked-in at a local hotel. No. You needn’t know any more!

We went on holiday and, after one of our mad nights, I was driving. I thought that Sammy had a hangover. She swore it was the food. Then she felt queasy. I stopped as quickly as I could. Her door opened and out it all came. She was horrified. A new boyfriend and she’s not only sick in front of him but also sick on him. Daft, I know, but that was it for me. I knew she was a keeper.

I would walk out of Terminal Arrivals and see this beautiful big smile. She’d run towards me, jump on me, cuddle and kiss. She would always cry and I would wipe away her tears. As the years rolled on, so many people would say how good we were together. The truth was, we were. We were perfect!

She does have OCD. I’ve never met anyone, who can be so polite, yet also speak her mind, like she did. She dressed like a model and was always impeccably turned out…even indoors.

I want you to know about this woman. I need you to fully understand what I felt that I’ve lost and why it was a huge part of my massive meltdown. ‘Garry, the unbreakable,