Stubbornness. I have it in bucket loads. Often to my detriment. It’s walked this path with me for a long time and knows just how to get my attention and bring me into line.
It also has the perfect ‘antidote’ for any self-awareness.
When I allow it to take charge it’s like having massive blinkers on my eyes and ears.
It’s truly brilliant at ignoring advice: “Listen to your body? Ha! No chance,” it says, mockingly.
Right now, it’s kicking me up the proverbial.
Post covid, I was determined to get back on track with my fitness — and with…
Picking up dog poo. Putting out the rubbish and recycling. Not the most pleasant of tasks, but necessary ones.
These things are part of my life.
Then Covid reared its head and those tasks felt like a massive deal.
As did having a bath (although sitting in one was a brief glimpse of bliss). It was getting dried and dressed that was the knackering bit. Many days it was not an option.
A lot can happen in three weeks.
Bruised from the England defeat at Euro 2020 in July, I still had something to celebrate — a personal best of…
Menopause, at its worst for me, is like continually being plugged into the mains and shorting every few seconds. Sparks going everywhere. Some hitting my own body and mind, others hitting anyone or anything in proximity.
It’s like a street lamp flickering madly on and off, until finally it gives up the ghost and goes dark.
One power surge (a name several of my female pals call their hot flushes), followed by another, then another, then a sudden dip in power (like going from headlights on full beam to blackness).
It’s knackering, frustrating, infuriating, debilitating, tear inducing and so much…
MY hands are shaking. I can feel a dull headache coming on. My heart is racing. All this from filling in a form.
But it’s not just any form.
This form, or series of forms, represents everything to me.
My hopes, my dreams, my sense of adventure, and, most of all, my freedom.
And that’s something we can all relate to this past year, in this Covid-bruised world.
Filling in forms has never been a favourite thing to do.
But since being diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis in 2006, it’s taken on a whole new meaning —…
February is LGBTQ+ History Month. On the eve of my birthday, I’ve put together a very special timeline. One that reminds us all that #LoveIsLove
1968: At a Kent hospital I enter the world, kicking and screaming. A second daughter for Gwen and Alan.
1969: the Stonewall riots break out in New York City in protests against police raids on LGBT+ venue, the Stonewall Inn. Many see this as the birth of the modern LGBT+ rights movement.
1971: the Nullity Of Marriage Act passes, legally barring the marriage of same sex couples in England and Wales.
I’m a three year…
IT won’t work. I know it won’t work.
I tell the client it won’t work.
I explain why it won’t work.
I am a journalist. Some may say an ex-journalist.
You see, I went to the dark side.
PR. Public Relations.
The ultimate sin for a journo.
In this moment, as the client is on the verge of making a major U-turn on their PR, by playing it way too safe, I am still a journalist. Even in my role as PR consultant, journalism is in my veins.
And this journalist, working with the client to attract the positive attention…
I HAVE a confession to make. I have hugged. Several people. During Lockdown.
There, I said it.
*Looks around for blue flashing lights.*
It felt amazing.
Like a supreme power prized open the rusty locks, opened my chest, unlocked my heart and let it fly freely.
Of course, I’m not suggesting you do the same.
Nothing’s worth risking your health.
But, you know what?
It’s what was needed. What I/we needed in that moment.
And it reminded me to go back to those basic truths of the human condition.
We need connection.
TODAY I’m grouchy. I’m finding it hard to settle to anything. My time blocking plan has gone out the window, along with my creativity.
So, I’m writing this.
Write it out and all will be well, I tell myself.
“Just write” — award-winning author, Sarah Waters said to me once.
I quote her words often.
Today is a day to put those words into action.
To be honest, any action is better than none.
So, I’m writing.
How am I feeling right now? Relieved.
There’s something strangely comforting about the sound and feel of fingers on a keyboard.
WE often hear about the stages of grief:
Shock and denial.
Pain and guilt.
Anger and bargaining.
The upward turn.
Reconstruction and working through.
Acceptance and hope.
But what about the stages of lockdown? Could we apply the same principles?
Stage 1: Shock and Denial
Shock for sure. Denial? Never. Maybe I’ve read too many dystopian novels and overloaded on disaster movies, but this was always going to happen, wasn’t it?
Whether you believe it’s one big master plan by the one per cent to cut the population and reap the profits for themselves or you think…
When was the last time you slagged off news coverage?
Not too long ago, I suspect.
We are in the age of fake news, politically biased ‘news’, where often we have to search for grains of truth in the words we read, hear and see.
How many of us have been left confused, angry even at Boris’ press briefings, urging journalists to ask the questions we want answered?
Are the press doing their job, really challenging the Government on their Covid plans, simply playing at it, with the headlines already written or is there something else going on? …