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Two simple words

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This weekend I’ve spent a lot of quality time with family and good friends, something I realise I haven’t done nearly enough of in recent months. It’s so easy to get complacent about the people closest to you. They’re not going anywhere, after all. But it’s precisely because they’re not going anywhere – because they love you unconditionally, because they’ll never let you down – that you should make an effort to keep them at the centre of your life. They’re the people who understand you better than anyone else, the ones you feel most comfortable being your true self with. They’re the ones who can provide a listening ear and shoulder to cry on one minute and make you laugh like a drain the next. In short, you need them to be you – why wouldn’t you cherish them?

I’ve also spent time this weekend reconnecting with friends – both in person and by email – who I made on my various travels over the past few years. I find these types of friendship so interesting, because you don’t share a history but you do create an unbreakable bond as you make new memories together. People who meet whilst travelling the world alone already have something in common – they’re searching for meaning in their lives, hoping for an adventure, maybe even trying to escape from a negative situation in the ‘real’ world that they’ve left behind. Whilst these kinds of friendships are very different to the friendships that have stood the test of time and turbulence, they are no less important. They teach you just as much about yourself – if not more – and should be valued and nurtured accordingly.

Then there are the friends you don’t even know that well, or who you’ve long since fallen out of regular contact with, who contact you out of the blue to wish you well and offer words of support and encouragement at just the right time. Several such friends have done just that for me in the past week. Their kind words really picked me up when I was plagued with self-doubt about my writing, and they’ve given me the strength to carry on.

Thinking about peoples’ tendency to be complacent towards their friends has, in turn, made me think about the simple act of saying thank you – not just when a stranger holds a door open for you or gives their seat up for you on the train, but to the people you know and love. To be a good friend, parent or sibling takes a degree of selflessness, you must be prepared to put your own ego aside and put that person before yourself. So when someone does that for us, shouldn’t it follow that we show our gratitude in some way?

In light of the above I’d like to do a little roll call to acknowledge all the people who have supported me and made me smile in the past week – family and friends both old and new:

Thank you Mum and David, Rory, Hayley Norrish, Anna Bullock, Amy Roberton, Gabrielle Liddle, Jen Chardon, Alex Sayer, Kaye Dolan, George, Caroline and Milo Watson, Mouse Bunch, Sian Brace, Lucy Caslon, @benjaminmurdoch, @cripesonfriday, @adeteal, @beyond_nadia, @SirHeppe, @matthewpaulgray, @BinaryDad, @dogtaniontastic, @teenybella – you’re all absolutely ACE 🙂

And a general thank you to all the friends and family who I haven’t mentioned above who have – at various times and in various places – put up with me, helped me find hope in hopeless situations, and generally just been there. You know who you are xxxx 

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I can’t think of a better picture to go with this post than this, of me and my best friend at my mum and stepfather’s wedding. We were six years old and completely different (me a girly girl, my best friend a tomboy – hence the colour of our dresses!) but we were – and still are – inseparable. True friendship that stands the test of time doesn’t require you to be the same – it requires you to appreciate your differences, and be there for one another through thick and thin. I’m so fortunate to have wonderful friends who have done just that for me.

Past Post: Back to the fuschia

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This is the first chapter of one of my NaNoWriMo novels which I unearthed this morning and was surprisingly fond of.

CHAPTER ONE

It was four o’clock on a quiet Friday afternoon when Maggie burst into the shop, a mass of untamed frizzy hair and multi-hued chunky knitwear propelled by her characteristic unbridled enthusiasm. She dumped the load of wicker baskets she was carrying onto the floor and turned back to close the door with a flourish.

Evie was so lost in the display she was working on – a beautiful amalgamation of lilies, chrysanthemums and peonies that had been ordered for a christening – she didn’t even register the tinkling of the cowbell on the front door. Biting her lip with concentration, she tucked the last peony into the moist block of oasis with the same careful softness of a woman tucking her child into bed. A snort alerted her to her eccentric friend’s presence, and she looked up.

“Jesus Evie,” said Maggie with a smirk, “that’s one hell of a scary face you make when you’re lost in the land of hearts and flowers. If you do that when you’re out on the pull it’s no wonder you’re still single.”

“Thanks a lot!” Evie grabbed a length of twine from the counter and leaned over to take a swipe at her friend.

“You’re welcome,” Maggie said, her plump red lips stretching across her freckled face into a deliberately grotesque grin. She surveyed the display in front of her and nodded. “Very nice indeed. You know, I really think you’ve got a knack for flower arranging. I might just have to hang onto you.”

“Grab that, will you?” Evie said, ignoring the compliment and gesturing to an empty box on the floor. Maggie brought it over to the counter and in amiable silence they together transferred the flower display into it.

As Evie busied herself with curling lengths of baby pink ribbon, Maggie rolled up the sleeves on what Evie affectionately referred to as her multi-coloured dream coat and pulled over a three-legged stool from the far corner of the shop. She sat down and leaned conspiratorially towards her friend.

“So,” she began, and Evie rolled her eyes. “What? I haven’t even said anything yet!”

“You don’t need to, Mags. I can tell by the look on your face I’m not going to like whatever it is you do have to say.”

“Well bollocks to you then!” Maggie leaned back and folded her arms across her chest in mock irritation.

“Okay, okay,” said Evie, holding up her hands in acquiescence. “Hit me with it.”

“We’re going out. Tonight. You and me. In town.”

“What about Dependable Danny?”

“Dependable Danny’s seeing his ex this weekend.”

Evie put down her ribbon “And we’re okay with this because..?”

Maggie laughed. “We don’t call him Dependable Danny for nothing, remember? There’s as much chance of that man fooling around with another woman as there is of the Pope renouncing Catholicism. And besides, it’s their kid’s birthday. They’re taking him to Thorpe Park.” She paused. “Evie, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Evie said with a weary sigh. “It’s just – well, you know.”

Maggie slapped her hand to her forehead and groaned. “God, Evie, I’m sorry. That was such a flippant comment. You know, sometimes I really do think I should have my mouth stapled up. It might solve a lot of the world’s problems. Not poverty and war, granted, but it might just eradicate foot in mouth disease.”

Evie laughed. “Don’t worry Mags. It’s fine.”

Maggie took her friend’s hand and kissed it. “But are you?”

“Of course.” With her free hand she tugged at her hair elastic and her mass of curly dark hair cascaded Venus-like down her back. She ran her fingers through it, teasing out the knots that always seemed to form during a day in the shop, no matter how many products she treated it with.

“You haven’t…you know..?”

Evie looked at her blankly. “Haven’t what?”

“You know…heard from Rob?”

Now it was Evie’s turn to snort. “Why would I have heard from him?” She shrugged. “There’s nothing left to say.”

“I can certainly think of a few choice words I’d like to say to the lying little tosser,” Maggie said with conviction.

Evie pulled her hand free and stood up. “I know you can Mags, and so can I. But what’s the point? What’s done is done. There’s really no point in dwelling on it. The best way to get revenge is to show him I’ve moved on. There’s nothing big or clever about entering into slanging matches with an ex. It’s a waste of time and energy.” She stopped. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

The thoughtful expression on Maggie’s impish face gave way to a warm smile. “Because I’m proud of you. You’ve come so far since that shit-bag did the dirty on you.”

“Yeah, well, we’re six months down the line now.”

“That’s not the point. You could have fallen apart. Plenty of women do when that happens to them. But you didn’t. You stayed strong.”

“So you wouldn’t call quitting a high powered job in the city to work in your friend’s florist shop a falling apart of sorts?”

“Not at all, you’ve just reassessed your priorities. Taken some much needed time out from what was a ridiculously hectic lifestyle. Jesus, Evie, I barely even saw you for the best part of four years. Your family barely even saw you. Hell, much as I hate to bring him up, your husband barely even saw you.”

“Which might go some way towards explaining his more recent behaviour, some might say.”

“Well they’d be wrong, because there’s no excuse for doing to another human being what he did to you. None whatsoever. You have got to stop beating yourself up over this Evie. I mean-” She stopped mid-sentence to pick up the phone, which was trilling in its cradle. “Back to the Fuschia, good afternoon? Ah, Mrs Braithwaite, yes, I’m glad you called. We’ve had some problems sourcing the African violets-yes, yes, I am aware they’re an integral part of your daughter’s wedding but you see the particular genus you requested is actually very rare-endangered even-and whilst we could certainly get hold of a quantity of the regular variety-”

Maggie threw her hands in the air and pulled a face at Evie, who winced in sympathy and made a t-shape with her hand. Maggie nodded and continued, her voice sounding more strained with every second.

“Yes, I quite understand how important it is to get every detail right…yes, I appreciate you could take your business elsewhere, but I’m quite sure you’ll find that other florists will say the same thing. It’s simply not possible to source enough African violets to fill a ballroom Mrs Braithwaite, certainly not at this time of year, anyway. Right, yes, I understand. Goodbye, Mrs Braithwaite.”

“That sounded painful,” Evie said moments later as she emerged from the back room, tray in hand. She set it down and began pouring the tea.

“That bloody woman has been the bane of my life for the past two sodding months,” Maggie said, fumbling underneath the table and triumphantly pulling out a packet of half eaten chocolate digestives. She offered one to Evie, who shook her head, then shoved a whole one in her mouth and chewed it furiously. “Well,” she continued, crumbs spilling onto her top, “she can stick her daughter’s posh wedding up her trumped up arse for all I care. I hope it’s a total bloody disaster and no florist in the land is able to get her African bloody violets.”

“Who’d have thought the life of a florist could be so stressful?” Evie said with a smile. “Come on Mags, forget about it. Tell me what your grand master plan is for tonight instead.”

“We-ell,” said Mags, taking a big gulp of tea, “we’re going to a school disco.”

Evie stared at her for a moment. “A school disco?”

“And not just any school disco, either. The school disco. You know, the one they do in Hammersmith.”

“Still not sure I’m following you here Mags. You and me going to a school disco? I’m staring down the barrel of thirty and you’ve already climbed into the barrel and been shot out the other side. Why on earth would we want to surround ourselves with nubile young girls and pre-pubescent boys – most of whom are young enough to be our children, I might add, and all of whom are far more attractive than ourselves,”

“Hey, speak for yourself!” said Maggie, waving a tea-soaked digestive in the air in protest.

“And,” Evie continued, ignoring her friend’s objection, “whose sole intention it is to drink so much vodka and red bull they lose consciousness and end up spending the night with a stomach pump for company rather than someone of the opposite sex.”

“I had a feeling I’d face stiff opposition on this.”

“Well then I’m happy to confirm that your instincts, if not your mind, are still fully intact.”

“Which is why I took the liberty of not only booking tickets to aforementioned disco but also sourcing our outfits prior to inviting you. Oh – and I’ve also taken the liberty of enlisting a certain someone to help convince you.” The cowbell rang out from behind Evie and she jumped. “Ah, perfect timing Senor.”

“Darleengs,” said a high-pitched male voice.

Evie turned around and regarded Alfonso, the flamboyant gay owner of the unoriginally titled Alfonso’s Deli on Bromley High Street. He claimed to be in his thirties, but Evie had long suspected this to be about as true as his claim to have been a famous dancer in his native Spain during his twenties (some months previously Maggie had discovered in an internet search that he had, in fact, been part of a travelling circus troupe, which, whilst no less impressive, had cemented their appraisal of him as a fantasist). Today he was wearing shiny black trousers with a black ruffled shirt, and his (dyed) jet black hair was swept across his face, Marilyn Manson style. His stack-heeled shoes belied his diminutive size – without them he barely reached Evie’s shoulders, and she was only five foot six.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Evie said, greeting Alfonso with a hug.

“Of course not darleeng,” he said, “and to prove it look here, I have our outfeets.” He held up two dry cleaning bags and thrust them into Evie’s arms.

“So this is what my life’s come to,” she said, stifling a giggle. “Married, divorced, and now going to a school disco at the age of 29 with a mad old florist and a queer from the local delicatessen.”

“I take exception to the word ‘old’ in that sentence,” Maggie said, pulling the freshly laundered school uniforms out of their cellophane covers and holding a skirt up to her waist for size.

“And I take exception to the word ‘local’,” said Alfonso, pulling a pair of grey flannel shorts on over his trousers, “Alfonso’s Delicatessen is an eenternational operation.”

Evie laughed as Maggie and Alfonso strutted up and down the shop in their respective apparel. “You both look thoroughly ridiculous.”

“Come on,” Maggie said, throwing a second skirt to Evie, “live a little. You never know, you might like it.”

Evie walked to the door, flipped the sign to CLOSED and turned back to her friends. “Wine,” she said, “there must be plenty of wine. That is my only prerequisite.”

“I think we can do better than that darleeng,” Alfonso said, producing a bottle of champagne from his cavernous man-bag. “Tonight we will drink like Keengs!”

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This is one of the many pictures I took at Singapore Zoo last year in their flower garden – doesn’t really need more explanation than that!

Mary

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The snow fell in fat flakes onto the ground, obscuring all that lay beneath. A dog nosed in the undergrowth near a mound of earth cloaked in white, digging up wet leaves with its paws, trampling what little grass had managed to poke through the thick covering above. The dog sniffed, its nostrils flaring as it seemed to catch a scent of something that excited it, but a distant whistle from its owner bid it come, so it turned on its heel and ran off.

Mary had never been fond of dogs, but as she watched it leave she felt a pang of sadness. It was so bitterly cold even the thought of sharing body heat with an animal was an appealing prospect. A flash of red caught her attention. She squinted through the falling snow and saw a tiny figure in the distance, weaving its unsteady way across the vast expanse of field between them.

It took Mary several moments to realise the figure was a small child, and by that time it was almost upon her. She grimaced. Her dislike of dogs was on a par with her dislike of children, and in her current situation she was not disposed to tolerance.

As the figure drew near Mary saw it was a little girl, not more than three years old, four at most. Her red duffel coat had a fur-lined hood and matching red mittens that hung from her sleeves on lengths of elastic. They bounced up and down as she ran, dancing in the air as if marionettes on a stage. Her blue plastic wellington boots, too big for her small frame, made her progress ungainly.

Breathless, the girl stopped. Up close Mary could see she had a cherubic face, with rosy cheeks, pink bow lips and porcelain skin. A lock of curly blond hair had escaped from her hood and was dangling in front of her nose, which twitched in irritation. She blew it away with a concerted snort and looked at Mary. “Hello,” she said, unblinking.

“Hello,” Mary replied. “What are you doing out here all by yourself?”

The girl shrugged. “I ran away.”

“From who?”

“My mummy.”

“And why would you do a silly thing like that?” Mary scolded the girl. “She’s probably very worried about you.”

The girl frowned as she considered the implication of her older companion’s words. “But she was horrible to me,” she said at length, her jaw set in defiance.

Mary sighed and patted the bench. The little girl obligingly climbed up beside her. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to be horrible. Sometimes people say things that they don’t mean in the heat of the moment.” A memory came to her then; a heated exchange, doors slamming, raised voices. She felt a lump form in her throat but carried on. “I’m sure your mummy loves you very much.”

“She doesn’t,” said the girl, folding her arms across her chest. “I’m not going back.”

“Oh?” said Mary, raising an eyebrow. “And what will you do instead, exactly?”

The girl shrugged. “I don’t know. Find a new family, probably.” She chewed on one of her mittens.

“Do you think new families are easy to find?” Another pang, another memory of issues unresolved, words spoken that could never now be taken back.

The girl shrugged again.

“Well I can tell you from my own experience that they’re not.”

The girl looked up at Mary. “Did you run away?” she asked, her brown eyes searching.

“Yes, in a sense, I suppose I did.”

“What happened?”

Mary took a deep breath. Was she really about to tell a child what she had never been able to tell an adult?

“I had an argument with someone very close to me, a long, long time ago. We never spoke again. I think it was the biggest mistake I ever made, but it’s too late to go back and change it.”

“Why too late?” The little girl shivered and nestled into Mary’s side. Without thinking she wrapped a protective arm around her, catching herself in surprise.

“Because that person – my mother – died.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “How?”

“In a terrible accident, the day after our argument. So you see, you really must go back and find your mother. You don’t want to have the same regrets as me do you?” The girl shook her head, her face solemn.

The sound of frantic cries sliced through the air like a knife, distant at first, then louder, more insistent. Mary turned to see a woman running towards them. “Alicia!” she screamed upon seeing her daughter, and flung herself down onto her knees in front of the bench to scoop her into a tight embrace. “Where have you been? I’ve been looking everywhere.” She examined her daughter’s face, smothered her in kisses. “You must be freezing.”

“I’m not freezing, mummy,” Alicia said. “The nice lady was keeping me warm.”

Alicia’s mother looked around. “What lady?”

The girl turned and pointed to the bench beside her. A look of incomprehension crossed her face. “She was just here…” Her little voice trailed off.

The woman’s laugh was pure relief. “Of course she was darling.” She kissed her daughter on the top of her head and stood up. “Come on darling, let’s go home.”

“But…” Alicia stared into the space where the old lady had been, her mouth open. She cast her eyes about her one last time before turning to leave.

Mary watched them walk away. She looked down at the white-topped mound before her and wondered how long it would be before someone found her body, lifeless beneath the snow, exactly as she had fallen. Her life for so long had been solitary, it seemed ironic that in death she had, for the briefest of moments, found companionship.  It was time to go.

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I can think of no better image to accompany this post than the title image of this blog. The day before this picture was taken was a complete white out, and my boyfriend and I scuba dived in the lagoon though we could barely see two feet in front of us. When we returned the following day in gorgeous sunshine we were gobsmacked by the scale and beauty of the place. it was so calm and serene, so utterly and unequivocally beautiful.

Swami

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Dawn breaks over the Agastya mountain range in southern Kerala. As the sun begins its lazy ascent from the horizon, a Chestnut-headed Bee Eater swoops across a lake, its surface so flat that the bird’s bright plumage is reflected back in glorious and unbroken technicolour. Rising from the lake are vapour trails, the ghost of night evaporating into the air and making way for day. The air is still, with no discernible sound besides the whooshing of the bird as it dips and dives down to the surface of the water. All is calm.

Beside the lake sits a man. Clothed in robes of orange, his legs are crossed, the thumb and forefingers of each hand touching one another. His eyes are closed. He looks to be in quiet contemplation, yet he is transcendent; half in this world, half in the next. No earthly troubles phase him, no thoughts chatter incessantly inside his head. He is a master of the art of the still mind, having experienced the peace that comes with being fully in the present in a way that few can comprehend. He sees in, on, above, beneath and through all things.

He is a swami, a man of great religious faith, a Hindu god-in-waiting. He sought enlightenment, and found it. He is at peace.

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This is the late Swami Vishnudevananda, one of the two swamis who were revered at the ashram where I stayed for two weeks of last year. He was my favourite because of his big smile and open demeanour, and because of this image with the caption: One has to ask oneself, what do I really want from life? That is the fundamental question. Indeed it is Swami.

Counting blessings

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Following on from my last post about challenges, I’ve bitten the bullet and signed up for a sixteen mile (twenty five kilometre) run in just over nine weeks’ time. Having just done my first official ‘training run’ (6.5 kilometres on the treadmill-have you FELT the air temperature outside today? I’m not running in that!) I’m already having doubts that my body is up to the job. Just sitting down on the train home nearly caused total muscle paralysis, and I’m fairly sure I’ve torn something crucial in my left toe region. In short, so far it’s not looking good, but I’m determined not to fall at the first hurdle. This was only my second run in about five weeks so it’s hardly surprising my body’s taken great exception to being forced into long distance running without so much as a warning.

Speaking of events that have no warning, this morning brought the sad news that a helicopter had crashed into a crane near Vauxhall station, killing the pilot and one person on the ground. Twitter was awash with conspiracy theories postulating it was the English 9/11, but it seems quite clear it was a tragic accident and nothing more. Whatever the cause, it got me thinking about how suddenly life can change, how in an instant everything you knew has been turned on its head. The poor man who was killed on the ground was probably on his way to work, following the same well-trodden path he followed every other day. Only on this day he didn’t come home.

I suppose what I’m trying to say is that today’s incident has made me think a lot about the importance of counting our blessings, of realising so many of the things we preoccupy ourselves with in life are, in reality, the least important things of all. What really matters is our families, friends and partners, the people we surround ourselves with who love us unconditionally, without whom we wouldn’t be the people that we are. Life is such a precious commodity, and yet it can be snuffed out in a second. If there’s one thing we can take from tragedies like today, surely it’s that we should make the most of every minute we are blessed to be alive?

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Thought this photo was particularly appropriate for this post, given that it’s of an offering to a Hindu god in a Bali homestead where I spent several happy days towards the end of my travels last year 🙂

The Wait

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On the stroke of midnight she is waiting for him beneath the clock, where they shared their first kiss. She totters in her heels on cobbled ground, feeling the effects of the hastily downed wine to steady her nerves. In the middle distance the sound of sirens rings out. A group of boys walk past, their expressions glassy. One makes a lewd gesture and she turns away, rolling her eyes. They leave a trail of marijuana vapour in their wake.

She glances at her watch, five past. No need to worry, at least not yet. Her skin bristles with the cold. She shivers and pulls her leather jacket tighter. The seconds tick by in stereo, her own watch echoing the steady beat of the clock over her head. She fishes in her bag and pulls out a battered packet of cigarettes, freeing one to place between her carefully painted lips. A dishevelled stranger offers her a light and she leans into the flame, feeling its heat against her forehead. The stranger walks on.

She drags deeply on the cigarette and exhales, the smoke rising into the crisp night air, signalling her presence. Her legs are blocks of ice, exposed to the elements. She tugs at her skirt in a vain attempt to cover them, and in doing so breaks a nail. She curses, flicks the cigarette onto the cobbles and stubs it out with her heel.

Ten past twelve. The seed of doubt that has implanted itself in her mind begins to flourish and grow. She slides her makeup compact from her pocket, clicks it open and observes her face in what little street light is available. Her skin is sallow and lined, her eyes are sunken. No amount of makeup can disguise her age, especially not this gauche red lipstick. What had she been thinking?

Quarter past twelve. He is not coming. She should have known despite his fancy clothes and charming manner he’d be just like the rest. She should have known he’d never see anything in a washed up divorcee like her. Fairy tales only happen to the young. He was too good to be true. He is not coming.

She sighs and turns away from the clock. Each tick and tock drive daggers into her heart.

Something – a noise? She can’t be sure – makes her stop. Her heart rate quickens.

She turns.

He is there.

It begins to snow.

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I came across this beautiful old girl at Singapore Zoo towards the end of my travels last year, and she stopped me in my tracks. It makes me sad to think her kind will probably not exist a few years from now.

What’s life without a challenge?

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In September last year I competed in my first Olympic distance triathlon, having tested the water with two sprint distance races in 2009 and 2010. To ensure I was fit enough to get round the course I joined a triathlon club. The first two sessions were so tough I cried, and it didn’t get much easier as the weeks went on.

By far the worst part of triathlon training for me was the swimming. As the fat kid who was always picked last for team sport at school, swimming was my arch nemesis. What could possibly be worse for a body conscious ten year old whose puppy fat stubbornly refused to disappear than shoving said fat into a tight, unflattering swimming costume and belly flopping into the pool in front of her classmates?

Fast forward twenty years and I still lack confidence in the water. Even after numerous lessons and triathlon club drill sessions I couldn’t shake the feeling I was the uncoordinated whale of the group, bringing up the rear behind the graceful, frolicking dolphins before me.

But nonetheless I fought my fear. And, whilst the mile long swim on race day felt like swimming the Channel itself rather than a lap of the Docklands, the fact is that I not only did it, I finished the race in a very respectable three hours and thirteen minutes.

Now I can’t say I’ve been back to the lido since the race (it has been winter!) but, just over three months down the line, I can feel the beginnings of that familiar fire in my belly; the seed of desire for another challenge.

When I think back to the pain of those 90 minute spin sessions, the stress of fitting training around work and social life and the general exhaustion that comes with taking on a massive sporting challenge as an addendum to normal life, I wonder if I’m mad to want to do it all again.

But then I think back to my chubby ten year old self and tell myself I’m doing it for HER-I’m making up for all the shame and embarrassment that she felt because she wasn’t good at sport in a school that valued being good at sport almost above being good at academia.

It may be time consuming, stressful and exhausting taking on extreme physical challenges, but it’s also exhilarating, motivating and a great way to keep fit.

And with this post I think I’ve just convinced myself to sign up for the sixteen mile run I’ve been deliberating over for the past few days. Here we go again…

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Okay, I’ll admit it, I didn’t come first. This was an opportunistic leap onto the winners’ podium post-race. But I was so elated in that moment that I may as well have won the race. It certainly lay a few childhood demons to rest.

Why no child should suffer

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Seeing as today has been entirely taken up by arranging media interviews for the NSPCC’s ‘Don’t wait until you’re certain’ campaign launch tomorrow it makes sense for today’s post to touch on the importance of tackling child abuse. Before I continue, I should make it quite clear that whilst I work for the NSPCC all views expressed on this blog are entirely my own.

As a child of the eighties I was distressed to hear the allegations against Jimmy Savile when they first came to light at the end of last year. I remember writing numerous letters to Jim’ll Fix It when I was about ten years old, asking him to fix it for me to meet Kylie and Jason. At the time I was distraught not to be chosen but now I, like many others, am left feeling that I had a lucky escape.

Sadly the abuse of children by adults in positions of trust is not a phenomenon that died with Savile. It’s true that as a result of the media furore hundreds have come forward about abuse they suffered at the hands of Savile and other celebrities many years ago, but it’s important to acknowledge that child abuse is as much a problem today as it was back then, it’s just that nowadays it’s harder for paedophiles to operate as flagrantly.

Every single day children across the UK are subjected to horrendous abuse at the hands of adults who are meant to be their protectors. What’s scary is these aren’t celebrities, but normal people like you or me. Or at least that’s how they appear. Can you imagine what it must feel like to be one of those children? Confusing, distressing and painful don’t even begin to cover it.

The longer abuse is allowed to continue the greater the risk to the child, not only in a physical sense but also a mental one – because mental scars take far longer to heal than physical ones. This is why the NSPCC is taking its ‘Don’t wait until you’re certain’ film to a wider audience as a television advert, starting tomorrow.

Critics may scoff and say the charity is encouraging false allegations, but in my opinion if one child is saved from a childhood of torture – and, let’s face it, that’s exactly what child abuse is – because someone sees the advert and takes action on their behalf then it will have been a success.

The bottom line is that no child should have to suffer from abuse. The recent media coverage has felt gratuitous at times but it has brought child abuse into the spotlight, and until we stamp out child abuse once and for all that’s exactly where it needs to stay.

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For this post I thought I’d share a pic of me when I was a baby, taken at a fair with my wonderful mother. I had a fantastic childhood filled with love, laughter and security, despite my parents divorcing when I was little. It makes me so sad to think of all the thousands of children who aren’t so lucky.

History

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The pub was steeped in history. Charlotte could feel it the moment she walked through the door. She stooped so as not to hit her head on the dark wooden beams, which were bedecked with brass casts of horse shoes and other relics of the time in which the building was conceived. There was a coat rack by the door, which she duly deposited her rain-soaked jacket onto. She turned around and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dimly lit room before approaching the bar. The floor was carpeted, a crimson blanket, the windows partially obscured by heavy velvet drapes of the same colour. Oil lamps burned on every table, the light barely filtering through their thick glass shades. In the hearth a log fire crackled and hissed, sending thick plumes of smoke into the chimney chute about it.

Charlotte took a step towards the bar and faltered, feeling suddenly anxious. Her skin prickled, the hairs standing up for no discernible reason. She surveyed the room again. Only two of the mahogany tables were occupied, one by a middle-aged man who was engrossed in the crossword, the other by a family of four, the parents struggling to control their hyperactive children. Charlotte looked at her watch. It was only quarter past twelve. She supposed the lunchtime rush would soon start, though there was no sign of it yet. Despite the man and family sitting to her left, Charlotte felt disquietingly alone.

A movement out of the corner of her eye made her jump. Her breathing quickened as her eyes darted to the right. She squinted into the dark corner of the room. There was nothing there. She took a deep breath and walked towards the bar, reaching a hand out to steady herself as a wave of nausea came over her. The clinking of glasses alerted her to the presence of a girl, about her age, who was walking out of the kitchen. She stopped when she saw Charlotte, put the glasses down, smiled and asked if she could help. Charlotte ordered an orange juice and fumbled in her purse to find the coins to pay. When the drink arrived a sudden thirst took hold of her and she swallowed it in one go.

It was then she saw him. He stood on the staircase to the right of the bar, so still he could have been a statue. His hair was smoothed against his head, his shirt freshly pressed. Charlotte’s heart hammered in her chest. She looked at the girl behind the bar, who had gone back to cleaning glasses. Did she not see? Then back to his face, weathered and beaten. His dark eyes bored into her. His mouth, lips slightly parted, seemed wanting to form words to speak.

She got there first.

“Hello Dad. It’s been a while.”

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I thought this image was a befitting accompaniment to today’s post. I took it in a makeshift cinema in Vashisht, a hillside village in northern India which is a haven for backpackers. The man in the picture ran the cinema, which was little more than a room with a flat screen television and cushions scattered on the floor. His daughter was so beautiful, like a little china doll. I was quite captivated.

The path to dotage

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It’s a depressing fact that my generation will be required to work well into what was, by previous generations, considered to be the dotage period of life. I for one am particularly aggrieved by this knowledge, because hand on heart I can’t say I have ever had a job that I have ‘loved.’ I’ve come close once or twice, but generally speaking ever since I left university I’ve been drifting from one job to another, each time hoping it would be the ‘dream job,’ each time being disappointed.

At times I have questioned whether the ‘dream job’ does, in fact, exist at all, but I believe for a lucky few it does. My best friend, for example, works long hours and is often dog tired, but she enjoys her job enormously and freely admits it. Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve only had one job that I could say I hated (with every fibre of my earthly being, but that’s another story that we won’t go into here). All the others have been good in some ways, but ultimately not fulfilling enough to stay. But maybe, as I say, such a phenomenon is rare, and those of us who aren’t blessed with the perfect job pairing in our lives should seek fulfilment elsewhere, through hobbies, volunteering and so forth.

One thing I have learned in the course of my ten year (has it really been that long?!) career is that it’s better to be too busy than too quiet. If you have to spend eight hours (and the rest) a day in a soulless, strip lit office, you may as well fill your hours as much as possible to make them go quicker. There is nothing, and I mean NOTHING worse than being bored. And it’s just as well I feel that way, as this week most days I’ve  been in the office by 8am every day and haven’t seen daylight until gone 7pm, notching up an impressive 13+ hours of overtime.

Of course the downside of being rushed off your feet at work is that the days tend to just merge into one long round of waking before it’s light, commuting, frantically trying to plough through everything on the to do list, commuting back, eating, sleeping and getting up again.

But I shouldn’t complain. In the current financial climate I’m lucky to even HAVE a job, and the world of PR is a fickle beast – when I’m flat out busy it’s downright exhausting, but it’s also exhilarating when all the hard work of selling in a story pays dividends.

Nonetheless, I’d rather like to make my millions a la JK Rowling in the not too distant future, because the thought of spending the next 39 years with my nose to the grindstone, slogging my guts out for somebody else’s reward, just isn’t that appealing. And living in a beach hut in the Philippines, well, that really rather is…

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This photo was taken towards the end of my travels last year, whilst languishing on the private balcony of my friend’s 5* hotel room in Koh Tao, Thailand. I remember thinking as I lay there that my freedom was nearly at an end, and revelling in the twilight of what had been an amazing adventure. The book, The Beach, has always represented to me the ultimate freedom, a form of escapism (as reading itself is), and so when I look at this picture I feel somehow this is what I’m aspiring to get back to, if that makes any sense. It’s been a long week.