I might have to swear, be warned, I’m that furious.
I recently had a most enjoyable day out with my girlfriends in London, it was about 6.30pm when we went our separate ways at Liverpool Street station (sober).
The tubes were a bit up the swanny as they have decided to be of late, so the platform was pretty crowded at which point I noticed a young (about 23ish) woman unconscious on the platform. People were stepping over her as she slept off the booze she was clearly marinaded in.
I stood and waited and watched her. Then the mother within me kicked in, as she has tendencies to do.
“Where are you going?” I shouted into her face, crouching beside her and nearly getting knocked over for my troubles. “Where do you need to be?”
“Liverpool Street,” she murmured.
“You’re at Liverpool Street. Up you get,” I said as I hauled her upright.
Eventually, after much incoherent mumbling and crying (her not me), I discovered that she needed to meet her boyfriend/husband at Epping station. Handily, I was headed to Theydon Bois, the stop before, so decided to take my foundling with me. Once a train heading in our direction arrived, I dragged her onto the packed carriage, demanded a seat for her and stood guard over her. I took her feebly held clutch bag off of her and deposited it inside her jacket and zipped her in.
Once we were above ground, I woke her and instructed her to contact the fella meeting her. I noticed that she had zero juice, so quickly took a photo of the number so I had means of contacting him again should it be necessary (it was necessary). After more incoherent babbling I grabbed her phone and, as the whole carriage judged me for letting my young friend get into this state, they listened…
“I am a complete stranger and I have found your wife/girlfriend on the platform. Yes I will get her to Epping. The next call you get will probably be me as she’s out of juice. I know, I’m a fecking hero, and she needs new friends.”
The carriage softened to me. In fact, I’d go so far as to say they collectively liked me. All the nearby mummies smiled as I explained what I had just learned. Now, strap in readers, this will send you around the twist too…
She was out with her friends for her first outing since having a baby and they had ditched her.
FFS we all scream in unison. Correct… who does that? Even if it’s a pain and you want to stay out, if your friend is in a muddle you suck it up and GO HOME WITH HER, this is basic friendship 101.
For those that need a refresher
The Girlfriend’s Code
Go out together, stay together, go home together. The End. No ifs no buts. This is a fact.
No, you are not going back to anyone’s house.
No thanks, we will get a cab.
I will take photos of the cab and driver and send them to someone.
If I can’t find you at any point I am closing the club down until I find you.
If you do not let me know you are home (if you are last drop), I will have search & rescue out looking within the hour, in fact I will have Lassie & The Littlest Hobo out sniffing for you.
I will be relentless in my quest to find you. You will be on Socials and I don’t care if you don’t like the picture I choose.
If you are sick I will hold your hair.
I will lie to your boyfriend for you but I will not lie to your mother.
You will do all of this for me too.
The end of my foundling story is this. When it was time for me to get off the tube, I gave her to a family who assured me they’d get her to her man. I had texted him to update him and tell him she was in the second to last carriage. I sent him a pic of the family she was being assisted by and gave them his number in case they needed it, should he not be there and they didn’t have room in their car for the four of them, a buggy and a random drunk girl.
He text me when he had her and was thankful.
The End.
PS I’m still not over my fury of being an absolute stranger that gave more of a shit about her than her flaky twatty mates. Tell your daughters this shit stops now!
My boss is a right cow. Sometimes I don’t know why I’m still doing this job; she can be so toxic. (Don’t worry, I know she won’t read this).
She’s unreasonable (/unhinged), she cuts short my breaks, she actually told me my work is rubbish, she is constantly breathing down my neck and expects waaaay too much of me.
Even on my days off she bothers me with work stuff, and I end up feeling guilty if I say no. I’m wondering about requesting a performance review meeting. Finally tell her how it is.
In case you hadn’t guessed yet, I am my own boss. It’s me who’s the unreasonable cow. Or at least, I was.
I do remember asking for a performance review meeting in my 20s, when I was working my bits off as a PR manager and feeling like there weren’t enough hours in the day. At my appraisal, I said to my boss (who was one of the good ones), in an uncharacteristically assertive way: “Either you are expecting too much of me or I am not cut out for this.” Turned out to be a bit of both.
I left, moved to beautiful Pembrokeshire to live with my now-husband and we now run our own business together.
But I wonder why the pressure I put on myself is so much worse, so much heavier and harder to shift – and seemingly so much more effective – than the pressure anyone else might try to put me under?
I’m reminded of an interesting morning I had in my local branch of NatWest in about 2002.
“Is someone putting pressure on you to pay back this money?” asked the bank clerk, in the private room where she had kindly secreted me when she realised I was on the verge of tears after she declined my request for an overdraft.
“Only myself,” I blubbed.
Even then – only just a grown-up – I was capable of piling so much pressure on myself that the effect, to an informed outsider, was that I was being hounded by loan sharks. I wanted to pay back my parents for some money they’d lent me when I’d had my purse nicked on my gap year travels. I didn’t like owing anyone money, still don’t. My wonderful parents had doubtless forgotten about the cash; they certainly weren’t asking me for it. But I was my own loan shark.
I can remember this moment with such clarity that even some 20 years on the memory still makes me feel a bit nauseous! Owing money = bad. Not being independent = shameful. People thinking badly of me = intolerable. I hope I can be slightly kinder to myself these days, but it’s been a long and hard-learned lesson.
I must admit, this week I have been thinking that if I did have a line manager, and I had an appraisal right now, I reckon I might be in line for a promotion! So, I’d say my default ‘beat-a-girl-when-she’s-down’ approach to self-coaching seems to have taken a backseat, at least for now, although I’d like it to last.
I once had the good fortune to have a perceptive HR manager who supported me with pearls of wisdom which have guided me well over the years. One of these was something you might not expect to hear from an HR manager but she ‘got me’ and she knew how to get the best out of me better than I did. She told me: “You give 100% to every day. I can tell you that some people have days, regularly – you know, like every week – where they only give 60%. You need to try that sometimes.”
This was transformative for me. She taught me that while giving 100% all of the time may be laudable it is not sustainable. The pressure is too great. Eventually you crack. And these days I do try what she suggested sometimes, if I’m feeling the self-inflicted pressure. A day or two at 60% (oh go on then, occasionally 40%!) is absolutely necessary to bring me back up to ‘full whack’ – and to make sure I don’t end up at ‘empty whack’! I think it’s probably the old adage ‘a stitch in time saves nine’.
Along these same lines, I was advised by a tutor on a Neuro Linguistic Programming course: “You need to learn to WING IT, girl!”
What these two wise women were recognising in me was perfectionism. More specifically, faulty perfectionism. When just good enough just isn’t good enough.
And that’s been the crux of the lesson for me. Learning how to be OK with good enough. Accepting that 60% is sometimes acceptable.
My tutor pointed out that the survival strategies I chose as a child – in a nutshell making sure I did everything perfectly so that everyone was pleased with me – were no longer working because “Guess what?” she said. “There’s more in your daily life now than just a bit of colouring.”
Her point being that you can easily be perfect aged 5 when all you have to do is mark some coloured paper with crayons (and – even better – then everyone tells you how brilliant you are!). It’s harder, probably impossible, to achieve let alone sustain perfection when you reach adulthood and your coloured paper has been chewed by the dog and your crayons are being used by your kids to redesign your walls right before you leave for work after a sleepless night. Plus, nobody NOBODY is telling you how brilliant you are. No, maintaining perfection in adulthood is not sustainable and, in all seriousness, you can die trying.
Author and speaker Brene Brown sums it up so well: “Perfectionism is not the same thing as striving to be your best. Perfectionism is the belief that if we live perfect, look perfect, and act perfect, we can minimize or avoid the pain of blame, judgement, and shame. It’s a shield.”
Striving to be your best – and yes, even striving to be THE best – is great, provided it isn’t damaging you. It’s an intricate balance.
I’m an ex-perfectionist-in-progress but I do still enjoy doing some things perfectly and I generally strive to be the best I can be. However, I also now pride myself on occasionally proclaiming: “Fuck it! That’ll do!” and I can feel quite smug about it too. So while I still like to know that shield of perfectionism is by my side at the ready, I no longer need to hoik it around with me everywhere I go. I’ve felt how heavy it can become and I’ve finally learned that life doesn’t fall apart if you put it down.
Having taken this time for reflection, I think I’m gonna request that performance review meeting with my boss after all. I think I’m gonna request that we have it in the pub. Surely she can’t refuse? We might as well review my husband at the same time. As I write this, he’s just cut through his fingertip with a chisel so I’m thinking she might need to send him on some sort of training course. I’m pretty sure he’d give it 60%.
When we started And In Other News, a few moons ago, it was just us two toiling away, nurturing our new little venture, and trying our best to curate articles of interest each week for our growing audience of readers.
We soon realised that we needed more hands on deck, so enlisted our resident columnists Justine, a talented writer and blogger providing us with no end of merriment in her ‘Crazy Magic Life’, our expert beauty writer, Kelly, helping us learn how to eradicate wrinkles and perfect a natural make-up look, along with our mystery book reviewer A Novel Page.
Before long, we were able to add a whole army of writers to our AION team who covered all manner of life experiences and brought us moments of sadness and laughter on a weekly basis. We are so thankful for their incredible contributions and have included below some of our favourite articles, in their very edited versions.
It is sad to say goodbye to our beloved magazine. We are so incredibly proud of what we have achieved, we gave a platform to lots of new writers and hopefully entertained and educated our readers along the way. Thank you for stopping by. You never know, we may return one day.
I screamed myself hoarse at the concert and sang every single word to every single song. It was the best night of my whole life to date, and was relived in photos, conversations, and memories for years to come. I still had the tour mug up until a few years ago – the handle came off. I was a bit sad. At the merchandise stand in Wembley, the T-shirts were as much as the ticket had cost and so I chose the mug as a memento to be treasured each time I had a cup of tea.
They say to never meet your idols as it will lead to disappointment, and sadly it did a little. Having shielded away a small piece of my heart, just for Jason, and at thirty-six years old, the stars were finally aligned for our paths to cross again.
On Saturday I woke up to the news that Taylor Hawkins, Foo Fighters’ hyper-powered streak of grinning, infectious energy behind the drums; the friendliest, happiest face of one of the biggest bands in the world, had died suddenly on tour in Colombia.
I loved him. And I’m so, so sad that he’s died. I feel like I’ve lost a friend or a relative.
But I also feel embarrassed, confused and a bit guilty. I feel like I am trespassing in other people’s grief. He is not mine to mourn. I didn’t know him. I never met him, although I was once in the same (verrrrry big) room as him at a Foo Fighters concert. Also, I am a fully grown adult for goodness’ sake, I am 45 yet I feel like a love-sick 14-year-old, which embarrasses me. But I know there will be thousands if not millions of other people who are feeling loss like me.
Years ago, ‘age appropriate make-up’ was always a term I used when working on ‘prom’ clients and teenagers. With more and more younger girls wearing heavier make-up, it’s now a term I also use for ‘mature’ skins.
I always recommend colour matching your foundation to your collarbone or inside wrist. These areas will be the closest colour matches to your neck and it’s much easier to blend your colour upwards than downwards. Our faces are out in all weathers and are a much darker skin tone to our neck and chest. It’s far easier to blend upwards and add colour to the face in bronzer and blusher, rather than using the wrong shade of foundation. Testing foundations on jawlines or hands is never going to give a true colour match.
Kerry is a single mum living in a rough South London estate. Noah is a successful barrister living in affluent Primrose Hill. Both were taken into care, but later separated. When Kerry reaches out to her brother, nothing in their lives will ever be the same again.
Thoughts :
This was the first Mike Gayle novel I have read, but it definitely will not be the last.
The writing is so addictive that I genuinely struggled to put it down. It was so absorbing and compulsive that I felt immersed within the lives of Kerry and Noah. I loved the alternating chapters going from each sibling’s point of view.
First, there’s the noise. You know it. Yours won’t be the same as mine, but it’ll be noise all the same. Mine’s the usual stuff. Children. Work. Family. House. Money. Health. A jumble of fragments – interrupted thoughts that never go anywhere – that keep me awake – that I always think I’ll go back to and sort properly – but never do.
But over the last year I have found a new power. I can silence the noise. I can pour cold water on it all. Literally. Freezing it. Cleaning it away. I can get rid of it all. A single immersion and its gone.
Swimming in the river in winter switches the noise off. How? Perhaps because it’s cold. And cold expands – it takes up so much room it’s the only thing my mind can accommodate – and all that noise is squeezed out.
In March this year, I had major surgery to deal with my Stage 4 endometriosis and adenomyosis. I had a team of six surgeons who operated on me over six hours to remove my uterus, my cervix, both my fallopian tubes, my left ovary, my appendix, and a section of my bowel, along with endometriosis removed from my kidneys and bladder. This wasn’t an extreme weight loss surgery (like when Cher had two ribs removed to give her a more pinched in waist), this was the removal of organs due to endometriosis.
Endometriosis occurs when endometrial-like tissue in its cunning disguise (this tissue – or the Hateful Bastard as I like to call it – resembles the tissue that lines the inside of the uterus), growing outside of the uterus, spreading and attaching its evil tentacles to various locations, sometimes venturing to organs such as the liver or bowel or just staying close to home and causing devastation to the ovaries, uterus and cervix. Each month when you have your period, the endometriosis cells build up, break down and bleed in the same way, but unlike your period, it has no way to escape. The texture is said to be a super sticky tar like substance, and as it goes on its little path of destruction, it does so in the most physically painful and emotionally distressing way. Unfortunately, it can be a ridiculously hard to diagnose disease as it is often seen as just ‘difficult periods’ and the woman suffering is then led down a path of Band Aid style remedies or ignored and palmed off as a hypochondriac in equal measures.
This would be my fifth surgery to remove endometriosis from my body, a disease that I was diagnosed with at the age of 23 – although am certain I had it from the age of 15. I waited over two years for this life changing operation, endured 18 months in a chemical menopause brought on by dreaded monthly Zoladex hormone injections with a side order of daily HRT. This meant that my periods stopped, the pain subsided, and my organs would shrink so that my operation would be more manageable. However, the side effects of the hormones were insane and at times, I felt like I lost my mind and had a ringside seat to watch my physical and mental health deteriorate before my very eyes.
What I knew prior to my surgery: my uterus was probably three times the size it should be due to adenomyosis, there was a 8cm cyst (named Colin by me – not the medical professionals) on my ovary (initially suspected to be a tumour), both ovaries had fused together, my appendix was ‘covered’ in endometriosis lesions and endo had twisted around my bowel in three separate places and had started to penetrate through – meaning a section of my colon would have to be removed. I was also told that my ‘Pouch of Douglas’ was ‘covered’ in endometriosis. My pouch of what now? I thought the Pouch of Douglas was a holiday resort in Cornwall, not a reference to my reproductive organs?!
This isn’t an easy thing for any woman to come to terms with. For me, I had to be informed of this shitshow of my reproductive organs on my own (thanks Covid), in my consultant’s office, as he proceeded to literally scribble a diagram of my pelvic area with a pencil, only to angrily colour it in with a black pen to demonstrate where the disease had spread, before giving me his picture to take home. Not something Tony Hart would have put up in his gallery and was just instead a stark reminder of how destructive this disease had become.
Fun fact: endometriosis is notoriously trivialised and is still referred to as a ‘pelvic condition’ rather than calling it what it is – a whole body chronic disease.
As each month went by, and no new surgery date was on the horizon, I became on first name terms with the booking co-ordinator at my local hospital, my consultant’s secretary started to ghost my many phone calls and I started letter writing like a Jane Austen character to all of the health professionals in my proposed surgical team.
You see, one of the reasons for the phenomenal delay in my planned surgery, following the scary angry biro art sessions with my consultant, was because I needed to be seen by a multi-disciplinary team. This is an incredible offer by the NHS, it means that in one sitting not only will my endo consultants be present, but also a colorectal surgical team and urology surgeons too. It’s a fantastic provision but seemingly an impossible thing to schedule with so many surgeons involved, who are all juggling their private patients as well.
Me and my new bestie booking co-ordinator (I’m fairly sure this is not how she referred to me given the huge sigh I would hear whenever she heard my voice on the line) would often talk possible dates and she would always tell me how ‘impossible I was to schedule in’. So many MANY times a date would be dangled, I would allow myself to become prepared, only to receive a call to be told that one of my consultants didn’t work Tuesdays or it was better for them to book in 6 hourly laparoscopies then try and deal with just my surgery alone – helps reduce the massive waiting list you see…
With every cancellation of a proposed surgery date, my world fell apart again. Another month would go by, I would endure another excruciatingly painful Zoladex injection, and the carousel of feeling mentally and physically drained from the disappointment would continue.
As I neared Christmas 2021, my booking co-ordinator bestie informed me that it was looking like my surgery would most likely be June the following year – I was devastated – another six months of anguish. I felt like someone had pulled a rug from underneath me. To add insult to injury, due to the longevity of my Zoladex injections (the NHS recommend six months and I was at 18 months), I was sent for a bone density scan and told that I had early Osteopenia. Merry Christmas!
My consultant immediately withdrew my hormone injections but still without a surgery date. Would my ovaries wake up? Would Colin rear his ugly head and implode? Would I get a period? And what about that pain – the endo pain, I couldn’t bear the thought of it returning. I begged for a meeting with my consultant and arrived at the hospital, alone (stupid Covid).
Before I continue – why are waiting rooms for women like me (gynecologically challenged) in the same place as appointments for expectant mothers? Yes, okay they are related, but for those of us having conversations about losing our reproductive organs through disease, should they really be in the same place as the birth of new life?
I digress. Back to my reluctant (on his part) meeting with my consultant. He didn’t show. Instead, he had sent his registrar who had to read through my notes (in front of me) to get up to speed on me – frustrating. He wanted to know why I was there, why I wasn’t just waiting for my surgery date quietly without causing fuss and that there was nothing he could do as I was already on the ‘urgent list.’ He proceeded to reiterate my booking bestie’s mantra of ‘what an impossible surgery I was to schedule’ with my numerous surgeons who were already ‘really very busy.’ To my horror, he then said, ‘I don’t see why you are getting so upset, it’s not Cancer, it won’t kill you.’
It was too much, I burst into tears, which quickly turned into angry sobs, you know the ones where you can’t actually string a sentence together? As he stared at me aghast, I in turn managed to occasionally yelp part sentences in response, as he nudged a box of tissues towards me and suggested I see my GP about being prescribed anti-depressants to take the edge off how I was feeling!
I eventually composed myself, having soaked through three face masks and he promised to talk to my consultant about how I was feeling, or perhaps he was just planning to file a restraining order against me. I tried to walk out with my head held high as I gave a vague threat of ‘talking to my MP or PALS or someone in charge and asked him to ‘please never ever say the Cancer comment to another endo sufferer.’
Then one February afternoon, the endo nurse called me to say that my case had been ‘fast tracked to head office’ and my surgery would be in March. I cried. Again. I felt emotionally exhausted. Again. I was booked into see my consultant the following week to discuss my pre-op.
When I arrived, it was his registrar again. I think he may have rearranged his furniture to give himself additional distance from me as he had that look of fear on his face that I might be about to stage another tearful protest. I apologised for my over emotional behaviour in our previous meeting and assured him that I was ordinarily a happy-go-lucky kind of girl, and he apologised that I had become that upset over the situation. It was all going well until in walked my actual consultant, with the swagger of a man on a purpose. Was he here to hug me? High five me? Draw another distressing diagram with his biro? No, he reprimanded me for ‘forcing my way to the top of the list’ and asked me how many surgeries I thought he had done this year, as if my insistence brought into question how he spent his time?
What I wanted to do was to stand up, in a power pose, and point out the whole fact that my bones had almost crumbled was because of the delay in surgery and excessive hormone treatment, that the two year delay could very well mean that my bowel endometriosis could be irreversible, or that the mental anguish I had been through and the change I had seen in my mental health, my confidence, my ability to function as a rational person had been irrevocably damaged. But I just sat there, like a silent idiot and mumbled sorry as he sashayed back out of the room. I was done. Every bit of fight in me had gone. I just wanted my surgery to happen now and thought that he would be the one with the scalpel on the day so why argue back?!
When eviction day arrived, I was ushered into a hospital bay as a sea of green surgical gowned consultants lined up to introduce themselves. My chief consultant was busy ushering hospital staff about, telling them to ‘hurry up as we need to get started’, and with everyone now in a bit of a frenzy, a nurse dressed me into my hospital gown, like I was Mariah Carey backstage between costume changes, as I signed permission papers and shook hands with various people who were about to remove a majority of my organs.
The surgery took 6 hours with a tag team of six surgeons. The next five days that I spent in hospital were tough, and the weeks and months since have been a slow process of recovery. I was completely overwhelmed at the love and support my family and friends provided me with. They never let me be alone for a minute, putting their lives on hold, filling my house with flowers and gifts, taking me to appointments and cooking and cleaning as I rested in my temporary bed in our lounge. They really did go above and beyond to get me through a really painful and difficult recovery, them and also the little green morphine pills I was allowed to take home with me!
My health is still not fully back and to try and get any face-to-face meetings, advice, or any kind of easy response from my consultants is still a never-ending battle and one I will have to continue to fight.
In the UK, we do have outstanding surgeons (although not enough of them available on the NHS), we have attentive nurses and gold star treatments we can access, but they are all in short supply. There is a distinct lack of knowledge and prioritisation with this debilitating disease and a complete lack of understanding for the tsunami of sufferers. We need GPs and practise nurses trained in endometriosis with real solutions for those that present symptoms during appointments. And the right advice tailor made to the patient as it is infuriating to us endo warriors to be told myths about how to ‘cure’ endometriosis.
ONE MORE TIME FOR THE CHEAP SEATS AT THE BACK: Birth control pills, hormonal injections, ablations and the Mirena coil DO NOT CURE endometriosis, they TREAT THE SYMPTOMS of the disease.
However, there is help at hand for you or anyone you know who may suspect they have endometriosis or adenomyosis. I am proud to champion the Menstrual Health Project, a new charity that was created by Anna and Gabz, two fellow endo sufferers who are paving the way to bring about change to any future sufferers. They have created an easy-to-read diagnostic toolkit that can gently walk you through the symptoms of this illness and give you awesome advice on how to talk to a doctor or consultant to make sure you gain the choices you want with your treatment.
The Menstrual Health Project have big plans to make a difference for the future of endo sufferers like me. To create a future where not only is endometriosis taken seriously and prioritised as a debilitating illness, but to also support women in any possible reproductive challenges, in their concerns over their periods, fertility issues and the menopause to name but a few.
Your choice to seek further investigation and excision surgery should be YOUR CHOICE and not dictated by your health professional. Understand your symptoms and push for an answer and a diagnosis. Let me be your example. No woman should have to endure the removal of organs from her body and painful, complicated, and risky surgery to treat a disease that has been allowed to get out of control.
“Endometriosis affected my fertility significantly. When all you know is pain you don’t know that that is not normal … It is not a woman’s lot to suffer, even if we’ve been raised that way,”
Susan Sarandon, actress
“When you have an operation for endometriosis, they give you a contract to sign. Well, I looked at the stuff and I crossed out what I didn’t like, and I called the doctor over and told him, ‘We’re not doing this, and we’re not doing this. You are not touching one tube, or one ovary, you’re not doing anything but getting rid of all the bad stuff.'”
Cyndi Lauper, singer
“In 1985, I underwent a partial hysterectomy due to endometriosis. It was an awful time for me, every day I thought, ‘I wish I had the nerve to kill myself.'”
Dolly Parton, singer
“It’s interesting because nobody really talks about endometriosis, but so many women struggle with it. I used to feel like I was the only one who had it. Nobody knew how long it took me to get pregnant: that for seven years I had so many losses, I’d been trying for so long and I was in so much pain.”
Jaime King, actress
“There is nothing dirty about endometriosis. No religious group is going to be pissed if you discuss this. Because if you don’t discuss it, many more women are going to find themselves unable to have children, or find themselves close to dying because it’s led to something else.”
Whoppi Goldberg, actress
“I was told it is stress, it’s this, it’s that, but I had end stage, deep infiltrating endometriosis – it was agony. Some days I was in agony going to work and I just couldn’t manage it. I was just getting on, being told similarly maybe it was period pains. What I realised is that we do have enough gynaecologists, trained at least, but there’s not enough jobs for them. Why? Because we choose not to invest in women’s health and I don’t think it’s acceptable for scores, generations, of people to go to their doctor and say, ‘I’m struggling with this’ and we don’t get a minimum of an internal ultrasound and MRI to determine the real route cause of our pain as opposed to being dismissed.”
One of the many reasons we decided to launch AION was to not only keep ourselves sane in this new surreal lockdown life that was thrust upon us at the start of Covid, but also to create a place for escapism for those dealing with this strange new world with some light-hearted reading material.
We tried our best to avoid the subject of Covid and, when we did touch upon it, we tried to do it with humour and hope. Here we share some excerpts from our favourite lockdown related articles during this surreal time.
Valentine’s Day this year we are stuck indoors and literally ‘in it together’ so why not just go for it! We could all use a little loving cheer away from the Covid headlines right now.
Hide the Sausage It feels like 762 days that we have now been in lockdown and adding a bit of spice to your relationship is a bit tricky when your kids are always indoors, they seem to be always awake and therefore there is little point even contemplating digging out the nice undies or having a romantic candlelit bath together. It may be time to up the stakes and bribe the kids to stay in the living room so you can get some alone time in another room, an hour of Mario Kart for them can mean an hour of fun for you.
Fine Dining With restaurants closed, this year we need to embrace a table a deux at home and whether it’s with your partner, your flatmate, or your Mum, let’s try and make it special. Try and resist the urge to have your dinner on your laps in front of the TV. Why not pimp up where you eat? This doesn’t mean you have to set up a table in the loft but maybe dig out the nice linen tablecloth your Mum gave you ‘for best’ and implement a dress code with a ban on lounge wear and PJs. Why not kick off the evening with a kitchen disco? Dig out the disco lights, get the cocktails flowing and put some ‘choons’ on.
We have all been so deprived of human contact (apart from within our inner circles) that there is a risk that we will struggle to return to ‘normal’ once restrictions are eased. Will we continue with the elbow bumping/foot tapping Covid greeting or will we feel safe enough to return to a handshake? Will we hug and kiss each other in the same way we used to do or stick with the weird socially distanced wave or an awkwardly mimed hug?
Perhaps, the government will issue each household with a hand of a mannequin? The said hand could be attached to your handbag or belt hoop for any situation that requires the use of a hand to limit cross contamination? Maybe we could use carabiners to attach ourselves to handles and poles on public transport and perhaps a combination of both for handrails on staircases or escalators?
Pre-Covid, I was reasonably fit but mostly I was active. I was tearing round the supermarket like Dale Winton, or squeezing in a quick errand I really didn’t have time for and barely sitting down all day. Then Covid and I found that gym wear was extremely comfortable to watch Netflix in. My cardio supermarket was no more as I was lucky enough to secure delivery slots most weeks. I had no quick errands, school dashes or even the motivation to do anything. But isn’t food nice? And food and Netflix is a dream team.
So I signed up to the aforementioned Cystic Fibrosis challenge.
I have run every day, not far, but with a daily determination that Paula Radcliffe would approve of. I have hydrated myself, nourished myself with a pretty balanced diet that does include carbs, protein, fibre. I don’t think I have over compensated by stuffing myself using the classic I’ve-run-so-can-eat-anything-I-like license.
I have eaten out a few times since the restrictions have eased. I have sat outside wearing every item of clothing I own, whilst enjoying a pizza and some nasty wine. I have sat next to an open fire and enjoyed a deluxe fishfinger sarnie and a bonfire night’s worth of smoke. I have shivered with both hands wrapped around a paper cup and slurped on a coffee, after wiping a rain splattered bench with a napkin. And I have absorbed every last ounce of energy from my friends and felt happy as can be.
During lockdown, we have all become food obsessed. Dinner was often the only interesting thing that was happening that day. As a nation we have upped the ante and taught ourselves to make nice food, and to pair it with decent wine.. We have stayed in, we have learnt lots, we are skint and we know bad food, and I don’t think we will tolerate it once the novelty of someone else washing up has worn off.
So, a word of warning to all you mediocre pubs. Don’t be putting your prices up to cover your Covid loses. Improve the quality of your food, even if it’s not hugely profitable to start with. Because trust me, the sector is going to shrink, and only those serving up better than we can make ourselves will make the cut.
Covid changed the social landscape and we as a nation adapted pretty quickly. During the first lockdown, we immersed ourselves in jovial rounds of countless Zoom meets and documented our banana-bread on Instagram.
In this age of technology, with so many avenues of communication available, I don’t feel like communicating anymore. The want is there, I miss so many of my friends and family. However, what do I have to say to them? I’m sure they’d love to hear about my umpteenth dog walk of the week…and if I ask one more person “what are you doing for dinner tonight?” they might pop me in box labelled ‘BORING HOUSEWIFE’. Never before have I had so little to say. Whenever I met up with my designated person from another household for a walk; it’s like I have verbal diarrhoea spewing words of zero importance, but with so little human interaction these days, waffle just seems to spill out of me. What has happened to me?!
I have constant feelings of inadequacy and inferiority. Covid has stripped me of my ability to talk to people in a normal way. Zoom, though wonderful, has become awkward and stilted, text messages have lost all intonation and banter and social media now seems limited and repetitive. I worry on a near daily basis how the heck am I going to communicate on a social level when restrictions are lifted?
In our post lockdown world, will we wear a version of loungewear to the office? Will we start wearing a jumper/PPE combo for nights out, a kind of a polo neck with an integrated face mask? By becoming a nation of enforced hermits, I for one have spent far less on clothes and shoes in the last year and have only splurged online to purchase activewear and pyjamas. Many of us have used this time to clear out our wardrobes and, following the first lockdown, charity shops saw a tsunami of donations landing on their doorsteps. Leaving the final lockdown (hopefully) could see an opportunity for less fast fashion and more consumers opting for good quality secondhand clothing.
I have embraced the four-fold lockdown wardrobe of pyjamas, dressing gown, activewear and joggers. I think this could be an opportunity to reinvent our look, to shop in our own wardrobes and to make do, mend and wear preloved clothing a bit more.
Things I thought I would never hear on the news: “If you want to know how to hug cautiously, please head to our website for a guide on how to do this.”
This was the advice given to us as we moved through the next stage of the roadmap out of lockdown. We can now invite another household or a group of six inside our homes, and hugs are back, although with caution and perhaps facing the other way and talking on in breaths
Holidays in the UK have been given the green light but overseas destinations on the green list are limited and frankly bizarre. I believe that the decision of which countries should be allowed has been decided using an old copy of Prince Charles’s itinerary from his last Commonwealth trip and include The Falklands, Brunei, Singapore, and the Faroe Islands.
Of the other destinations on the green list, most are actually in their winter so you might as well freeze in Blighty, some were only accessible via countries on the red list which seems a bit pointless, so that only really leaves Gibraltar (with restrictions), Iceland (only if you have had both vaccines), Israel (not the best time?) and Portugal (never have golfing holidays seem so inviting).
For those of you considering a mini break to one of the approved green destinations, will your airport experience be the same as before? Will you be able to mooch about the shops, take in a Wetherspoons breakfast and a glass of pre-flight bubbly at the champagne bar? Well, firstly, you will need a negative PCR ‘fit to fly’ test which has to be booked privately in advance and prices range from £65 to £120. These will have to be repeated during your holiday, for your return journey, so you may need to forgo your duty-free shopping to stump up the cash for your numerous tests.
During the first lockdown I experienced an awful lot of that most useless, energy-wasting of emotions: guilt. Guilt over the fact that we had not only a garden, but also a field, for daily exercise. Guilt that we could walk to the woods, which lead to a National Nature Reserve, which leads to two of the loveliest beaches in the Pembrokeshire Coast National Park. Guilt knowing that not only were we Covid-free and didn’t work in the NHS but that we enjoyed such privilege – being able to access such beauty and playgrounds – while others were going through the toughest of tough times and with none of that on tap.
My snow-happy, land-locked friends have often expressed their own envy at our ‘living on holiday’ because we live by the sea. I also imagine that if you live in fire-ravaged California or Australia, where the sun always shines, you might take the occasional wistful look at the green, green grass of wet West Wales.
The idiom goes “The grass is always greener on the other side.” It’s thought to originate centuries ago, possibly stemming from the ancient Roman poetry of Ovid who wrote: “The harvest is always more fruitful in another man’s fields.”
But in truth, the grass is greener, or whiter, or sandier, or wetter depending on where you are standing. Comparison really is the thief of joy. I am yet to be able to pass on any wisdom as to how to overcome the punishing tendency to compare yourself or your circumstances with others.
I guess the challenge is to tend to your own grass as best you can and extract the pleasure from its upkeep without needing to check on how your neighbours’ grass is looking.
I’m not great at that, if I’m honest. Ah well, Practice Makes Progress.
On the 7th of October 2022, Irish singer-songwriter Hozier released the first song from his forthcoming album, Unreal Unearth, and it couldn’t have come at a more appropriate time. With the overturning of Roe V Wade in the US earlier this year, Swan upon Leda offers solidarity to women in a time of unrelenting uncertainty and bleakness.
Upon the announcement of the song’s release, Hozier took to Instagram to explain his reasonings behind writing Swan upon Leda. In the post, he shared that he listened to Egyptian author and journalist Mona Eltahawy speak in Dublin. He wrote, “Eltahawy once referred to the global systems that control and endanger women as the world’s ‘oldest form of occupation.” After hearing the shattering news of Roe V Wade being overturned whilst in a recording studio, Hozier said that was another strong motivation behind the song and its visceral lyrics.
Hozier cleverly uses Greek mythology to illustrate how modern society still subjugates women, just as it did back in ancient times. In the original story of the Swan and Leda, Zeus transforms into a swan and assaults Leda to punish her for becoming Queen of Sparta. The use of this particular Greek myth is significant as it shows how the oppression of women has been a constant throughout history; it happened in ancient Greek society, and it still happens today.
“I felt there was an opportunity to offer some show of solidarity. We’re reminded again by the protests in Iran that progressivism is a global movement. the recent pushbacks against civil liberties and human rights respect no boundaries or borders, and like all acts of control, violence and indeed all forms of occupation, their legacies can be immeasurable in both the personal and political spheres.“
Hozier
Swan upon Leda solidifies Hozier’s title as an expert protest song writer. His lyrics hold an inexplicable sense of grief that make the song feel like a requiem:
But the gateway to the world
Was still outside the reach of him
What never belonged to angels
Had never belonged to man
The ‘gateway to the world’ refers to childbirth. Hozier regularly uses religious imagery in his work, and this is prevalent in this song. Biblically, angels are not born or reproduced, they are simply created. Essentially, Hozier is making the statement that men nor religion should have control over the female body – it doesn’t belong to them.
Musically, Swan upon Leda is beautiful. The vocals are soft, almost hushed, which reflects how many abortions are carried out in secrecy, something that society tells women they must keep quiet about. Yet, the layering of vocals, especially towards the end of the song, creates a sense of solidarity that feels like an embrace in a time of immense grief and anger.
“I wanted to offer this song at this time. I’ll be making a donation to Mayday, AidAccess, Plan C and Amnesty International, organizations working toward ensuring women and pregnant people can gain safe access to reproductive healthcare and civil rights.“
Hozier
I strongly urge everyone to listen to Swan upon Leda. It’s not the kind of feminist anthem you would expect, especially as it was written by a man. It isn’t a manufactured, shallow, girl boss power anthem, it is a gut-wrenching portrayal of the gritty reality of modern women. Whether it be the American women fighting for their reproductive rights, or the Iranian women fighting for their right to not wear the hijab, Hozier spotlights one of the most pressing women’s issues in the world today – fighting for the right to choose.
During my time at AION, I have had the pleasure of writing the regular feature of She’s Brilliant and British, celebrating women that define feminism in the UK. Those who have led the way in their natural talent, have overcome huge personal obstacles and have inspired us all with their general awesomeness. I have revisited my top five favourite ladies, not an easy task to choose just five, but here they are in a condensed version.
Katie Piper
In order to list the accolades of Katie Piper I need to take a really deep breath…here goes… she is an author, broadcaster, activist, television presenter, campaigner, columnist, model, honorary Doctor of Health Science, founder and trustee of The Katie Piper Foundation, ambassador for Pantene, Strictly Come Dancing contestant, fitness instructor, presenter on Songs of Praise, oh and a working mother to two children. To describe Ms Piper as inspirational would be like saying Alan Titchmarsh is quite good at gardening.
“We all have parts of ourselves that we like more than others, whether it’s your hair, your great sense of humour or your long legs. I tried to look at what still I had and not what I had lost.”
Apart from her ability to multi-task like no other, Katie’s ability to show immense courage as a result of an incredible trauma is what I admire her for the most. In March 2008, Katie Piper was the victim of a horrific acid attack, planned by an ex-boyfriend, which caused major damage to her face as well as blindness in one eye. Now 37, Katie has endured over 400 procedures to restore her face and sight. In 2009, Katie made the brave decision to document her experience in the Channel 4 documentary Katie: My Beautiful Face to help raise awareness for burn victims.
Julie Walters
Dame Julie Walters (CBE and OBE) was the hilarious Miss Overall of my childhood, shuffling about Acorn Antiques and serving up her ‘two soups.’ She was the ballet teacher to Billy Elliot, Michael Caine’s aspiring student in Educating Rita and the charity-driven widow in Calendar Girls. In fact, she has appeared in more than 60 films, countless television programmes and trod the boards in numerous plays.
“There were people asking ‘Can women be funny?’ People still ask that. It’s like asking: ‘Can women breathe in and out?’”
However, the last film she completed, The Secret Garden, could well be her last as during filming, in 2018, she was taken ill and was diagnosed with stage three bowel cancer. She had 30cm of her lower intestine removed followed by a course of chemotherapy. As the true professional that she is, Walters returned to the set of The Secret Garden just a month later to finish filming her scenes. Thankfully, Walters has now been given the all-clear, but it has forced her to reassess her life and has decided to take a long, perhaps permanent, break from acting. Although has said that she would definitely consider acting in another Mamma Mia!
Caitlin Moran
When I attended a talk delivered by Ms Moran, I was enthralled, entertained and now wanted Caitlin Moran to become my life coach and my new best friend. She was a breath of fresh air after a day filled with niceties. She talked feminism and politics in her animated and fast-paced manner, comparing our then PM David Cameron to a gammon robot, ‘a C-3PO made of ham’. When asked for tips on how to write a book, her sage advice was to pop a cheeky whisky in your cuppa and to not over describe.
“Always remember that, nine times out of ten, you probably aren’t having a full-on nervous breakdown – you just need a cup of tea and a biscuit.”
For me, Caitlin Moran has the unique ability to make you belly laugh and then think profoundly from the one paragraph she has written. She’s kind of like a nagging friend telling you to stop overthinking a situation – an affectionate slap in the face. In those moments when life feels a bit overwhelming and you’re not sure how to keep swimming to the surface, I can tap into one of Caitlin’s newspaper columns or pick up one of her books (of which I own many) and allow her to put my thoughts into perspective with her brazen take on life. She is one of the reasons I want to write. A modern day writer I can aspire to be.
Adele
Unless you have lived under a rock for the last 11 years, you will know Adele Adkins as a national treasure who can expertly pen a heart-breaking love song and can win over any audience with her down-to-earth, potty mouth and infectious manner. She has become one of the world’s best-selling music artists, with numerous awards and has earned herself an MBE.
“I have insecurities of course, but I don’t hang out with anyone who points them out to me.”
The album 21 remains the bestselling album of the 21st century, amassing over 31 million album sales and numerous awards including six Grammys. Adele embarked on a mammoth world tour to promote the album but unfortunately was forced to cancel early for surgery on her vocal cords. She took a break from singing but returned in 2012 with the Bond film theme tune Skyfall and following up with her third album 25 and a headline performance at Glastonbury in 2016.
Deborah James
From dressing up as giant poo on national television to being filmed in a sparkly cocktail dress miming to power ballads during her chemotherapy treatment, Deborah James normalised illness and made everyone stand up and pay attention, including the royal family as Prince William visited Deborah at her parent’s house to award her with her well-deserved Damehood. As the donations came flooding in, Deborah increased her fundraising endeavours by creating a clothing line for InStyle to branding toilet roll packaging with advice on how to check your poo and writing two books on her experiences. Deborah James went above and beyond to ensure that other cancer patients would have a better chance of survival than she had.
“Find a life worth enjoying; take risks; love deeply; have no regrets; and always, always have rebellious hope. And finally, check your poo – it could just save your life.”
Deborah James faced her mortality with a smile, ticking off experiences from her bucket list, crammed her days with doing the things she loved to do – going to the races, the opera, and the Chelsea flower show. She spent her last precious days surrounded by her beloved family at her parents’ home in Surrey.
Deborah James raised a staggering £7million and if you would like to donate to this incredible cause, please head over to the Bowelbabe Fund.
Setting up shop on Etsy is super exciting, but it’s also a bit baffling. There’s a LOT to take in, so many sections, fees and confusing boxes to fill in, it’s hard to know where to start. I’ve only had around 200 sales on Etsy so far, but most of those have been in the past few months, so I thought I’d share some tips that helped, and that I wish I had known from the start! You can see my shop by clicking here.
Do your research first
Before even starting to list, check out similar products on Etsy in your niche and see what they are doing. You don’t need to copy, but you can get a good idea of pricing, photography tips and what kind of things are actually selling.
List variations separately to boost listings
Apparently, the more listings you have the better your sales will be, so with that in mind, instead of listing different colour options for example all in one listing, add the colours as separate sales listings so that you’ll appear in more searches. Also keep your listing simple, stick to vital info and make any variations or personalisation requests super clear.
Get the price right
Pricing really is a bitch and it can be so hard to get it right. Be sure to take into consideration how much your fees will be, what your posting packaging and production costs are and don’t sell yourself short. This is very often something of a learning curve for sellers, but if you can get it right from the off it does make things easier further down the line. You can also add coupons, abandoned basket discounts and create individual voucher codes for customers on the site too.
Have clear sections
Although this isn’t a must, I do love it when Etsy shops have nice clear sections. When it comes to jewellery for example, I likely won’t want to scroll through 200 listings when all I want is a ring. If I can go straight to a ring section I’m far more likely to not click away and to purchase something instead. With art prints like mine it can be harder as some prints may fall into more than one category, but do the best you can and these can always edit these along the way.
Work on your SEO
When customers search on Etsy, they are shown what Etsy feels they want to see most. Priorities will be given for items similar to ones they have purchased before, items from the same seller they used previously and other things their algorithms deem useful and more likely to yield a sale. This is all about boosting your item in searches again, first clearly describe the product at the start of the listing title, then make sure to add search terms in title as well as tags (more below). Think in the mind of a buyer and what they will look for to ensure your listings show up where you want them to, i.e in front of your target audience. Another thing you can do is to work some of the Etsy rules in your favour, such as offering free shipping to the U.S which help boost sales, and also include shipping in the price so shipping is free, as this is said to be favourable and likely to increase your reach.
Use available tags
The tags are there to be used and as you only get 13 in total, use them wisely. Think in search terms as opposed to single words where possible, for example if you make bespoke dog collars, your tags could be ‘gifts for dogs’ or ‘bespoke leather dog collars’ as opposed to just dog and collar. Think what people will type in when they want to find that product and the more bang on your tags are, the more you’ll show up in searches.
Be careful link sharing
Algorithms can be helpful but also often a pain too. So the more people click on your link and don’t buy, the more the algorithms will think that people won’t buy from you. Etsy want to make their profit, so it makes sense for them to prioritise search results to show the buyers things they are more likely to buy. It’s all complicated and sounds a bit unfair, but once you get your head around it it is kind of logical, from their business point of view anyway. Sharing in an ad on your socials is great, having links in your profiles, great, but things like sharing a link to a huge crafting Facebook group, not so much. Many of those clicks will be to check you out but not buy, these are empty clicks that actually push you down the ranks, so try to only share when it’s to the audience that have chosen to follow you or are more likely to buy something.
Ace your packaging
Packaging doesn’t have to be expensive or fancy and people certainly don’t want to pay a premium for something that will probably be ripped open, but it does need to be right. If your products will get damaged when wet then they need waterproof packaging, if they could break on route then they need to be protected. There are many options out there, with eco friendly paper bubble wrap as well as reusing boxes to make protective packaging. Kraft letterbox boxes seem to be the most popular, as these can be reused, recycled and sealed with washi tape and a logo sticker. Things like stickers with a bit of branding make a big difference and are pretty cheap from places like eBay or other Etsy sellers too. Lots of people choose to put things like sweets in as a gift and although this is cute, you’ll soon regret sending non vegan sweets to a vegan and will be called out for it. So if you do choose something like this, make sure it’s eco/vegan/postage friendly and not something that would harm a hungry dog if they get to the post first! I just choose to put a mini print in with a thank you on the back, or just a business card. Easier! I also back my prints with a card back, inside a cello bag and then inside a hard backed envelope. A3 prints get wrapped in kraft paper and put into a poster tube. Eco friendly packaging is highly favoured, so it’s worth finding ways to send that’s more sustainable.
Have up to date and legal terms & conditions
There are templates out there and lots of shops to inspire your wording, but it’s so important to have up to date and legal terms. I see lots of posts on craft groups where people refuse returns and refunds when legally, they can’t do this. Make sure you look into what rights the buyer has so that you are both covered with post issues, faulty items and return options. Make things clear so that you can revert back to them and keep them simple.
Strike the right balance
Etsy has a kind of lovely community feel, with small business owners and hand crafted goods, so we don’t need to be overly formal, but seeing messages from sellers with ‘Hi hun’ and really unprofessional wording is often too far the other way. It’s your business, it could grow big one day and it’s good to stay professional even if the customer is a royal pain or asking the impossible, though do what suits you and your brand best! Stick to your terms, learn from your mistakes and every now and then you may have to take one on the chin money wise, but it’s worth keeping customers happy and keeping those reviews positive where possible. If you receive a negative review, don’t reply straight away as this can then not be removed by Etsy, but if it’s very unreasonable or something like a post service issue caused the problem, then ask Etsy to review/remove it. If it’s just a bit of a negative but something you can learn from, thank them for their feedback and say how you will improve on this so that future buyers aren’t put off. There’s nothing worse than seeing a business arguing with a customer! We all get the odd drop in stars sometimes and it can be a really good way to learn and improve your business. Sometimes customers may just expect something beyond the realms of possibility, so don’t take it to heart if you get the odd tricky customer.
I hope this helps! Etsy is a great selling platform and really reasonable in terms of fees compared to others, so it’s well worth a try!
The first ones popped through when I was about 23. Truly horrified, I stood in shock and stared at the mirror in disgust. The more I looked, the more I saw – they were literally like chicken-pox with more and more appearing each time I blinked.
This life changing event started my love-hate affair with hair colourings, both boxed and professional. Over the years I have been through so many different hues: plums, coppers, auburns, chestnuts, reds, and blacks. I would get a little zing of excitement when it was time to pick a new colour and would stand there like a child in a sweet shop, trying to decide what my choice would be. Who would I be for the next six to eight weeks?
But then, after the delight of choosing, would come the reality of actually putting it on. The gloves, the tubes, the sectioning, the waiting, the clean-up operation. And then despite all of that, and despite all the smearing and coating and rubbing in and stained ears, I would always somehow find a huge slice of hair that had escaped my efforts. Patchy.
Over twenty years has passed between now and then and there are considerably more of the blighters. I must be at least 75% grey now. When will the time be right to stop with the colouring and serenely step into the silvery light of my new natural hair colour?
What would it mean for me to embrace my grey hair?
I must change my thought pattern as my initial thoughts aren’t about me and what I want or feel I need, but instead, I am considering other people’s opinions. No one else in the gang has mooted the possibility of going au naturel-so I would be on my own. The only grey one in the gang. What if my partner doesn’t want me to or doesn’t find it attractive?
Why am I more concerned about what my friends and partner would think – it’s my hair, surely, I can do what I want with it?
The fact is not having my hair artificially coloured would not change a single dot about who I am. The lack of colour in my hair would not make me any the less colourful in myself, or take away my intellect, sense of humour, or any of the other things that make me-me.
There are other advantages to this too. No more patchy hair, or hours and money spent at the salon. No more parting my hair to check the sparkly root line and its development over the weeks. No more worrying.
Instead of this choice being wracked with worries about what other people might think about my hair, I need to switch the focus and stop being worried about being seen at all. Having gone through a period of personal growth recently, what if my new hair choice was symbolic of the new me embracing exactly who I am in the world right now. That’s not aging or limiting that’s empowering. Instead of thinking about what grey hair symbolises in society, let’s consider the connotations of silver and white: wealth, success, grace, sophistication, elegance, glamour, purity, strength, clarity, focus, feminine energy, goodness, brilliance, illumination, balance and integrity. OK, so maybe remove grace and elegance from that list since I have an uncanny knack of tripping over air and choking on my own tonsils, and hmmmm purity maybe an issue, but I am 98.4% ready for my hair to symbolise the rest.
That zing that I used to get at selecting a new identity with each different colour – I don’t need that anymore. I know who I am, and I am not the colour of my hair and I am worth it (sorry-had to!).
I was reading something online the other day about a woman having fallen ill after breast surgery, and it reminded me that AION posted about this back in May 2021. So for anyone that needs to know this…here it is again.
I have never seen myself as someone who would have cosmetic surgery. I was happy with my body and had never focused on any flaws. I had always been extremely lean and was one of those people who didn’t have to exercise or watch my diet to stay in shape, I exercise often and try to eat healthily. I was also lucky that I snapped back to my pre-pregnancy weight with both of my daughters, within just a matter of weeks.
At the age of 32, after having my second child, I developed a severe case of Mastitis. The pain was excruciating and it seemed to eat away at my left breast. I visited many doctors and even had a stay in hospital, but it seemed that whatever tissue and fat I had in that area had disappeared. I was only a size 8 in clothing and weighed just over 8 stone, but suddenly tops and dresses hung off me. The most fitted tops made me look uneven and I became extremely self-conscious. I wasn’t someone to put on weight easily and as we know, the weight never comes or goes from the place you want it to. I tried to resign myself to the fact I would remain ‘lopsided’.
After a few months of feeling unhappy with how I looked, and lacking in confidence, I made the decision to have breast augmentation surgery. Elective surgery was something I never in a million years thought I would have. Because of this, I chose a top consultant in London who had worked on celebrities, believing if it’s good enough for them and they trusted him, so should I. Within a matter of weeks, I had breast implants that suited my frame and size. I didn’t tell anyone. As stupid as it sounds, I didn’t want to be judged and I certainly didn’t want to look any different to how I did before or to draw attention to myself.
I had the surgery in August 2007 and by November I was suffering severe anxiety and panic attacks. I had lost my Nan, my second Mum, in the October and this had affected me deeply so I just put it down to that. Over the following months and years, I found myself extremely low in mood so visited my GP and was prescribed anti-depressants. I only stayed on these for a very short time as I wanted to ‘get through this’ period myself.
After five years of having the implants and feeling horrendous most days with nausea, headaches, severe fatigue, anxiety and low mood, a major scandal broke out regarding Poly Implant Prothèse – a French company that produced silicone gel breast implants (PIP). The company was pre-emptively liquidated in 2010 following the revelation that they had been illegally manufacturing and selling breast implants made from cheaper industrial-grade silicone since 2001. It turned out I had been fitted with these implants.
The PIP breast implant scandal saw 47,000 British women affected. All the women were fitted with silicone implants containing industrial grade chemicals never intended for medical use. I decided this was probably the reason I was feeling so unwell and made an appointment to have the implants removed and a new ‘safe’ set fitted. A decision I would later regret.
I remember waking from the surgery in 2012 thinking I would feel different. I was expecting to be told the removed PIP implants had discoloured or ruptured, but this wasn’t the case. They were intact and I was reassured this new set were safe. Looking back now, I can’t believe how naive I was to think that any set of implants are safe!
From November 2007 to the day before I had heard about the PIP scandal, I never for one minute connected my ill health with my implants. Why would I? Even countless doctors hadn’t! The day the news hit the headlines, I felt I had a lifeline. A reason for why I felt so unwell. Once I’d had the implants removed and new ones re-inserted, the consultant assured me that it wouldn’t have been the implants that were making me ill. The ‘hope’ that it was the implants causing me such severe health issues quickly evaporated. I went back to believing I must have some mysterious illness that no one had found and that I was slowly dying each day.
From 2012, my health deteriorated even quicker. I found myself developing many more strange symptoms including numbness and tingling in my arms and legs, blurred vision, tinnitus, cold hands and feet, eczema, hair loss, brain fog, lack of concentration, IBS, poor memory, panic attacks and insomnia, to name but a few! I saw my GP on many occasions who told me I was ‘just a busy Mum’! My weight had also ballooned from a size 8 to a size 14. I had severe bloating all over my body, including my face which was constantly puffy and my skin was almost translucent. I didn’t recognise myself.
After visiting my GP with my 11th bout of chest infections in 13 months (of which I was prescribed strong antibiotics each time), he gave me a leaflet on Fibromyalgia and ME/CFS (Myalgic Encephalomyelitis/Chronic Fatigue Syndrome). He told me to go home and to think about ‘cutting my life down’ in every aspect from work to socialising. I literally had no social life to cut! I was too drained and ill for one. I did however work extremely hard and was a successful Makeup Artist. There were many days where I would work, come home exhausted and sleep fitfully for 16 hours. I felt like I was dying, but then I’d give myself a good talking to and say ‘don’t be so stupid. Dying people don’t go out to work!’.
I felt like I was trapped. No one could understand exactly how unwell I felt. I had days where I just wanted to unzip my body and step outside for five minutes rest.
I threw myself into healthy, clean eating and was forcing myself to exercise in a desperate bid to re-energise myself and lose the weight. I joined an outdoor boot camp and went three times a week, as well as a running club, that I still belong to today. I signed up for The Royal Parks Half Marathon in October 2015. To this day I have no idea how I made it round in 2 hours 12 minutes. I felt horrendous and suffered for weeks on end after.
I saw many private consultants from 2012 to 2016 and was diagnosed with many health problems including B12 Deficiency, a Pituitary Adenoma, Tachycardia and food intolerances/allergies. I was put on Beta Blockers, but they made me feel even more unwell so I came off those. I changed my diet and cut out wheat and gluten. I still felt no different and my weight never changed.
I’ll never forget the day I realised I had Breast Implant Illness (BII). It was January 2017. I was sitting in the lounge with my husband and two daughters, spending yet another evening searching online and Googling ways to help my health, when I happened to get a searing pain in my right implant. The pain was like nothing I’d experienced before. I honestly thought the implant must be rupturing. I quickly Googled ‘pain in right breast implant’ and hit return. Staring back at me were rows and rows of the words ‘Breast Implant Illness’.
My eyes quickly scanned the pages and familiar words started to jump out at me ‘brain fog, hair loss, anxiety, weight gain, extreme fatigue’. My heart was in my mouth. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. My eyes swam with tears of happiness and joy. I had finally found the answer to my 11 years of suffering. I remember looking up from my iPad and staring around the room. I was numb with shock, but at that moment, I also had an overwhelming sense of calm descend on me. I knew I had found the answer and solution to my ill health and more importantly, what was going to make me well again and give me my life back. Explanting. It felt like hours before I finally found my voice and I just remember calling my husband over and getting him to read what I had found. We were both beside ourselves with excitement!
I frantically started searching for as much information on BII as I could. Out of 42 symptoms, I definitely had 37. I learnt that the shell/outer coating of the implant is made up of many toxic chemicals that get absorbed into the bloodstream. I felt disgusted and sickened that implants are so freely put into women without any of this being explained. Back in 2007, when I had the first set, I don’t even remember researching it myself. I believed them to be safe.
Within five days of my revelation I had visited three surgeons. Two of them discounted BII as a ‘real thing’ and told me it was all in my head! They said they would happily remove my implants and re-fit new ones, but that they didn’t believe BII existed. They told me I would look ‘deformed’ and to ‘seriously think about my actions of explanting’. I was so angry that these so called professionals were ignoring everything I had said and were just thinking of money.
Thankfully, I found an amazing surgeon in Surrey who listened and didn’t try and persuade me to have new implants. He explained that the body won’t always accept any kind of implant, whether it be breast, hip or even tooth. I saw him three times before my surgery. This was his recommendation so that I had thought everything through. It wasn’t just a case of putting myself through surgery and yet another general anaesthesia, there was also the psychological side of what I may look like. I had thought about this, for probably a second! I knew in my gut that BII was the reason I felt so unwell and I trusted my instincts. Even if I ended up looking like Magda from There’s Something About Mary, at least I had my health back.
I remember speaking to a friend about it and she was mortified I would even contemplate having my implants removed and possibly look saggy, just on a hunch that they were causing my ill health. My answer to her ‘I’m not just a pair of boobs’. I wasn’t vain before I got my implants and I certainly wasn’t hanging on to them now, knowing everything I did about BII. If I never removed them, I’d never know if they were the cause!
Just a few weeks before my surgery I decided to have a hair tissue mineral analysis. These tests are used around the world for the biological monitoring of trace elements and toxic metals in humans. I was interested to know exactly what was in my body and then I would repeat the process one year after explant. The findings were scary and even the therapist who carried out the test was amazed at how many heavy metals and toxic chemicals I had in my body.
On the day of my explant surgery, 7th March 2017, my husband drove me to Surrey. I felt excitement mixed with nerves. I knew that today was the start of the rest of my life. I had every faith I would be well again after these toxic bags were removed.
I was made to feel extremely comfortable with my own private room and the nurses were amazing. Unfortunately, the surgery didn’t go without any complications and I developed an allergic reaction to the general anaesthetic during the procedure which has resulted in me now having a lifelong allergy to adrenaline based drugs. All that aside, I woke from surgery in recovery and did something that I realised I had been unable to do for 11 years. I took a full, deep breath. I had zero pain. For years I had dealt with recurrent chest infections which had left me with Costochondritis. I had completely forgotten what it felt like to breathe without pain as I spent every day with a heavy crushing feeling on my chest, let alone to be able to take a full, deep breath. The Costocondritis had completely disappeared.
As I lay there in recovery, I had a feeling of peace. I knew that removing the implants was the answer and I actually laughed out loud and said to one of the nurses that the answer to my ill health of 11 years had literally been right under my nose the whole time!
Once back in my hospital room, I noticed how pink and warm my hands were. I grabbed a mirror and couldn’t believe what I saw looking back at me. Glowing, flushed cheeks and reduced puffiness! I had been so used to seeing a pale, bloated face and avoided looking in the mirror as much as possible. I was so excited to see the many changes over the coming days and weeks.
The weight dropped off me – something I now realise was water retention – no doubt filled with toxic chemicals. My energy was through the roof! My hair started growing back. My eyes sparkled once again. People had never commented on how ill I looked before, but suddenly they were remarking how well and glowing I looked.
Out of the 37 symptoms I had, just one or two remain today. I have been left with B12 Deficiency, for which I have monthly injections and I have Tachycardia, but thankfully I don’t require daily medication for it. I still get anxiety, but I am having help for that and it’s working.
After spending 11 years missing out on so many outings and activities with my daughters and husband, I was able to take part in everything. I was literally given my life back.
Do I regret my decision to have breast implants? Absolutely! I wish I had loved my body for what it was. It took away 11 years of my life. Time when I should have been enjoying my young family and living life to the full. It’s not all negative though. I’ve definitely learnt to appreciate my health. I regularly take part in waves of The Six Pack Revolution and am the strongest I’ve ever been.
Also, as it turns out, after explanting surgery, I’m not deformed! With the right advice, I should have been told to wait at least 6-12 months following my Mastitis for my body to ‘heal’. But, the past is the past and thankfully I realised what was causing my ill health before it was too late.
Unfortunately BII is very much a controversial subject. I have no idea why. Breast Implant Illness is 100% a real thing. I know. I’ve lived through it and thankfully, am now a survivor of it.
Breaking news: After posting this today (20 May 2021), this article was published by the BBC click here to read
Needing to top up my bank balance, after boldly going self-employed in the spring, I found myself a little temp job to keep me out of trouble – financial and otherwise.
I have worked in a range of places and positions throughout my life: Spud-U-Like (we ate more than we earned), a petrol station (worst job ever), on checkouts (that was OK), as a dinner lady (happiest job ever), in a call centre (I only took it because I wanted to wear the headset) and then finally, in schools where I was teaching and librarian-ing (the jobs that taught me who I was and what I was capable of). While these were all very different jobs, they were similar in that as an employee, and because of the job, you and your time were always somewhat managed for you.
My temp job would be the first time that I would set foot into the corporate world.
Of course, I got lost on my first day. The science park that my new office was on was at least as big as Lakeside and Bluewater combined, complete with a million roundabouts. As I drove round with my sweaty palms on the steering wheel, I had to keep checking myself – this was like an actual flippin’ nightmare, one where you can’t get to where you want to be and when you wake up you are eternally grateful that it was just a dream. This was no dream.
I made it. Fifteen whole minutes later than my start time.
I stood in reception, feeling like I was a student signing in late for school. Had I blown it already? Here I was ready to offer organisational and administrative support and I couldn’t even arrive on time.
A beaming face looked up from mission control and greeted me.
‘I got lost. I was actually here 10 minutes early, but I couldn’t find the building. I’m so sorry.’
I was reassured that it happens to literally everybody. (Well put HUGE signs up then or send a map).
I don’t think that new girl nerves ever disperse over a lifetime, or if they have, they haven’t for me yet. I stood in the shiny, clean open plan office, waiting for my greeter and had a look around. I tried desperately not to look like the new girl, but my flushed face and snazzy lunch bag may as well have been a neon sign and arrow flashing over my head – NEW GIRL NEW GIRL NEW GIRL. Bright young things whizzed around me with their sleek ponytails, chiselled designer stubble and chic smart casual outfits that made them look as cool as cucumbers, trendy and oh so very young. I felt like Mrs Doubtfire.
I had nothing to worry about. I was duly shown the most important areas of the office; the loos, the drink station and all the places I could have my lunch. After that I was given a laptop, a headset and after a 10-minute explanation of my role was left to get on with it.
Institutionalised questions popped into my head that I needed answering.
‘How much do I need to complete in an hour? Or a day? Do you want to check my work before I send it?
Very quickly it was apparent that this was a very different way of working than I had ever experienced.
I was told – take your time and do what you can in the time you have. Every task completed did not need checking or for me to account for my time, I was trusted to get on with the job and complete it under my own steam. Oh, and, I didn’t need to let anyone know that I was ‘popping to the loo’ or ‘getting a coffee’ or ‘heading for lunch’. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know things – it would all become clear and click into place – and within a few days, it did. Smiley people passing always said hello and I am yet to witness a stressed face, a frown or a crossword.
I’ve never known anything quite like it. Every day I head in with no anxiety or thumping heart worrying about what the day might bring. I work hard, continue to learn, smile, chat and am trusted to do my best – no questions (yet!) asked.
What is this wizardry of the working world in 2022? I hope it’s the way forward for everyone!
When I was a child, I wore out the section of my VHS tape of Grease where Sandy Olsson ‘transformed’ from Goody-Two-Shoes Sandy to slutty Sandy. I was enamoured by the moment, where Sandy was chased around the funfair by Danny Zuko and they declared their love to each other in song. Obviously, I was little and now I look back and cringe at the misogyny of Sandy asking Danny Zuko to, “Tell me about it stud?” No, Sandy, do you! However, awkward Grease storylines aside, this was also my first introduction to the legendary Dame Olivia Newton-John.
Despite being known as the ‘girl from down under’ in the role and in real life. Newton-John was actually born in Cambridge, England, on 26th September 1948. Her Father Brinley was born in Wales and was an MI5 officer who worked on the Enigma project at Bletchley Park during WWII and later became the headmaster of the Cambridgeshire High School for Boys. Her mother Irene was born in Germany and escaped the Nazi regime and came to the UK in 1933.
“I respect my parents’ opinion very much. No matter how old you are, what your parents think is very important. If they like your boyfriend or they don’t, it’s more shattering than anybody else telling you, because they’re the most important.”
Newton-John had an older brother Hugh who later became a doctor and an older sister Rona who became an actress and married Jeff Conaway, also known as Kenickie from Grease. The family emigrated to Melbourne, Australia, when Olivia was 5 years old. As a child, Olivia dreamed of becoming a Vet, but by the age of 14, she had joined a girl band with three friends and was regularly performing at a local coffee shop.
By the time she joined university, Newton-John was being recognised for her acting talents and offered parts in numerous Australian television shows. In 1965, at the age of 17, she won a prestigious television talent contest, and her prize was a trip to Great Britain. Back in Blighty, she was signed by Decca Records and her successful music career was born. She remained in the UK until 1975 and even represented the UK in the Eurovision Song Contest in 1974. She finished in a respectable fourth position with a little unknown group from Sweden called Abba winning the contest!
“My biggest mistake was my best lesson…you don’t learn anything when everything is going perfectly.”
She shot to fame in 1978, alongside John Travolta, in the 1950s rom-com Grease. Following the tremendous success of the film, she was offered the starring role in Xanadu and even though the film was panned, it led her back into chart triumph with the title song.
In 1992, Newton-John found a lump in her right breast and, despite a benign result from the mammogram, she felt that something wasn’t right and requested a surgical biopsy. She was diagnosed with breast cancer and underwent a mastectomy and nine months of chemotherapy. She also used alternative therapies such as herbal formulas, meditation, acupuncture, and massage therapy. She remained in remission until 2013 when the cancer sadly returned. By 2017, the cancer had progressed to her spine.
“I look at my cancer journey as a gift; it made me slow down and realise the important things in life and taught me not to sweat the small stuff.”
Newton-John was married in 1984 to the actor Matt Latanzi, whom she had their daughter Chloe with. Chloe Latanzi is now 36 and an American singer and actress. The couple divorced in 1995 and Newton-John remarried in 2008 to John Easterling, the founder and president of the Amazon Herb Company. Easterling introduced Olivia to plant medicine which she contributed to her long remission.
In 2012, she founded The Olivia Newton-John Foundation Fund for cancer research and wellness centre in Australia and donated a huge portion of her personal fortune to help raise funds to help others. It has meant that thousands of cancer patients have been able to access world-leading services and treatments and is an amazing legacy to leave behind.
Dame Olivia Newton-John passed away peacefully at her ranch in Southern California at the age of 73, surrounded by family and friends.
“My dearest Olivia, you made all of our lives so much better. Your impact was incredible. I love you so much. We will see you down the road and we will all be together again. Yours from the first moment I saw you and forever! Your Danny, your John!”
John Travolta
Breast cancer is the most common cancer in the UK, but the survival rate is generally good, particularly if diagnosed early. The key is to get to know your boobs better. A great place to start and to get more information on signs and symptoms to be aware of, as well as tips on how to check yourself, is with the fantastically informative people at www.coppafeel.org
Summer has most certainly hit the UK! I think I’m not the only one to have muttered the words ‘oh, it’s too hot’ many times over the last couple of weeks.
We are all well aware of the dangers of UV rays and so for me, if you have to tan, it’s best to fake it. There are so many fantastic products on the market today that give a gorgeous healthy glow, without the need to expose yourself to skin damage. Remember, a sun tan isn’t an indication of health at all. It simply means you have damaged skin cells.
Fake tan is a much healthier and safer way to tan that causes no damage whatsoever. Remember to always wear a high SPF daily whether using fake tan or not.
To ensure you build a smooth, non-streaky tan, it’s best to exfoliate the skin 24 hours beforehand using a non-abrasive body scrub. Pay particular attention to the elbows, knees and other dry areas of the body.
Don’t forget to exfoliate your face if applying there also, but don’t use the same product as your body as this will be too harsh. There are two main types of facial exfoliants; physical (face scrubs and clay-based masks) and chemical (acids and peels). There are so many benefits of exfoliating including cleaning and purifying clogged pores, boosting circulation, sloughing away dead skin and encouraging fresh, new cell turnover. Exfoliating will also help skincare products to penetrate deeper and will also ensure a smooth, even tan.
Skinny Tan is an extremely popular self-tanner which is made from over 90% naturally derived ingredients. There is a choice of gradual tan, pre-tan and instant tan and the products are available in either mousse, oil, serum, drops or mist. Having used this brand previously, I find it gives a natural, even-looking tan without the need for careful application. It lasts around five days and doesn’t have a strong smell like some self-tanning products.
If you don’t fancy tanning your whole body, but would like some colour to your legs, then Sally Hansen Airbrush Legs Instant Tan is fantastic. This product is advertised as ‘leg makeup’ as it will also cover imperfections such as freckles and veins and enhance skin tone. It’s extremely easy and convenient to use and you can just simply wash it off when you want. Priced at £9.99, it’s a great choice if you don’t have time to exfoliate and self-tan the day before an event or occasion.
If you are looking for a facial tanning product, then I can highly recommend you try Tropic Sun Drops gradual tanning facial serum. Alongside the natural plant allo-melanin that mimics your skin’s own melanin and creates a warm golden effect, it’s topped up with coconut water and Aloe Vera juice to ensure skin stays dewy.
Sun Drops is a customisable bronzing serum. Just add a few drops to your moisturiser either in the morning or evening and apply to your face. The serum will start developing and your skin will be left with a radiant, sun-kissed glow. If you want more colour, add a couple more drops to your moisturiser.
This product is streak-free and buildable with a natural finish and a gorgeous smell of sweet passion fruit. Priced at just £22 for 30ml, this is a must have all year round.
There are no health benefits to natural tanning, but if you must be in the sun, make sure you always wear a high factor, broad spectrum UV protection of at least SPF 30. Apply within 20 minutes of going outside and apply regularly throughout the day. Stay hydrated, wear a hat and seek shade throughout the day (especially between 11am and 3pm, when the sun is at its hottest).
Please tell me that I am not the only one that has had these on/off fads, fancies, crazes and crushes periodically throughout their lives? Why do we get them? What are they for?
I am beginning with a teenage fascination on a person – but my weird brain does not always choose to focus its infatuation on a human, no – indeed it can hook itself onto a range of things, from people to pottery, TV programmes to tea, bedding to weddings and all manner of things in between as this mini-series of articles will reveal in time.
Jason Donovan
Of course, it all started with Neighbours. Back in the day where you could watch it twice a day if you were home poorly from school. I cannot tell you how many times I watched ‘The Wedding’, in awe of and insanely jealous of Kylie as she stood there next to the loveliest human that my 11-year-old self had ever seen. Praise the Top of the Pops lords that were Stock, Aitken and Waterman and the editors of Smash Hits and Number One magazines for keeping Jason in my life.
Any TV appearance would be taped on a dedicated VHS tape, labelled ‘This is mine. Do not touch!’ No one in the house was allowed to breathe on it and it would be watched voraciously, as often as possible – on a loop.
All of my pocket money was spent on any magazine that featured the blond floppy fringe, however big or small. My Dad used to say that coming into my bedroom made him feel sick, as a million pairs of Australian blue eyes would stare at him and follow him around the room as he collected the glasses and cups that I had ‘forgotten’ to bring downstairs.
Sometimes you could get an eight-time folded poster in the middle of the magazine that would pull out into a HUGE wall covering of a poster. You just had to be really careful how you pulled it out otherwise the staples would leave a mark or a small rip on his perfect nose. Amidst the small gaps caused by my amateur wall papering skills, were teeny tiny Jason Donavon heads that had been painstakingly cut out with nail scissors, so that each ear and strand of hair was unharmed.
There used to be a department store in the middle of Southend High Street called Keddies and it would sell everything. Even wigs for old ladies, and super lacy bras that cost over £20 back in 1988. Saturday mornings would see me, and the gang enter with our meagre pocket money, feasting our eyes on all of the grown up and expensive stuff before us. We couldn’t afford anything. We mainly went in to go up and down in the lift and ride the escalators for a laugh before deciding whether to go to Tammy Girl to try on affordable bras, before or after lunch (it was probably only 10.05am) and who was going to go to KFC, who was going to McDonalds, and was going with who to the loo.
One particular time, it was just me and one other gang member. Loitering by the lift, waiting for the buggies, and walking sticks to pass, I saw something that made my heart stop. A zing of electric excitement buzzed through me and I nearly lost the power of speech. What was before me was a strange tiny counter with a red and white banner that said ‘Ticket Master’ and underneath this banner was a crudely written notice, red marker on a whiteboard: Jason Donavon Concert Tickets London Wembley Arena.
A plan was hatched between us. Get home as soon as possible. Make tea for parents. Beg, howl, cry, plead, rage, rant, bargain, negotiate, bribe and blackmail until we had a ticket. Failure was not an option. If I were not able to go then my life would be over. Angels come in many forms and as I burst into the front door and into the kitchen, there was mine, Aunty Michelle.
She managed to show an interest and decipher my carefully rehearsed speech that came out like gobbledygook; Mum and Dad just carried on chatting about I don’t know what in between their sips of tea and fag puffs, perhaps raising their eyebrows when I mentioned trains to London. Aunty Michelle nodded and smiled as I meticulously listed what I needed, why and how it could happen. Could being the operative word here because a ticket to go and see my idol was £23 – even more expensive than the fancy bras!
I think it was March time and my birthday is in November, but my angel of an Aunty said that she would buy me the ticket for my birthday. I could not believe my luck. The telephone was ringing. It was my friend. Had she succeeded in her mission? Yes! She had! I swear I skipped back to Keddies that afternoon with Aunty Michelle in tow to make the most precious of purchases.
I screamed myself hoarse at the concert and sang every single word to every single song. It was the best night of my whole life to date, and was relived in photos, conversations, and memories for years to come. I still had the tour mug up until a few years ago – the handle came off. I was a bit sad. At the merchandise stand in Wembley, the T-shirts were as much as the ticket had cost and so I chose the mug as a memento to be treasured each time I had a cup of tea.
They say to never meet your idols as it will lead to disappointment, and sadly it did a little. Having shielded away a small piece of my heart, just for Jason, and at thirty-six years old, the stars were finally aligned for our paths to cross again.
Me and the same friend who went to see Jason at Wembley, went to see him in The Kings Speech, in Cambridge, where he was playing the part of the speech therapist. I smiled when he came on – remembering all that had gone before, remembering how much I had (thought I had) loved him, and all of those cut out heads on my bedroom wall.
As soon as we had got to the theatre, we divided and conquered. Concert friend went off to get two glasses of sauvignon – well four really – we had the interval after all. I was entrusted to purchase two copies of the programme. Job done. My other task of importance was to ensure that we had a permanent marker. Also done! Jason is actually a very good actor, and we thoroughly enjoyed the performance. We were also so excited for when the show had finished.
As soon as the curtain went down, friend and I scrambled down the stairs, in a tipsy, heady frenzy. We were actually going to meet him. We got to the stage door in record time. I felt sure that there would be surging crowd of fellow used to be eleven-year-old JD fanatics; I was ready to squeeze and push us to the front for the glorious moment. But no – there was no surge. Why hadn’t anyone come to see him? There was maybe fifteen of us in a limp semi-circle around the door. I panicked. Oh, my goodness. What if we were at the wrong door and had missed him. I wanted to cry.
As I was about to push the marker pen back into bag, there-he-was. Squuueeeeeee. It was actually him. He looked up and I gave him the biggest smile I could. He looked at me and frowned. And then he looked around at the other people who had waited to see him. He looked disappointed and fed up. In fact, he said as much. He said “Oh erm, I just wanted to go and get some lunch.” Lunch? Jason we are here and have loved you like forever – can’t you even pretend to be happy? I must have paid a significant chunk of your riches in all the Jason things that I had bought over the years. I made my Dad feel ill for you. Thirty-six-year-old me had a word with eleven-year-old me and suddenly saw the truth. This guy in all honesty, probably did just want to get his lunch and some down time before the evening show. I work in a school, how happy would I actually be if every time I left for lunch, I had students wanting selfies with me and my autograph – can you imagine? But still – even a little smile?
The smile was not forthcoming. He did begrudgingly sign our programmes albeit whilst stating “No selfies, no selfies.” Alright mate, we get the message. I snapped a few photos on my phone, in hope of a semi decent one. His baseball hat kept getting in the way. I started wishing that we hadn’t bothered. Still, we had our programmes and they were sort of signed. Watching him make his way to lunch, I put my programme away and checked my bag: phone, purse, programme…. where was my marker pen?!? That cheeky galah was going to lunch with MY pen.
“Excuse me. Excuse me Mr Donovan. You have stolen my pen. Can I have it back please?”
He sort of stomped back towards the few of us left. Mumbling something like “Must be a special pen.”
“Thank you.” I said.
And now somewhere in my home is a black marker pen that has been touched by Jason Donovan. It might even have his DNA on it. Yeah.. I am so over him now.
AION’s resident book reviewer A Novel Page has read plenty this month, and here’s what she thinks of four of them. Follow ANovelPage on insta.
The Phone Call by AJ Campbell
Long story short: After his father’s death, Joey assumes his position in looking after the family. However, it’s not an easy job and he is struggling…
Thoughts: Thank you so much @ajcampbellauthor for sending me a copy of this and having me on the book tour!
This isn’t my favourite AJ Campbell book, but it’s still very very good and I really enjoyed it.
What Campbell does extraordinarily well creates characters that you can’t help but root for. They’re normal ordinary people in situations that we all could be in at some point. That’s the real beauty of this book.
The exploration of poverty, especially in the current economic climate, was greatly explored, especially in relation to how it can affect families. I just felt so sorry for Joey and I wanted the absolute best for him. The other characters were incredibly vivid and well-constructed. Again, they were just real people!
I cannot express how easy and simple the prose is. It is a little predictable at points, but it doesn’t stop it from completely and wholeheartedly absorbing you! Just be warned that it is a slow-burn, but an addictive slow-burn. The second half is a lot quicker than the first.
Whilst the simplicity of the prose was excellent, I did find that the plot was a little too simple. Hence, the predictability that I mentioned above. However, the ending did have a nice little twist that left me with a smile on my face. It is definitely more of a character-driven novel than a plot-driven one.
Nevertheless, this is the perfect summer read that you will very quickly devour!
N.B.: I was kindly gifted this book in exchange for an honest review.
A Novel page rates this book 8/10
Men Who Hate Women by Laura Bates
Long story short: Laura Bates examines the secretive and extremist communities who hate women.
Thoughts: Wow, this book had me feeling an unnatural amount of anger… which I didn’t even know was possible! Obviously, it is a must read for everyone.
Quick disclaimer: this is not an easy read. It’s uncomfortable, shocking and disturbing. Laura Bates is brutally honest and, quite rightly so, refuses to censor the true barbarity of these groups. There are graphic descriptions of abuse and rape.
Whilst I’ve heard of incels (courtesy of Lisa Jewell’s ‘Invisible Girl’), I had no idea just how prevalent they actually are, and just how extreme their views are. I just cannot believe that it’s not talked about more in mainstream media…but then I can believe it. I think the phrase I’m looking for is ‘disappointed, but not surprised’.
It really made me laugh when I read some reviews about this. Some people have really misunderstood the book: it isn’t a platform for misandry. It’s about genuine concerns and fears of far-right alt movements that are having an actual impact on society. It possesses a lot of empathy for young men who are lured into these groups and that really says a lot about Bates’ ability to remain impartial.
This is a ridiculously well-researched book. Despite being brutally honest, the prose is very easy to read and the language is simplistic. It is quite a dense read so I do think it’s best to dip in and out of it.
The chapters are split into different aspects of the manosphere and that really makes you appreciate the vast amount of sub-groups. I can’t really decide which horrified me more… it seemed to get worse and worse! I learnt so much and it’s really opened my eyes.
I don’t know whether I can say that I enjoyed reading this, but I do know that this is an essential read!
Long story short: Long story short: Dorothy Daniels is a notorious food critic… who also happens to be a murderer.
Thoughts:
Thank you so much @faberbooks for sending me a copy of this and having me on the book tour!
There is no other way to describe this other than the ‘feminist American Pyscho’. It was not what I was expecting at all… but I loved it more for that very reason.
Just a quick caveat: it is graphic and gory. So if you’re sqeamish, perhaps give this one a miss. It is quite shocking just how calm and detached Dorothy was when describing how she kills and eats her former flames. This is counteracted by how amusing the narrative is: it’s witty and dry. Honestly, I chuckled many times, most often at inappropriate moments…whoops!
I loved the analysis of language! I never thought of how cannibalistic the English language could be. It’s gave me some serious food for thought… (get it?!).
The book is narrated from the first person and does jump around quite a bit as you follow Dorothy’s stream of consciousness. I wouldn’t say that it’s particulary gripping or that it possesses much tension/suspence. It literally is a women’s memoir.
I did feel that the prose tried a little too hard at times. Don’t get me wrong, this is a pretentious book and it is meant to be. However, there were points were I did think it was too forced.
Nonetheless, it is a very clever book. Yes, it can be viewed as a feminist rendition of the aforementioned cult classic, but it can also be seen as a commentary on industrial meat production. It’s incredibly provocative, but it’s a fine piece of literary fiction.
Is it weird to say that I love Dorothy? I know she’s a psychopathic murderer, but she’s just great!
If you like feminism, sex and food (with a splashing of murder)… then this is the book for you.
N.B.: I was kindly gifted this book in exchange for an honest review.
The Chirk Castle Killings by Simon McCleave
Long story short: DI Ruth Hunter and DS Nick Evans are called to an incident in which a man is shot dead… Who killed him and why?
Thank you so much @edpr for sending me a copy of this!
Okay so before I even get into this book, I have to say that Simon McCleave might just be the cliffhanger king… I was on tenterhooks from the last book and I was very glad that it was resolved in this book. However, I was thrown another cliffhanger and I NEED the next book to be released immediately.
It’s an incredibly easy read. The prose is very simplistic and the plot is not overly complex. Did I guess the perpetrator? Yes. Did I guess why or how? No!
So despite the predictability of that, the plot is very immersive and entertaining. I’m pretty sure I read it in one sitting – and a very quick one at that! That’s not to say that it’s completely plain sailing. There are many twists and turns that keep you hooked!
Despite how short the book is, the characters were well-fleshed out. I really enjoyed picking up from where I left Ruth and Nick last time! That’s remarkable, especially considering I only joined the series at book 11! I just love how realistic and flawed the characters are in their own way.
I definitely prefer this one to the last, and I think this might be a series where it gets better with each book!
Simple, easy and entertaining! Definitely a guilty pleasure if there ever was one.
Before Friday the 29th July 2022, I could not tell you the last time that I watched Neighbours. I do know that it would have been when it was still on BBC 1 and that the Kennedys were firmly settled within the most famous cul-de-sac in the world (that doesn’t help narrow it down-I know).
I was more than a little surprised at how compelled I felt to tune in to the final episode. When I heard that the end was nigh for the iconic soap, I was genuinely sad. My heart hurt a teeny bit and I felt bad for letting go of the 5.35pm daily habit that had begun when I was around eight years old.
Prior to Neighbours, I had had a brief glimpse of the power of the soap opera. Coming in from playschool, my naptime was signalled by the beginning of The Sullivans. Waking up sleepily I would often hear the theme tune to Sons and Daughters. When my grandma came to stay memories of Take the High Road, A Country Practice and The Young Doctors are entwined in my thoughts of her, along with the smell of brandy and the Golden Virginia packet that she always had on her.
Those shows though were for the grown-ups. The adults in the house. Neighbours, on the other hand was the first programme that had the magic of bringing everyone in the household together, for twenty minutes of rare familial harmony. The three of us siblings would stop tormenting each other. Mum would soften from her just- got- in- from- work stress grump. Grandma would cease her relentless barking of orders. And we would watch Neighbours.
For the first time in soaps (not kids TV programmes) we were exposed to young characters that had key roles and plot lines that we could relate to; they went to school, had crushes, suffered with low-self-esteem, argued with their families and like us, had to forge their way through childhood and the teen years. In Mikey, Plain Jane Super Brain, Scott and Charlene we had kindred spirits that we could see elements of ourselves in and at the time, that meant the world.
In my head and heart, Neighbours ending, is symbolic of the ending of a simpler way of life all those years ago. Neighbours will forever be synonymous with teatimes after school, everyone shushing to hear the TV, taping the best episodes to re watch on VHS and the joy of being home poorly so you could catch the lunchtime omnibus too.
With feelings of pure nostalgia, I surrendered and immersed myself to every reference of the past that was woven into the last episode of Neighbours. The heroes of the soap were back on our screens, but like us they had evolved and aged. Some were heart sore, some had lost their way, some were grey and lined, but essentially still the same people full of hope and memories of good times. Just like us.
I guess the last episode bought home the fact that we are no longer those child dreamers, whose best part of day was sitting down to catch up with these fictional families and dream of what life would be like if we lived on Ramsay Street too. Neighbours allowed a generation of young people to daydream and imagine a life beyond our own street.
The lump in my throat and the love in my heart stayed throughout most of the episode, except when I thought too hard about the fact that I had never had a lamington, and that how on earth could Melanie and Toady be getting married. Surely, she is old enough to be his Nan?
My twenty-two year old thinks that she has found ‘the one’.
Has she though?
As a mum how do I know?
What if he is not?
My worry comes from my own experience of thinking that I had found ‘the one’ at the ripe old age of sixteen and that transpiring into the biggest shit show of my life.
How cautious should I be of history repeating itself? I completely get that I am transferring my own past hurt and life inexperience onto a very different relationship dynamic, but I can’t help but be afraid of the risk that she will ever feel as awful as I did.
Trying to ignore the maternal urge to kidnap her, bring her home, and lock her in her room, completely smothered in cotton wool for eternity, I am clamping my teeth down on my tongue and focusing on the green flags that their flourishing relationship is showing.
The first time I met him he offered to buy me a glass of wine within seconds. I mean- that’s a double green flag right there!
He is very polite. We love manners as parents, don’t we? Not only is he polite, but he is more than happy to converse away with anyone, and everyone even vaguely connected to my girl. This is in complete contrast to her previous loves, who struggled to connect with us in any real way save ‘yes and no’ answers to our well-meant questions and enquiries.
He walks her home from a night out every time, despite inclement weather, the long distance and regardless of whether he gets invited in or not upon arrival at said destination. (For an innocent cup of tea, of course.)
When she is with him, she is absolutely 100% herself. There is not a hint of a fake laugh, forced smile or feeling that she is walking on eggshells. He gets her and he lets her be her at all times.
He plucks her eyebrows for her, with the care and finesse of any qualified beautician.
Her birthday was in July, he was running present ideas past me in May.
He tells her that she is beautiful, even when she is togged up in her C-PAP machine, looking like Maverick from Top Gun, just before lights out.
They are more emotionally savvy than a lot of people double their age. They tell each other when they need time out or are needing clarity, with neither of them getting offended. They cheer hard for each other while also putting their own individual well-being first.
He took her home to meet his family at the earliest opportunity he got and she was welcomed with open arms.
He is more than just a little bit of a lovely, kind, caring and reliable young man. We have been taken aback as to how quickly they have seemingly blended into the sweetest couple and so pleasantly surprised at how much we have taken to him too.
Maybe I am not worried about them not lasting, instead, maybe I am nervous and apprehensive about the fact that they will last-in a good way.
What will this mean for the shape of our nuclear family of three? Is this the person that will shape and change the future for my girl? Will he be the one that she loves and needs more than us? Is he up to the job of looking after her? Is she good enough for him?
Once again, a new chapter for our family (and his) appears to be beginning. I just wish I could have a sneak peek as to how this chapter will go.
I hope whatever happens-they stay this happy. Fingers crossed.
Until recently, I did not know the difference between being jealous and envious. In my mind these two were one and the same and interchangeable emotions. When I feel pangs of these emotions, all I know is, is that I feel rubbish. I pride myself on the more positive elements of my personality, like being kind, reliable (although not in the time-keeping sense) a good listener and a world-class hugger. When I feel these things, I feel good and wholesome and like I am OK in this world. When I feel jealousy and envy, I feel nasty, stressed and unkind and that just does not sit well with the other parts of my psyche.
So in the name of not becoming a permanent modern-day Jekyll and Hyde, and being more at peace with this element of my personality, I researched these emotions, learned the difference between them, why we have them and the purposes that they serve.
Envy is when we lack a desired attribute enjoyed by another, whereas jealousy is when something we have is threatened by a third person.
And yet envy and jealousy are not the same emotions. Envy, as unpleasant as it can be, usually doesn’t contain a sense of betrayal and resultant outrage, for example. Jealousy need not contain an acute sense of inferiority (if the rival is not enviable).
OK, those definitions help me make sense of the difference between the two emotions.
So, I now understand that I am envious of Mrs Hinch and Stacey Solomon with their beautiful homes, wardrobes, alpacas, clothing ranges and ALL THAT FREE STUFF THAT THEY GET!! I want to be sent beautiful parcels of make-up. I want to spend my time lovingly turning my home into a heaven-sent haven of white, natural wood and shiny sinks.
With envy, you must look behind the emotion to actually unpick what it is that is causing you to feel that way.
Do I really want alpacas? Do I want to spend my days obliged to document most of my days on Instagram? Of course, I don’t. I don’t want to do all the hard work that they do, to get their ‘free stuff’. But- I do want to improve my home. I do want to change up my make-up and my wardrobe. I do want to work for myself and be hugely successful.
By looking beyond, the negative feelings surrounding the initial pangs of envy, I can flip them into something more positive. Motivation.
I have more than just an element of control over how I style myself, my home and how much I achieve through running my own business. If there are things that I desire, then it is up to me to make changes and work towards gaining them.
No-one walked up to Mrs Hinch and Stacey and plonked their lives and opportunities in front of them- they have worked hard and made sacrifices to get to where they are today- and that’s what I need to do too. Envy is a wake-up call to address what it is I feel that I am lacking and to make my own steps to fill that hole.
In the same way, jealousy can be used as a self-awareness prompt too.
Jealousy occurs when something we have is threatened by a third-person, or party.
When my sister met the love of her life, for example, I was jealous. My relationship with her was threatened by her new relationship. I was losing my sister’s time and love to someone else. Jealousy causes feelings of insecurity and feelings of unworthiness. And those feelings are hard to bear.
If someone at work gets an opportunity and a role that I wanted, then my self-esteem and confidence are threatened. The knee-jerk reaction to that is to tell myself that I am not good enough and that I am an imposter in my field and clearly not as good as I think I am.
Again, these initial thoughts and feelings need to be flipped and managed to become useful rather than self-destructive and relationship damaging. It’s not easy, but it is do-able.
The jealousy that I felt when my sister found her life partner would have been better managed had I sought reassurance and voiced my worries. Had I done that, love and reassurance would have come at me like a tsunami-making me feel instantly reassured.
Recently, the work situation did play out. In the past, a job rejection would have sent me into a woeful, self-absorbed, malaise-but not this time. I had about ten minutes of feeling silly for applying and feeling sorry for myself, and then I took a breath and had a think.
Being rejected hadn’t taken away a single skill, ability or experience that I had highlighted and proved in my application. Being told ‘No’ had not actually changed anything about me at all. I was still whole. I was still me. I was still good enough for anything that I set my mind to. It’s just that the opportunity that I went for was not for me at that moment in time. I reached out for feedback and received friendly and constructive guidance about possible next steps and was told that I held many of the skills and attributes that were required-but not all of them. And that’s OK. They were absolutely right-I wasn’t quite ready for the role, but that does not mean that I will never be ready. The power is in my hands to seek the missing skills and experience and re-apply for similar roles if and when I want to.
And there was the learning for me. When the twisted pangs of envy and jealousy strike, voice these feelings, seek reassurance and understanding and ask questions of yourself and others. It feels so much better and healthier than silently seething and harbouring negativity.
This year I decided to jump on the Love Island bandwagon. I have always previously turned my nose up at it. Thinking it couldn’t be something I would enjoy or could identify with as the premise is a bunch of scantily clad 20-somethings vying for their 15 minutes of fame in exchange for a possible heartbreak and a side order of on-screen humiliation.
However, this year I was persuaded to give it a go by my fellow armchair critic, my 14-year-old daughter. We cringed through the first episode as each girl sashayed into the house in teeny tiny swimwear and four-inch heels, whooping as they met each other. Followed closely behind by six muscle pumped men glistening from a vat of pre-applied baby oil. The public having phoned ahead and chosen who should be coupled together, they quickly assembled into their pairings. Couplings who will later share a bed, despite probably not fully knowing each other’s names yet.
Every evening, the British public is treated to an hour’s footage of what is effectively Big Brother in bikinis. The girls spend hours looking perfect to sit poolside and then each evening they get glammed up to sit poolside again but this time in full make-up, lashes, body-con dresses, and skyscraper heels. The girls are never without make-up or coiffured hair and the boys are constantly flexing their muscles in the outdoor gym or putting on their best shirt and appear to have spray painted their jeans on for the evening meet-up in the kitchen.
The main objective of the contestants is to ‘find love’ and to ‘make connections’ and there is an unhealthy obsession over this. There is a huge amount of double standards as the boys openly move their way around the girls but accuse the girls of being players if they so much as smile at another boy. They are obviously bored with nothing to do, no music, no books, no TV and a daily 2 glasses of prosecco limit. They openly listen to each other’s conversations and the whole atmosphere is constantly judgy. The highlight of every day is when they hear someone shout ‘I got a text!’ from one of their allocated and monitored mobile phones, delivering their next instruction.
Halfway through their eight weeks stay at the villa, after numerous recoupling’s, bed hopping and insincere declarations of love, the girls are whisked away to ‘Casa Amore’ where they are thrown together with 6 new boys whilst 6 new girls take their place at the main villa. A planned exercise in seeing how committed each couple are. As the boys seem to embody a modern-day version of The Lord of the Flies running around the garden with joy and whooping at the thought of fresh meat, the girls are excitable but coyer as they feast their eyes on their possible new beaus.
Three of the boys have locked lips with three of the new girls before the first night is over, justifying their actions as the only way to really know if they really like their recently departed ‘love interest’ is to stick their tongue down the throat of a complete stranger! After a week apart, they are reunited and must decide whether to stick with their old partner or choose someone new.
It is a strangely addictive show but there is so much wrong with Love Island. The cringey derogative games comprise of them being tasked to lap dance one another or play truth or dare on demand. The ‘reward’ of being chosen for the Hideaway by your fellow contestants, is a room with a bed adorned in silk sheets complete with props which looks so seedy it would be over the top in a back street Soho peep show. Or the challenges where they briefly get to escape the villa involve them always running towards a platform area in a Pamela Anderson slo-mo to carry out a task such as stripping or doing a sexy dance for no real prize.
However, by far the most shocking thing about this programme is the casually accepted misogyny and the shaming of the girls by some of the other boys. Ofcom has received over 3,000 complaints about the triggering scenes where one girl felt bullied and victimised as a group of boys openly laughed at her and accused her of lying about her feelings for one of the boys. The ITV show has been accused of emotional abuse by the charity Women’s Aid after it appeared that a contestant was asked to volunteer his departure following his volatile behaviour towards his partner and another boy who was interested in her.
I started off watching Love Island as a bit of guilty pleasure for me and my daughter to enjoy. Instead, it has become a daily opportunity for me to point out how not to be treated by a boy. It worries me that every girl in the villa is so beautiful with a perfect body and that the muscle-bound boys don’t really represent normal women or men. That both the boys and girls have such high standards of their partner and that every conversation revolves around asking each other what their best features are.
Wouldn’t it be refreshing if one evening the girls just put on their joggers, scraped their hair back and took their make-up off and said to the boys, ‘I can’t be bothered to get dressed up tonight, might just take my bra off and have some cheese on toast.’
Or perhaps ITV could do an over 40s version, where they do a bit of gardening and talk about good places to go on holiday. Obviously, you would have to increase the daily alcohol allowance and buy some nice wine and you could replace the lap dancing with some excellent shoeless Dad dancing to power ballads in the kitchen.
Love Island terminology translated:
1,000 percent – like 100 percent but when they really like something, and Maths isn’t important.
Grafting – basically you’re having a conversation with a member of the opposite sex, but you feel like you’re making all the effort
Getting pied – being dumped or rejected by someone, so you feel like you’ve had a custard pie shoved in your face. Which also happened in the show in the imaginatively named game ‘snog, marry or pie.’
Opening the salon – when things get heated between the sheets. Other terminology is ‘getting a manicure’ or ‘giving a blow dry.’ I’ll let you use your imagination….
Good chat – also known as ‘banter.’ Basically, it means you can hold someone’s attention for at least 5 minutes.
Ticked a lot of boxes – each contestant has an extensive list of things they look for in the opposite sex. It also appears to be a list that you could use to buy a horse – has good teeth, good eye contact, strong muscles, glossy mane.
I’m not gonna lie – A sentence a lot of them use just before they lie about something.
The upside-down bikini top – it took me and my daughter about 4 episodes before we realised, they wear their bikinis upside down. Still not sure why?!
The news right now is tough and as a parent to a 14-year-old impressionable daughter, we discuss current affairs a lot and I try my best to reassure her concerns about the war in Ukraine, climate change and life after Covid. However, when my daughter asked me what Roe v Wade was about, I felt an overwhelming sadness and for the first time an inability to reassure her. It seems inconceivable for this law to have been overturned, resulting in a woman no longer having control over decisions to do with her own body.
In 1969, at the age of 25, Jane Roe, was pregnant with her third child – she had been raped. At the time, an abortion was considered a crime in thirty states of America. Roe lived in Texas, where abortions were illegal. Roe filed a case to challenge the law to seek a termination. Henry Wade, District Attorney for Dallas County, defended the anti-abortion law, the case was rejected, and Roe was forced to have the child, which was then put up for adoption.
In 1973, the Roe v Wade case was re-examined by the Supreme Court justices and with a 7-2 vote the law was overturned, with the Court deciding that a woman’s right to an abortion was a private matter and protected by the US constitution. It was a huge milestone for women to have their choice returned to them and paved the way for Planned Parenthood centres to open across America allowing women the opportunity to access abortions legally.
Fast forward 50 years and in June 2022, in a 6-3 majority, the Supreme Court justices decided to overturn the ruling, ending the nationwide right for women to seek an abortion. With immediate effect, twenty-six states made the decision to ban abortion, with many states expected to impose severe restrictions.
Three of the Supreme Court justices, in returning the decision, were reported to have said, “from the very moment of fertilisation, a woman has no rights to speak of.”
I felt numb when I heard this news. What will happen to a woman who is raped or a teenager who has an unplanned pregnancy? What about if you have an ectopic pregnancy or a trapped miscarriage and without the option of an abortion you could die? How can a woman not have the right to make a choice about their own uterus?
Now, for example, in the state of Alabama, the penalty for a doctor who performs an abortion in the case of rape could mean life imprisonment, which could result in a longer prison term for the doctor than what the rapist will receive.
My daughter has recently started her periods and relies upon the period tracker Flo installed onto her mobile phone. Sadly, this week, Flo have introduced a new ‘anonymous mode’ to allow users to remove their personal data to avoid law enforcement authorities the ability to identify any women who may be seeking abortions.
When I was thinking about writing this article, I read and watched video clips of those who backed this decision, the ‘pro-life’ supporters, to ensure that I could provide a balanced view. What astounded me was the celebratory way in which they received the news of their victory, describing it as an historic moment to ‘save children.’ Politicians in Alabama even compared abortion to the holocaust in terms of ‘lives lost,’ even demonstrating outside a Holocaust Museum in America.
Mike Pence, former vice-president to Trump, and who is planning to run for president himself in 2024, is no surprise a ‘pro-life’ supporter. Remember, this is the man that, due to his staunch religious beliefs, does not believe in dinosaurs or evolution. His response to the overturning of Roe v Wade was:
“Today, Life Won. By overturning Roe v. Wade, the Supreme Court of the United States has given the American people a new beginning for life, and I commend the Justices in the majority for having the courage of their convictions. We must not rest and must not relent until the sanctity of life is restored to the centre of American law in every state in the land.”
This is a controversial subject and usually I would try to stay neutral in my opinion but each time I read a ‘pro-life’ celebratory response I feel sickened, frightened even, at this new control over women’s rights.
Just take a second to imagine explaining to your daughter why they need to use the anonymous mode on their period tracker. Imagine you or your daughter having to choose a back street abortion or travelling in secrecy to another country where your choice did not make you a criminal.
There have been a lot of celebrities and political figures who have spoken against the decision in the last few weeks. I have provided some quotes below, but I think it is also worth watching Olivia Rodrigo’s response at Glastonbury here.
“Now with Roe gone, let’s be very clear; the health and life of women in this nation are now at risk.”
Joe Biden, President of the USA.
“Just because you’re not an American citizen does not mean the overturning of Roe V Wade is none of your business. If you support women’s rights and human rights you NEED to be vocal about how drastic and appalling the overturning of the constitutional right to an abortion is.”
Cher
“It is an outrage to ban abortion, period, and all the more heinous that it excludes those who have been raped or are experiencing incest, non-consensual or not. So there’s a higher penalty for doctors who perform these operations than for most rapists? This is a travesty, and I pray for all these women and young girls who suffer at the hands of this system.”
On Thursday, March 30th 2022, I left being employed to work for myself. While I left with a sense of trepidation and anxiety as to the unknown, I had a real deep rooted sense that I was doing the right thing. (Knowing that I was doing the right thing did not help my superstitious mind. Note the date of of my last day in work was the 30th of March and NOT April Fool’s Day-this was a deliberate choice. Can you imagine if I had skipped out of secured paid work on that day for it to go tits up?!)
This surety came only a few months after I recognised that that itchy restlessness feeling that was bothering me (see previous article Wanderlust or just wondering? – and in other news‘ June 2021) was indeed the niggling feeling of a need for personal change, control and freedom.
I loved my daily 9-5 with a passion, and I loved the people I worked with and the things that I did even more, but what I didn’t love was the time it took away from, and the rigid constraints it put on, my life.
The pandemic and its ensuing lockdowns I believe were a peculiar catalyst to my decision making. Don’t get me wrong, I am not saying that I enjoyed the restrictions. I missed my family and friends, and at times I felt stifled at home and anxious when the briefings came, BUT there were key parts of our new way of living that I didn’t mind.
For me, as hard as it was to navigate the weirdest time in our living history ever, I welcomed the slower pace of life, having nowhere to rush to, and having significantly more free time. When Covid caught me in the September of 2021 and again in February 2022 it was grim and unpleasant physically, but I recognised the benefits of having more time at home.
For the first time in my grown up working life, I had more control and autonomy over what I did and when. We were all forced to learn and manage working from home, and this in itself was a revelation to me. It was refreshing not to have to cram everything other than work into the forty-eight hours that comprised of Saturday and Sunday. Of course this was not everyone’s ideal; I didn’t have children at home that needed supervising or entertaining and if you were part of a family that had to forge your way through this then you will forever remain heroes!
So I did it-I took the leap and the sky did not fall down (although the bank balance did -a little). After about a month of going solo, I started to get comments: ‘Have you been abroad? ‘You look so well!’ too many comments for them to be just polite compliments and small talk. What was the difference then because I hadn’t been abroad, I hadn’t even been away in the UK, in fact I had probably been doing more ‘work-work’ than before. The difference being-I had time to breathe, to do things during the day-in the daylight hours, at my own pace. If my wonky brain woke me up frazzled and in a tizzy, I was able to take my time starting my working day and adapt it accordingly. These things were the difference.
This is not an article to preach to the world about jacking in the 9-5 and living freely. And there is absolutely nothing wrong in needing to stick to the security of paid employment. It is only now at this particular point in my life that I am able to take this opportunity. I could not have made this work previously.
This is an article about perhaps being open and curious to the possibilities of doing things differently, of wondering ‘What if?’ and ‘Can I?’ and after over a year of wondering those things-I am glad that I did.
Since the age of around eight or nine (a young child) I have been astutely aware that I am ‘big’ ‘fat’ ‘large’ ‘chubby’ ‘overweight’ and ‘obese’ these labels have been ingrained into my being and defined who I am -until very recently. These labels have caused a self-fulfilling prophecy that has resulted in cripplingly low-self esteem and confidence, a binge eating disorder and more sadness than I could ever describe.
At the age of ten, I was able to tell anyone the calorific values of most foods (thanks to my Grandma giving me a calorie guide and telling me to stick to under a thousand a day. Oh and she also told me that no one would ever marry me if I didn’t lose weight?!) and I frequently used to starve myself for days on end. Aged 10. It’s no wonder that I fell naively into a starve-binge cycle with the bingeing ultimately winning.
Now in my forties, I am able to see and believe beyond those labels.
I used to wear cardigans over summer dresses in the scorching heat, and for years I would not wear anything that didn’t have at least a t-shirt sleeve. Colours worn were muted and dull and I would have the brownest little feet that would contrast with my milk coloured legs that under no circumstances were ever allowed to see the light of day.
Well over thirty years of my life has been defined by the number on bathroom scales and the numbers that are printed on the labels of my clothes.
Enough.
I refuse to spend any more of this precious life being uncomfortable and feeling horrendous.
I am no stranger to personal therapy, indeed I think you will find that I am one of the loudest cheerleaders that will always advocate for the wonderfulness of all it can achieve. Of course, the issue of my weight has been a prevalent subject that I have consistently worked on and of late small changes and realisations are magically changing my negative outlook and perspective.
My therapist asked me why I wear cardigans in the height of summer.
‘Well look-look at my arms!’ I said in a disgusted tone-squeezing my flesh together and wobbling it.
Her reply was: ‘Yes they are arms-they are just arms.’
Her nonchalance literally disarmed my self repulsion.
I am ashamed to say that I used to validate my own self worth and body image by comparing my self to women who were bigger than me. In my twisted mind, as least I wasn’t as big as them. How dreadful. No I wasn’t as big as them, but they weren’t going around in a full length black cardigan in the height of summer. In fact these women, that I dared to look down on, exuded a self confidence and a sense of fashion that I was light years away from.
To all the women that I ever did that to (even though you don’t know I did) I am sorry.
The following things that I now do (or don’t do) are having the biggest and most positive impact on my self image:
I don’t weigh myself-it wouldn’t matter what the numbers were-I would always step off the scales feeling awful and a failure. That action serves me absolutely no good at all.
I buy the clothes that I feel fabulous in-regardless of the size of the label. Likewise, if I try something on that makes me feel bleurgh-out it goes. For the first time ever-every time I go to my wardrobe, I can only pull out things that I am loving. No-I am not made of money and so charity shops and online market places allow my wardrobe to be ever changing and fluid.
I have stopped obsessing over food, worrying about what I am eating and judging what other people are eating. Having done every ‘diet’ or health plan under the sun, including starving myself, I am sick and tired of thinking about food and knowing the calories and points of things-it’s been decades of this taking up my brain power.
I have realised that as much I have been hating myself and my body shape, this is virtually the same for every other woman that I know. I know women of all shapes and sizes, of various ages and degrees of fitness and I am yet to find one woman without a single body issue and with 100% body confidence. It has never been just me. I have never been alone in this torment.
My size and shape is what it is. I exercise, walk and stretch frequently and my mental demons surrounding food and body-image are finally getting bored. Good job-they can bugger off for good with those awful black cardigans and that stupid book that my batty old Grandma gave me!
‘Top Gun-Maverick’ finally flew onto our screens after a two-year pandemic delay and fans with a need for speed wasted no time in taking off in their droves to see how Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell had fared over the past thirty-six years.
Yes that’s right, thirty-six years!
The anticipation for this sequel and our united global adoration of Maverick and his original wingmen saw the film fly past all previous opening weekend records, and to date has taken over a supersonic one billion dollars.
As I walked in and out of the cinema, I observed the demographic of the audience. Fellow film goers were made up of couples and groups of friends aged mostly forty to sixty, with a smattering of teenagers and early twenty somethings that had been dragged out by mum and dad.
True fans of the original will not be disappointed, with its wealth of nods and links back to Miramar in the eighties. The famous lines and references come thick and fast from the start and will have you smiling fondly and feeling heart-achingly nostalgic until the very end.
Let’s not forget another key element of this film (and my other half’s favourite scenes) ‘the flying bits,’. The thrilling daredevil dogfights are ever present, but have come a long away with the help of CGI, new and contemporary real fighter planes and skilled stunt men. There are some visually stunning aerial shots that will just take your breath away and these are of course enhanced and sharpened by the big screen and surround sound experience.
Harold Faltermeyer’s iconic soundtrack is forever present ensuring that we never forget the past as we are reacquainted with a few of our favourites while being introduced to some new crew members.
This film is cheesy and cliched and contains all of the magic of the original, but with one short cheeky wink to Cruise’s other title role-Ethan Hunt. Things do go a bit ‘Mission:Impossible’ for a while but it works well and Maverick gets us back safe and sound with only a few signature fly pasts and if you’re a softie like me-a few tears too.
If you do nothing else this summer you must read Caitlin Moran’s latest book – More than a woman.
Not only will she have you chuckling out loud and mentally building a list of your friends that you are going to be strongly advising read it, but you will have a new appreciation for all that you do, have done and are capable of doing. Us, women, the weaker sex, the fairer sex, the lesser sex – no hold that right there, us, woman that are holding down every single thing that helps the world spin on its axis and underpin all that makes it stable and pleasant for everyone, not just us, to live in. We are fricking awesome and Ms Moran will point this out to you like you’ve never heard it before, and yes, you will do a bit of wee such is the mirth.
Seriously, read it. And then you and I can sign up to The Women’s Union (once you’ve read it you’ll get it).
Because I am married to a good and amusing man who is also an early riser, Pete is downstairs, getting the kids ready.
The kitchen is very bright. Very bright. This is because I have a hangover, which I haven’t mentioned so far, as it’s entirely my fault, and I am being brave and noble. ‘How was last night?’ Pete asks, cheerfully, putting cereal on the table for the kids. Because they are now nine and seven, we don’t need to put plastic sheeting on the floor any more. That’s one job off The List! ‘Oh, very good. We got a lot of important work done,’ I say, discreetly palming two Berocca tablets into a glass, and filling it with water. The ‘important work’ was me and three siblings sitting on my patio until 4am, discussing the impending divorce of our parents. Things are escalatingly grim between them, and it can only end one way. This conversation was deemed to be ‘gin work’. For reasons I can’t quite remember now, it involved, around 11pm, me standing on a chair and crying as I sang ‘Everything’s Alright’ from Jesus Christ Superstar: However much I tried, no one else would join in with me. “Yeah – I saw you ‘working’ on Twitter”, Pete says. I don’t remember posting anything on Twitter. I look on my phone, and scroll down my timeline. Oh. That’s interesting. At midnight, I appear to have posted a picture of my bare feet, with a Jacob’s Cream Cracker wedged between each toe.
More than a Woman – Caitlin Moran
As AION readers you’ll know we are fans of Caitlin Moran, if you want to know more read our previous post She’s Brilliant & British.
I also read the absolutely brilliant ‘Lessons in Chemistry’ which is not about chemistry. It’s a novel and a very, very fine one at that.
Smart, funny, joyous and powerful, Garmus’ 60s set debut featuring an unconventional female scientist with a quiet game-plan to change the world has won the hearts and minds of our booksellers and is undoubtedly one of 2022’s most gloriously enjoyable debuts.
Watersons
Elizabeth Zott is the main character and you will love her. This is a sun lounger read if ever there was one. You’ll power through it and miss it when it’s gone. Elizabeth is everything you need in your heroine, strong, clever, funny and a progressive badass for her time. Go the strong women’s club!
‘A concept as unconventional as Zott herself, each page is bursting with wit, optimism and female empowerment. I’ve not enjoyed a book so much in ages: it’s witty, sharp and full of life, with the very best canine character. An interesting insight into how far women have come, and how much is still left to do.’
Grazia
Lauren and I both decided that we needed to talk about women and our issues. I was lucky enough to be sharing the jolly stuff I’ve discovered recently, whereas Lauren is going to seamlessly slide us in to the fury inducing issue that is Roe vs Wade.
Dame Deborah James passed away last week. She was someone who I had never heard of before a few months ago but she soon become my social media obsession as I checked in daily to see how she was, see what venture she was promoting for her charity and to just feel a little bit more in awe of her each time I saw her smiling face gracing my phone screen. She exuded fun and a zest for life but was sadly dealt the harshest card as she battled terminal cancer of the bowel. Deborah James was an extraordinary woman, she campaigned tirelessly and showed incredible dignity and bravery right to the end at just 40 years old.
Deborah reminded me of a former colleague of mine, who sadly died of breast cancer a few years ago. Like Deborah, she equally navigated her terminal diagnosis with a steely determination, admired by all who met her. She once told me that she hated being referred to as ‘brave.’ She said that she had no choice but to live with this devastating disease, that she didn’t feel brave or fearless, and she in fact felt cheated and terrified. She said that the bravery came from her family and friends, her oncologist and the nurses who kept her going and pushing forward. She said that she never wanted to be referred to as ‘losing her battle with cancer’ as it was an unfair fight in the first place!
I first saw Deborah James on the television show Lorraine, where she was launching the #Nobutts bowel cancer awareness campaign. Deborah joined in the discussion live from her hospital ward as she received treatment. Dressed beautifully, she beamed with excitement as she encouraged us all to get behind her fundraising charity Bowelbabe to raise money to fund lifesaving cancer research.
From dressing up as giant poo on national television to being filmed in a sparkly cocktail dress miming to power ballads during her chemotherapy treatment, Deborah James normalised illness and made everyone stand up and pay attention, including the royal family as Prince William visited Deborah at her parent’s house to award her with her well-deserved Damehood. As the donations came flooding in, Deborah increased her fundraising endeavours by creating a clothing line for InStyle to branding toilet roll packaging with advice on how to check your poo and writing two books on her experiences. Deborah James went above and beyond to ensure that other cancer patients would have a better chance of survival than she had.
Born on 1st October 1981 in London to parents Heather and Alistair, Deborah studied economics at the University of Exeter. She was a Deputy Headteacher at Salesian School in Chertsey before moving to the Matthew Arnold School in Staines-upon-Thames. Deborah married investment banker Sebastien Bowen in 2008 and they had two children, Hugo and Eloise. They separated in 2014 but reunited in 2016 after attending counselling sessions during their divorce. A month later Deborah received her cancer diagnosis.
In 2017, Deborah began working as a journalist and columnist for The Sun newspaper and chronicling her cancer journey. In March 2018, she joined the BBC podcast You, Me and the Big C alongside fellow cancer patients Lauren Mahon and Rachael Bland. Sadly, Rachael died in September 2018. Deborah James not only normalised talking about poo and cancer but as she faced the end of life, she did it with earnest honesty and fearlessness.
“Find a life worth enjoying; take risks; love deeply; have no regrets; and always, always have rebellious hope. And finally, check your poo – it could just save your life.”
Deborah James
Death is a taboo subject. We have all faced the end with someone, visited a hospice, watched a loved one deteriorate before our eyes, but we as humans find it difficult to talk about ‘the end’. We avoid those conversations and often celebrate our dearly departed and their lives after they have gone. How many of us have regretted not telling someone how much they meant to us until after it was too late?
Deborah James faced her mortality with a smile, ticking off experiences from her bucket list, crammed her days with doing the things she loved to do – going to the races, the opera, and the Chelsea flower show. She spent her last precious days surrounded by her beloved family at her parents’ home in Surrey.
Deborah James raised a staggering £7million and if you would like to donate to this incredible cause, please head over to the Bowelbabe Fund.
As an early birthday present, I managed to buy my daughter a ticket to Capital Radio’s Summertime Ball. My friend and I, and our girls, were surprised and more than a little smug (I don’t mind admitting), that I somehow secured us tickets for The Golden Circle. The very Golden Circle that winners on Capital were trying to win tickets for.
I was forced to cast my mind back to when I went with my friend and her Mum to Smash Hits Poll Winners Party back in the day. We piled into the Hammersmith Apollo to see Bros who were asking “when will I will I be famous?” I don’t know Matt and Luke (and Craig if you have to add him) I can’t answer that, but I doubt you’ll have to wait long!
My excitement was sufficiently high because who doesn’t want to see Ed Sheeran and Harry Styles? The day was filled with artists, back to back entertainment , albeit most I hadn’t heard of and was therefore thankful for the screens and the ten metre high letters revealing their names – yes Arrdee I’m talking about you!
We arrived with plenty of time to spare, oh but no no you haven’t. In the Golden Circle you pick your centimetre square and you stay on it, all day long! We treated ourselves to the occasional knee bend every few hours – such was the crowd we actually couldn’t move. The kids loved it. I loved that the kids loved it. It was kind of like a beach holiday when you have to stop fighting the sand and just come to terms with it, it is what it is and Harry Styles was coming on.
I remember at Smash Hits when I couldn’t believe that my friend’s mum Marion wasn’t screaming to Bros or singing along with Peter Andre or in fact remotely impressed that Curiosity Killed The Cat had won sexiest newcomers – was she a machine?!
“We had a lovely time didn’t we girls?” she said on the way home.
We croaked a sound implying yes we had because we had cried and screamed ourselves mute. Marion smiled a genuine smile both that it was over and that we’d had the time of our very young lives.
Marion I salute you. I get it now.
Taking my child to a gig of that magnitude, being there as she enjoyed singing along with KSI and Anne-Marie was a privilege, akin to introducing her to the film Annie or Bugsy Malone when she was a small girl. It was such a joy to be part of that memory that will never leave her, that every time she hears George Ezra and his green green grass she will be back at Wembley Stadium and her inner mix tape (previous AION post) will relive the moment and I will be there in it with her, smiling and bopping along to an unknown song but smiling like a mumsie-mum. Her mumsie-mum.
P.S.
Harry was great and yes he did sing to just me (absolutely definitely), basically because I was the only face smiling back. Everyone else was behind a phone.
Photo credit – my friend standing next to meJust saying – my actual eyes saw him
According to Google Shopping Trends in 2020, furniture sales were at their highest rate ever. This is hardly surprising as we were all indoors day after day staring at the grubby chair we’ve been meaning to replace for years. Or, we were spending far too long scrolling through our socials thinking, “yes I could do that, and I absolutely need faux furs draped over my chairs and yes I’ll make a macrami pot hanger, I’ve got the time.”
Spring and summer 2020 saw us all clambering for new garden furniture to the point there was none left to buy. “Yes I’ll have it on six months back order and get it just as I need to wrap it in a tarpaulin for next year. After all, England has turned into a rather warm place and I may never get to leave the country again, ever!”
So, here we are in summer 2022, and when we should all be as happy and as carefree as Exmoor ponies now that all restrictions are a distant memory, we are in fact wondering if it’s feasible to go to Tesco’s on a bicycle and do a big shop.
The cost of living is crippling us all, and fuel is the crux of it all. Fuel. The least glamorous purchase you can ever make but it’s so vital. Now I’m wondering if I really need to drive to X or Y when I still have roller skates in the loft somewhere, or a bike in the garage or even, “no I’ll go without”.
“It’s sunny,” said he, “shall we go to the sea?”
“No, the petrol will be £50 to get there and back.”
“FFS I’d like to go to the sea, but I’d also like some dinner later in the month. Let’s sit outside on our new garden furniture and dream of the sea.”
However, as I sat on my lounger in the lovely warm sunshine, I wasn’t dreaming of the sea, I was thinking that perhaps I could tart up the lounge instead. I Googled some ideas. I Googled some prices of the new things I’d enjoy owning. I left the items in my online basket and turned the phone off, I abandoned my cart and no amount of emails to remind me I hadn’t checked out my items was going to get me to check out my items!
Then it occurred to me. When I was a teenager and needed a new room makeover (the days before Pinterest and everyone having an interest in interior design), I just moved stuff about. I’d spend a whole day re-arranging my bedroom furniture, even sometimes putting my bed in the centre of the room because I didn’t need to adhere to my parents common sense standards. I was a maverick. Obviously, I soon moved it all back as I couldn’t swing a sock in my room with my bed in the middle of it, but for a short time it refreshed me to have a new layout that I couldn’t navigate with my eyes shut. I would absolutely stub my toe.
So with a quick switch-a-roo (not quick as sofas are heavy and have dead bugs and rogue crisps packets under them which require hoovers and effort) I moved our lounge around. It’s almost a new room. I have borrowed cushions and throws from our bedroom, yes he’s very disappointed that he doesn’t have to ‘unpack the bed’ each night before he gets in, for our cushions that were vital in our refreshed 2020 bedroom now adorn the sofa.
I have reappointed a bedside lamp to a coffee table and with a new shade, which I will purchase soon, the look will have Kirsty Allsopp and Lawrence Llywelyn-Bowen patting themselves on the back because I clearly have been listening to the Changing Rooms style makeovers they have preached for decades. I haven’t so much as painted a wall, just switched the focus of the room, the TV being the only real bind due to its cables etc, but I’ve worked with what I can, and I am happy with the results.
Tip 1 Rearranging a room is easier with less “stuff” in it. Place decorative items, indoor plants, rugs and smaller lamps in boxes, and move them to a different room. Moving your furniture around will be a lot less complicated after the floors and shelves are empty.
Tip 2 Begin with your foundation furniture, which are your investment pieces and the main designs that will take up the most room and set the tone in your space. In a living room, these are usually the sofa, TV stand, and armchairs.
Bonus According to Psychology Today, rearranging a room can elevate your mood, instilling satisfaction, effectiveness, creativity and comfort. It’s also a simple way to clear your mind; just as you’re cleaning the clutter of the room while rearranging your furniture, your mind becomes at ease, grounded and clearer.
AION’s resident book reviewer A Novel Page has read plenty this month, and here’s what she thinks of four of them. Follow ANovelPage on insta.
The No-Show by Beth O’Leary
Long story short: Siobhan, Miranda and Jane are all stood up on Valentine’s Day… by the same man.
Thoughts: I was incredibly lucky to have been invited to the book launch event for #TheNoShow at Quercus’ offices last month. It was such a wholesome event and I was fan-girling so hard; thankfully, this book delivered…and more!
I’m definitely a thriller girl through and through, however, I will always make an exception for Beth O’Leary’s books. They always leave me feeling warm, happy and content. Whilst ’The No Show’ had all the hallmarks of a O’Leary’s books, it had an extra oomph that wasn’t present in her previous ones.
It’s difficult writing this review because I really want to gush about how amazing it is (it really is!), but I’m mindful about revealing any spoilers. I knew very little about the plot prior to reading it and I’m very glad about that. All I want to say is that this is very different: it’s a romantic-comedy… with suspense and mystery.
Honestly, there were points where I was baffled by what was going on. I really thought I knew what was going to happen and when, but I was very wrong! There is such much more going on in this book that you will initially realise. It’s very clever and it outsmarted me!
The characters were, in standard O’Leary form, so very real. You just feel like you know them in real life. I loved Siobhan – she was definitely the most like me! The characterisation was incredible and unique… a bit like the plot. I know this is a super duper vague review, but you’ll thank me later (I promise).
This is a truly ambitious, creative and original novel… and it really works. I was pleasantly surprised at how O’Leary’s talents know no bounds. This is my favourite so far!
It’s pretty obvious that this is a must read… the only question is: how soon will you read it? Meanwhile, I cannot wait for the next book!!
N.B.: I was kindly gifted this book in exchange for an honest review.
A Novel page rates this book 9/10
Midnight Express by Billy Hayes with William Hoffer
Long story short: Billy was arrested carrying four pounds of hash whilst trying to board a plane in Istanbul. He’s sentenced to 30 years, but it’s not long before he’s planning his escape.
Thoughts: This was strongly recommended to me by a friend, and let me tell you… it’s absolutely wild.
I have to start with a disclaimer that this will not be a book that everyone enjoys. It is graphic and, at times, shocking.
Anyway, review time! This is a seriously compelling memoir. Billy comes across as very genuine and honest. You can’t help but shake your head at his initial stupidity, but then you also can’t help root for him and his escape.
I couldn’t even begin to imagine myself in his position and at that age! There’s no way that I would have had the same outcome as him. Going to prison is bad enough, let alone in a country where you don’t speak the language! Unsurprisingly, I couldn’t put the book down. It was obvious that he successfully escapes but I needed to know HOW.
The curiousity just kept me turning the pages. I marvelled at the ingenuity of the prisoners for making do in such shambolic and inhumane conditions. This is why I’m so thankful for Billy’s brutal honesty. He even expresses disdain for some of the things he had to do; this really helped to humanise him and create that connection with the reader.
It’s not the best piece of literature that I’ve read. The writing style is a little jaded and inconsistent, but that’s ok as this is an individual with a story to tell. There’s no doubt that Billy not only tells his story effortlessly, but it also promises to stay with you. I do wish that there were further updates on the lives of Billy and his fellow inmates… but I guess that’s what google is for though?
I’ve heard that this is a film which I will definitely be watching at some point. I’ll be interested to see how closely it resembles the novel – apparently it does but there are a couple of major changes.
So I will say that I cannot recommend this enough. It’s a dangerously addictive read and one that will stay with you for a while!
N.B.: I was kindly gifted this book in exchange for an honest review.
Fix the System by Laura Bates
Long story short: Laura Bates explores the systemic sexism present in five key societal institutions: education, politics, media, policing and criminal justice.
Thoughts: Thank you so much @tandemcollectiveuk for sending me a copy of this and having me on the read-a-long!
I don’t think I even need to write this disclaimer, but this book will make you SO angry! It can get quite depressing when you realise how entrenched misogyny, sexism and abuse are in society today.
This is a thoroughly researched and excellently written book. I love the way in which Bates interwove facts with the experiences of individuals. I hadn’t heard of The Everyday Sexism Project until now, but it’s brilliantly devastating.
I genuinely think that this needs to be kept and taught in all schools/institutions of authority – why isn’t this compulsory reading? It’s engaging and very was easy to read.
Laura Bates comes across as an incredibly personable and formidable individual. The fact that the conversation doesn’t just stop at white women is hugely commendable. Bates uses her platform to recognise the privilege that she has and how society (and the justice system) rarely pay attention to violence again non-white females. This intersectionality is largely ignored in the widestream media so this was really needed.
Of course, this analysis isn’t just limited to women. There is a lot of discussion as to how men are also suffering harm from The System. Not only does Bates describe the problems, but she also offers solutions! It left a sense of optimism and hope in my mind – something I really needed after some of the chapters!
Ultimately, this is an extremely empowering book and one that I urge everyone to pick up and read!
N.B.: I was kindly gifted this book in exchange for an honest review.
Tender is the Flesh by Agustina Bazterrica
Long story short: Marcos is a worker at a ’Special Meat’ factory. One day, he’s given a forbidden gift: a female specimen…
Thoughts: No joke, this was actually the most messed up book I have ever read. Hands down. I genuinely couldn’t not give it a 9 because no other book has ever made me feel this creeped out.
So I weirdly picked this for a holiday read because I genuinely thought that the ‘creepiness’ was overrated and overhyped. Oh, how I was wrong…Sorry Joe for the amount of times I said how f’d this novel was (which was after every page).
It’s graphic. The writing style is very cold, detatched and blunt, but this only added to the shock I experienced whilst reading this. It’s wrtten in the third person so, again, it’s disengaged. It’s only a short novel so you’re not too traumatised(ish).
It is weirdly addictive – I couldn’t stop reading it because I was fasinated. The ending? Absolutely wild. Wow.
It is worth noting that this is a translated piece of work. It’s not perfect, but it’s doesn’t detract from how powerful the novel actually is. Similarly, there are some parts which are left very vauge. There were a lot of quetions that I had at the close of the novel and it did get frustrating at times not knowing the WHY. But perhaps this was meant to mirror the confusion of the citizens?
You might not think it, but this is a very thought-provoking novel. I’m not a vegetarian or vegan, I am a meat-eater and it’s something that I’ve always said wouldn’t change. However, this novel really made me think about the meat industry and consumption. It is incredibly detailed (and graphic) but it serves its purpose.
The analysis of language was incredible. It made you think about ‘pork’ v pig, ‘beef’ v cow. It’s a very compelling and somewhat believable plot line.
Can I say that I loved this book, or is that weird? Whatever Bazterrica set out to achieve, she bloody well did. It’s not for everyone, but if you can stomach it, then I would highly recommend it.
After two years of disruption to their schooling and socialisation, fifteen to eighteen years olds have stepped into exam halls and risen up to the challenge with such courage and stoicism that we should salute them.
Speak to most people of a certain age and you will hear often exclamations that amount to their beliefs that exams are easier nowadays, that students are spoon fed and that they get everything they want, when they want, so what’s the fuss about?
Respectfully, I beg to differ.
I have seen resilience in abundance, floods of tears swallowed and sheer determination standing in the presence of pressure.
To our young people turned up to exams feeling anxious and poorly – well done.
To the students who have a pile of other worries on their shoulders, yet still made it to exams – well done.
To the rebels who consistently arrived without a pen, trying to exert a tiny slither of control over their day – well done.
To the brain boxes whose very reason for existing was to nail those exams – well done.
To the fashionistas and cutting edge guys and gals who only made it in by putting on their interpretations of armour and war paint – well done.
To those who were feeling lost and without a hope, but turned up anyway – well done.
You have all been seen. You have done yourselves, your parents and your teachers so proud.
And you are all going to be just fine.
And to our AION reader parents out there who have cajoled, begged, pleaded, bribed, stressed, nurtured, lost sleep and worried throughout the past few weeks-we think you are AMAZING too. Keep that glass of vino topped up ready for results day!
Back in the early days of the very first lockdown, when Covid was still referred to as Coronavirus, we mostly spent our incarceration thinking about baking banana bread and waiting for the dreaded impromptu press conference. Would Boris make an appearance meaning further restrictions or would it just be Chris ‘next slide’ Witty with his ineptitude over working his own remote for his Powerpoint presentations?
As families struggled with illness and trauma, others with boredom and fears over lack of work, we decided to launch a free magazine to entertain those who were bored of social media and wanted to escape the news. We were on a mission to keep people sane (along with ourselves) and to offer original pieces, written by us, that were non-Covid related and varied in subject. We worked hard to bring something different, articles that you could read in a magazine or in a newspaper but with a personal touch. We all had our own voice and a unique style of writing and the passion to deliver weekly content.
From what started as a bit of fun, began to grow and our audience went international. Our magazine attracted regular writers such as our beauty expert Kelly giving advice on all things skin deep and GoLittleBigGirl who transports us to experience a taste of life in the country, along with our resident book reviewer A Novel Page. We were soon privileged to receive articles from a plethora of guest writers all with their own stories and experiences to entertain our growing fanbase.
As life returned to normal, our magazine moved to a monthly edition. And here we are. Still very much a band of badass literary nerds looking to fill our beloved magazine with articles of interest to hopefully entertain you.
From CeCe:
I can’t tell you how many times I thought I’d run out of article ideas and have considered hanging up my pen (keyboard) plus its not lockdown anymore and I have loads of fun to catch up on, plus work, etc.
“Lauren,” I’ve said, “I think I’m done.”
Then as AION’s luck would have it, I run into someone who says how much they enjoy reading our little magazine, or I hear of something I absolutely have to tell you about, and just like that I’m back on board.
With that in mind, we are experimenting from this month and are going to publish on the first Monday of each month. By publishing on a Friday evening we think you busy bunch of sassy ladies may be otherwise engaged and don’t need an evening of free sofa bound reading anymore.
So to clarify:
AION will be published MONTHLY on the FIRST MONDAY of the month.
From Justine:
I cannot take any credit for the creation of AION as it was Lauren and Cece’s inspired brains and voices that brought the magazine into fruition.
Reading and writing have been my additional oxygen for as long as I can remember. The written word has always offered me a safe space to speak my truths and express my feelings. In conversations I flounder over my words, feel self-conscious and find myself getting my words mixed up and flustered.
I was chuffed to bits when Lauren asked if I could maybe write a book review for one of the first editions of AION and I had just inhaled and fallen in love with ‘The Midnight Library’ by Matt Haig. It was the nudge I needed to brave writing for a wider audience and I loved it. Since then, I have been able submit at least a couple of articles to each edition (save a hiatus to write a Masters dissertation-this was not writing that was as enjoyable!).
Writing for AION, alongside Cece and Lauren has given me the courage to share my views on issues that matter to me and connect with other people that have felt or experienced the same. When I read, I seek things in common with the characters or writers and if there are similarities it makes me feel less like a oddball, or an odd one out. If I can write something that makes someone feel more accepted, or understood, or laugh- that’s the best feeling ever.
“In this disastrous era that we’re in, we all need a bit of free escapism. For me, it’s the writing and hopefully for you it’s the reading! #Team–let’s-get -through-this-shit!”
CeCe
“Margaret Attwood has said that ‘a word after a word after a word is power’, I write to connect, to share and to reach to others and sometimes to make people laugh. That’s my favourite thing to do. That’s powerful.”
Justine
“I think about writing every day. I write to represent people like me, to speak out on interesting subjects with humour and sentiment. I hope that I can encourage others to give writing a go, we all have a voice and a story and our little magazine is a welcome platform for all.”
To help you celebrate and to raise a glass to HRH Queen Elizabeth we thought we’d inspire you with some great British cocktails.
Victoria Sponge Martini
A cake in a cocktail! Gin with strawberry liqueur and hints of raspberry and vanilla make this yummy cocktail. Pour into a martini glass and top with a strawberry.
AION’s resident book reviewer A Novel Page has read plenty this month, and here’s what she thinks of four of them. Follow ANovelPage on insta.
Dog Days by Ericka Waller
Long story short: George, Dan and Lizzie are all struggling in one way or another. With the help of their dogs, they’re able to make some life-changing decisions.
So this was a @readr_books pick of the month from a while back, but I’ve only just had the opportunity to post this review!
I am very pleasantly surprised by how much I enjoyed this novel. It’s not the most intellectually stimulating read, but who cares? It was very entertaining and absorbing!
This was my first book after reading ‘A Little Life’ and I thought this would be the cheery/happy novel I needed! It was humorous, but it also had a darker side.
There are some very strong and emotional themes, so be prepared! Some of the themes include depression, homophobia, sexuality and domestic abuse. It’s a very surface-level exploration, but it was perfect for the novel.
The whole novel, especially George, reminded me ‘A Man Called Ove’ – just a little bit more light-hearted and a British version!
I really liked how each chapter was headed by which character it was about and a little preview of events from the chapter. It isn’t a fast-paced novel, but I don’t think it would have worked any other way.
The prose is written in the third person. It’s very simple and easy to read – I’m pretty sure I read this entire book in a single sitting! It was very different, but it worked so well! It really kept me on my toes as there were some surprise twists which I didn’t expect!
I absolutely loved the illustrated dog pictures after some chapters. It was a very welcome addition!
For a debut novel, it’s brilliant! Definitely one to pick up if you love dogs, Frederik Backman and/or heartwarming novels.
N.B.: I was kindly gifted this book in exchange for an honest review.
A Novel page rates this book 8/10
Take my Hand by Dolen Perkins-Valdez
Long story short: Civil is working at the Montgomery Family Planning Clinic. She’s on a mission to ensure that all women make their own informed choices, but not everyone agrees…
This is an absolutely incredible novel. I’m a sucker for historical fiction, especially if it centres around race relations in the US. My dissertation analysed the centralisation of reproduction to the lives of enslaved women in antebellum America.
Despite studying this extensively, I cannot believe that I didn’t know about the Tuskegee Syphilis Study. This novel has definitely spurred me to research further into this and others! Honestly, I’m so shocked and angry.
But you don’t care about that – you want to know about the book… I’m not exaggerating when I say that this was such an easy read. The prose is eloquent, lyrical and addictive. The fact that this novel is so unputdownable is a real testament to the writing as the subject matter is tough and heavy. I couldn’t stop reading and it took me less than 2 hours to get through it!
Unsurprisingly, the topics covered (abortion, rape, forced sterilisation, racism, etc) may prove to be a bit much for some people. Nevertheless, Perkins-Valdez does a stellar job in tackling these issues head-on with extreme sensitivity and research. I’m not giving away any spoilers when I say that it is an emotional and sad journey.
Although I wish that the characters were a little more fleshed out, I do understand why they weren’t the main focus. The characters were mainly plot vehicles and could have been one of the millions of black American girls subjugated to this horrifying regime.
I think that the ending was rather rushed. I would have liked an overview of what had happened between 1973 and 2016, or even a follow up at the end. Basically, I wish the book was longer… I say this for every good review I write though!
This is a hard hitting, educational and uncomfortable – it’s not one to miss, especially with the current situation in the US surrounding Roe v Wade.
N.B.: I was kindly gifted this book in exchange for an honest review.
A Slow Fire Burning by Paula Hawkins
Long story short: A young man is found stabbed to death on a boat, and it sets off a chain of events that will change a lot of lives. Who did it and why?
Thank you so much to @blueberry_pancakes7 for gifting this to me on my birthday!
Girl on The Train has to be a classic psychological thriller. Therefore, expectations were high for Hawkin’s third book!
Let’s start at the beginning…
The thing that stopped this book from being a 9/10 was the pacing. It felt a little too slow at points. I do think that the second half is a lot stronger than the first. I understand that it was “setting the scene” but it didn’t grab me as much as I wanted it to.
Once the 50% mark hits, the story becomes much more compelling. More in line with my expectations! There were so many red herrings! I had goosebumps at points because I was visibly surprised at the direction of some events. Did I see the ending coming? Nope! Not at all!
Along with the many twists and turns, there were a whole host of characters. Most (if not all) were unreliable narrators, but all of their stories wove together to create an exceptionally thrilling tale.
It is a dark and disturbing novel, but I love that. I think the world needs more of these.
I absolutely loved the book within a book concept – it really added a certain je ne sais quoi to the novel. A.K.A it made it even more creepy.
I can’t believe how late I was to the bandwagon on this book, but I’m glad that I’ve finally read it. Definitely, one to pick up and read this winter.
N.B.: I was kindly gifted this book in exchange for an honest review.
The Dilemma by B A Paris
Long story short: Livia has been waiting her whole life for her 40th birthday party, but she’s got a secret she’s been keeping from her husband… But he is also hiding something from her.
So I thought this was going to be a thriller… it wasn’t, but I still loved it!
I don’t want to say too much about this, but it is intense. I know a lot of people have cried when reading this, so maybe make sure you have some tissues on standby. I didn’t shed a tear (cold-hearted), but the ending was incredibly sobering.
I loved the alternating narratives between the two main characters. Some of it did feel a little bit repetitive, but I guess this mirrored the inner conflicts of both of them. The main characters weren’t the most loveable, but I was definitely 110% invested in what was going to happen. It’s one of those books that you’ll remember for a long time after.
BA Paris’ writing is so addictive. I genuinely didn’t want to put the book down – I just wanted to keep reading.
Some parts of the plot are slightly predictable, but it doesn’t detract from the fact that it’s an incredibly well-written piece of fiction.
Despite not being what I expected, I loved it and would definitely recommend it! Such a quick and easy read.
The Queen has been the Society’s Royal Patron since 1952, visiting the Chelsea Flower Show more than 50 times during her 70-year reign.
Let me first start with what I know about plants.
Ok so that will be a very short article, it’s fair to say I’m no gardener. My husband bought me gardening lessons, at my request, which I failed to turn up to because it clashed with my body pump class. Frankly, I was more interested in cleaning the inside of the fridge than I was in my all year round perennials (I’ve made that up, not sure what a perennial even is but it’s sounds gardenie!) and I had to admit I like the idea of gardening but I’m not at all interested in doing any.
I have been to The Chelsea Flower Show before, but my friend whose neverending 50th birthday I am repeatedly celebrating had never been and had expressed an interest, so club together we did and purchased her and us tickets.
Since Covid, I prefer to travel above ground if at all possible, so we met at Canary Wharf to get the river taxi (Uber Boat as it now is). I had travelled in from the countryside arriving at London Liverpool Street Station whereupon I took the brand new Elizabeth Line. Now that’s something, aside from the long walk through the pristine tunnels and up escalators, over a stile and under a bridge (ok but it was far), the brand new Lizzie Line was just a quick two fresh minutes from Livers to Canary Wharf. Sensational and highly recommended.
The show was crowded. Too crowded we discovered having arrived at exactly peak time. I couldn’t even take a full stride for fear of standing on the floaty-skirted-white-trainer wearing woman in front (unspoken Chelsea uniform it seemed, including myself), and I was starting to think it might be once round and head home mission failed kind of day. Fortunately, the crowd did disperse somewhat as we mooched our way around. I stole quick glimpses of the show gardens that are situated around the edge, but again it was like being at a concert near the stage.
However, on a plus, there’s loads more to see, and by loads I mean loads. There were so many beautiful creations, even to my very untrained eye I could see the amount of work and expense that had gone into their creation. From vegetables to bonsai trees, to orchids like M&S can’t even make in plastic, to alliums and lupins and roses that if you didn’t see with your eyes you would never believe. There was an army of fuzzy bumblebees doing the rounds and you could tell by their buzzing they knew they were onto a jackpot day. It was wholesome and very enjoyable.
Food & drink – You’re going to starve. The end. No seriously, there’s not a square centimetre to sit down. A few dining areas that have a ratio of 1000 people to 1 seat. Funnily enough, every single one was occupied, but don’t worry because when you buy a small plastic cup of Pimms for £9.50 you can faint and take a rest then!
Some people had bought picnics but again, there are only a few places to sit so do expect to see elderly ladies perched on anything they can sit on and those that are able to will sit in the grass.
A real show visitor 100% effort made
The toilet situation is fine, in fact good. There’s plenty around with a helpful attendant cleaning and being useful. Your much-underused bladder will be fine, £3 for a small plastic bottle of water (with refill stations dotted about, sometimes with a floaty skirted lady with her head in it but there you go, needs must).
I sound like I didn’t enjoy it. I did and I accrued 20000 steps for my troubles, oh yes don’t go if you are a wheelchair user, the ground is level but your chances of seeing anything amid the throng of people is pretty close to zero.
As we put up our Union Jack bunting and assemble the wallpaper paste tables in our street this week, I would like to give you an insight into our reigning Monarch as we celebrate her 70 years on the throne.
Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor was born at 17 Bruton Street in Mayfair on the 21st April 1926 to her parents the Duke and Duchess of York – who later would become King George VI and Queen Elizabeth (Queen Mother). The newly born Princess was never expected to reach the throne but when her uncle, King Edward VIII, abdicated in 1936, her father was crowned King and she became next in line to the throne.
“I declare before you all that my whole life, whether it be long or short, shall be devoted to your service and the service of our great imperial family to which we all belong.”
In 1930, Princess Margaret Rose was born and the family of four moved to the Royal Lodge in Windsor. As the Second World War broke out in 1939, it was suggested that the Queen and her daughters should evacuate to either North America or Canada for their safety. The Queen’s response was: “The children won’t go without me. I won’t leave the King. And the King will never leave.”
In September 1940, a bomb fell within the grounds of Buckingham Palace but didn’t explode. The King and Queen were in residence at the palace at the time and described hearing a rumble and a crash whilst drinking their tea. The family then moved to the safety of Windsor Castle for the remainder of the war.
Both princesses were educated at home. However, Elizabeth’s education was more advanced than Margaret’s, in preparation for her future role, she was even taught religious studies by the Archbishop of Canterbury! Elizabeth learned to speak French fluently, studied history and law, art, and music and in her down time she learned to ride horses and become a strong swimmer.
Princess Elizabeth met Prince Philip at a family wedding and they were married in 1947 at Westminster Abbey. It was considered a modest affair for a royal wedding, as the country recovered from war with rationing still in place. It was reported that Elizabeth used clothing vouchers to purchase her wedding dress. However, it was estimated that it took 350 women seven weeks to make her dress and that the government granted the bride 200 extra clothing vouchers to cover the cost. As newlyweds, the couple first lived in Malta where Prince Philip was an officer in the Mediterranean Fleet.
“My husband has quite simply been my strength and stay all these years, and I owe him a debt greater than he would ever claim.”
In 1952, King George VI was in poor health and asked Elizabeth and Philip to take over his duties on a Commonwealth tour. On the 6th February 1952, whilst staying in Kenya, Elizabeth received the news that her father had died and that she was now duty bound to take over the throne and she was to be known as Queen Elizabeth II.
During her 70-year reign, the Queen has been served by 14 UK Prime Ministers including Winston Churchill, on his second term as Prime Minister. Each year she hosts an average of 50,000 people at functions held within Buckingham Palace. However, it’s not all banquets and parties. Anyone who has watched the Netflix drama The Crown will have seen the Queen open her red box of official papers each morning which she has to read, approve and sign.
Her Majesty is responsible for signing off on any proposed bill for Parliament with a ‘royal assent’ before it becomes legal. Each evening she receives a report of the day’s parliamentary proceedings to read through and every Wednesday at 6.30pm she will meet with the Prime Minister for a private discussion.
The Queen and Prince Philip were married for a staggering 73 years. He sadly passed away last year at the ripe old age of 99. Together they have four children, eight grandchildren and currently twelve great-grandchildren.
“Like all the best families, we have our share of eccentricities, of impetuous and wayward youngsters and of family disagreements.”
Queenie gulped a mouthful of the syrupy concoction of Malibu and Diet Coke, served in a half pint glass still warm from the dishwasher, happy that she had her feet rooted in her favourite spot directly in front of Dave the bassist. The frayed carpet was crunchy beneath her feet from a decade of spilt drinks, but this was where she was happiest, this is where she longed to stand every Saturday night to wash away the tribulations of the past week.
Queenie’s mantra in life was to make the best of any situation and she didn’t see the point in complaining. Queenie had been a permanent fixture behind the counter of the Easysave convenience store for 11 years now. She would leave her house at 7am each day and wander through the estate just as it was waking up, weaving her way through the debris strewn in the playground at the entrance to the flats, she would pass the closed shutters shielding the Launderette and then the Bookies, past the chip shop with the smell of stale fat still hanging in the air before she reached her place of work. Queenie would hang her handbag on the coat hook in the small office behind the till, put on her pink tabard, which was hanging on the back of the door, and arrange her Quizword books beside one of the two tills in front of the cigarettes and the small selection of medicines.
Queenie was married to Derek and had been content in wedlock for 23 years. After struggling to have children to no success, Derek had adopted two retired Greyhounds, Dolly and Fargo, when he discovered that after years of racing, they were due to be put out to pasture prematurely. Derek was now Chairman of the Dolly And Fargo Trust, for retired greyhounds. Queenie had tried to persuade him to change the name from DAFT but he was insistent that his beloved dogs were the founders of the cause and should be in the title. Derek could be found most Sunday morning’s manning a stall at a local boot fair, selling bric-a-brac he had bought from the charity shop, along with DAFT T-shirts and bookmarks to help raise money so that he could rehome other racing dogs headed for the vet’s table. It was the cause of many an argument between Derek and Queenie that she was not willing to share their home with any more dogs.
Queenie worked five days a week at Easysave and had Sundays and Mondays off. She would work until after the school run and head home to prepare Derek’s dinner at 5pm. Derek was a self-employed plumber and worked whenever he could, but not on Sundays. This was the one day that Queenie and Derek would spend together and the only time that Queenie would accompany Derek on a dog walk with Dolly and Fargo before they headed home and Queenie would make the Sunday roast and Derek would clean out his van. They had their routines and were content with their roles. Derek was happy to watch Queenie’s costume dramas and she would feign interest in the True Crime documentaries that fascinated him. Queenie wanted to escape into the corseted clothing and sweeping backdrops of Poldark whereas Derek wanted to talk at length to Queenie about how a husband was convicted of his girlfriend’s murder after the police found a drop of blood on a discarded cufflink under the sofa.
Queenie was happy to live her life within their routine, to be supportive to Derek and his dogs and be content with her sometimes monotonous job at Easysave. Queenie could put up with most anything in her life as long as she could have her Saturday nights at The Crown.
Steel Longing had been playing together as a band on and off for 20 years. Formed by Dave Burke on bass and backing vocals, other members were Stu on lead vocals and guitar, Sam on lead guitar, Jonesy on drums and Sam’s nephew Phillip on keyboard and percussion. Dave had seen some success in the 1970s playing bass on the number one hit Open Road with the band Eleven Inch Drums. After the success of Open Road, the band never charted again and split up after their lead singer moved to Detroit to pursue a solo career. Dave returned to his job at the local steelworks where he had first joined straight out of school and formed a band with Stu and Sam who were also on the factory floor.
Steve ‘Jonesy’ Jones had been friends with Dave since school and would tell anyone who would listen that he ‘turned down the drummer’s job in The Who as he didn’t think they were any good.’ He ended up becoming a Building Surveyor but would drum for the Space Spiders heavy metal band every weekend throughout his 20s and was the only Building Surveyor Dave had ever seen that wore his hair in a bun so that he could have it long for the band. Dave managed to persuade Jonesy to join Steel Longing so they could take up their residency every Saturday at their local pub The Crown.
Dave strummed the opening bars to Rosanna by Toto and looked for her, the lady who was always there, every week, he knew this was her favourite track out of their setlist as he saw the way she beamed when Jonesy drummed the familiar intro. He harmonised the chorus with Stu knowing how frustrated Jonesy was with this soft ballad but pleased that it gave Phillip some time to show off his keyboard skills, which kept Sam happy.
Queenie was memorised by the music. Her friend Margot always complained that they stood too close to the front and that ‘her ears would be ringing all day tomorrow’ but Queenie had to be here, in her usual spot, waiting for Dave to see her. It wasn’t that she fancied Dave, but more that she wanted to earn his respect, for him to see that she was a dedicated follower of their band. Not that she ever spoke to them. As soon as their set was finished and they did their obligatory encore she would leave and every week Margot would try and persuade her to stay and meet them but Queenie couldn’t do that. If she spoke to them, it would ruin it, they were the only mystery in her life. Margot was three times divorced and used their Saturday nights to look for husband No. 4 so was always frustrated that she wouldn’t get the opportunity to flirt with a member of the band, especially Stu.
I am forty-four and that’s OK. I wasn’t OK about turning into this decade but I am fine now that I am in it. When looking back at the different versions of myself that have come and gone I can see positive changes; I am no longer riddled daily with crippling anxiety, I have found my voice and use it, I care less about people’s opinions and more about my own truths and I look after myself with much more care and consideration. Things like these I see as the big and major signs of growth, progress and dare I say it-ageing. But while pondering these big signs, I have recognised some smaller and funnier signposts that have and are indicative of little old me clocking up the miles on this road of life.
Radio station choices as a timeline:
Radio One-Kiss-Heart-Kisstory-Magic-Radio 2. Saturday is my favourite day for Radio 2-Rylan is hilarious in the afternoon! The other day I accidentally landed on Radio 1 and I just…well…it wasn’t for me or pleasant.
I am truly lucky enough to have reached this age and still have my mum and dad. However, since when did some of the rules change? Before they set off on a journey, a holiday road trip, or a drive home from mine I kiss them, hug them, tell them I love them and now say the phrase ‘Give me a couple of rings when you get there,’ and they do too. I wish I knew when this pivotal moment in time happened. It has seemed like a silent, seamless swap of roles. In the last year I have found myself guiding my Mum around Aldi to avoid her bumping into anyone and taking my Dad to minor injuries for a nasty cut that he insisted was ‘just a scratch..’ We need a new guidance or self help book on how to parent parents without them knowing what we are doing. Although my dad would argue that my mum, me and my sister have been micro-managing him for most of our lives.
Staying in is the new going out, for sure. I love a good drinky, a dance, a raucous laugh and socialising with the gang but I love it even more if I can do these things within the walls of one of our homes. I value hearing what each person can say, not being in close proximity to others and knowing exactly where the loo is. While we are on the subject of going out-out if I am paying over a tenner, I would like a bottle of wine and not just a glass and I don’t want to stand in a sweaty, peoply crush at a bar to get one. And another thing, I would rather have a home cooked or made plate of grub or a picky platter than pay for a ponsed up sarnie on a slate with an olive on the side for company. It seems long gone are the days of order what you want and let’s split the bill before heading onto somewhere else. I can’t believe that we used to voluntarily ‘go on somewhere else..’ I get the heebie jeebies if I am not home by 10pm on a school night. However, I can be adaptable if I have had time to prepare for such an event and of course I am more flexible at weekends. It seems the young’uns these days are having their ‘prees’ at the time I am taking my make-up off and applying serum before popping on my audiobook.
True
There are other observations that I have made that are definitely signs of an older, wiser or a maturer mindset: appreciating a quality pair of pjs, taking a just in case wee at any opportunity, learning to fold clothes properly, enjoying hanging the washing on the line and most recently-batch cooking. Someone please instruct me to have a midlife crisis. I am not sure I want to notice any more of these things.
I am going to call my girls and suggest going out until at least 10pm-maybe dinner, drinks AND the new Top Gun-wild!!
Please can someone write a guide book about how we as parents – parent our adult children.
Just like our babies don’t miraculously turn into well adjusted and successful adults at the stroke of midnight on their eighteenth birthday, we don’t miraculously lose our parental instincts, constant worry and need to guide and control.
My daughter is twenty-two this year and is currently spending her fourth year living away from home. In this time, I have seen her (slowly) mature from a naïve eighteen-year-old to a slightly more savvy young adult. This last year has seen her attempt to budget, take on constructive criticism a little more openly and think of me and her Dad as more than just a cashpoint and a taxi (although these remain our primary uses). My point here is not to berate or chastise my young person for learning to make her way in the world, or to moan about having to still parent her. My point is the huge blurry grey area that I face when the beautiful young woman in front of me needs a telling off, being told no, her heart mended, or a frank reality check.
I yearn for the days when I was in my twenties and she was a young child. I had the autonomy and control to decide what was best for her and that was that. She would look at me, listen to me and do exactly what she was told to do and I would sleep at night knowing that her welfare, physical and mental health were my sole responsibility – and a responsibility that was my life’s work.
So, when I was in my thirties and she a tween and then a teen, it maybe wasn’t as clear cut as before, but essentially I still had a handle on her choices and actions. I might have been asked ‘Why do I have to?’ or ‘Why is it up to you?’ but I could answer these questions very easily with a version of ‘…because that’s what is best for you.’
The preceding years to adulthood all come with a guide when it comes to parenting; pre natal, post natal, newborns, toddlers, young children, tweens, and teens. You only have to search Amazon or the local bookshops to find a wealth of help and guidance from experts and celebrities who are eager to make us feel that we are not alone. Have a look for any advice for parenting an adult and there is literally nothing. Why?
We don’t just stop being a parent, and they don’t stop needing us to parent.
These are some of the barriers that I have come up against when parenting an adult:
Example 1- Medical Issues
Me: ‘Have you put in your prescription?’
Her: ‘No, I will do it tomorrow.’
Repeat conversation 10 days in a row with an additional ‘Mum, I will sort it – stop going on.’
Me: ‘What’s the matter?’
Her: ‘I’ve run out of medicine?’
-insert blown up head emojii
Example 2- Money
Her: ‘Yayyyyy it’s payday.’
Me and Dad: ‘Put your bill money away and work out how much you need each week.’
Her: ‘Please, I have just been paid – stop going on – I know OK. I know how to pay my bills I have being doing it for the last three years.’
(Me and Dad look at each other thinking well no, technically you haven’t but….)
Me and Dad: ‘Just be sensible. Don’t be a dickhead – you are in your first proper job and you are not a Housewife of Beverly Hills.’
We get no reply but her Instagram stories show that over the next 8 hours she is in a range of restaurants and bars living a life exactly like she is a Housewife of Beverly Hills.
One week later a photo comes through of a plate of plain pasta and a glass of water
Me: What’s that?’
Her: ‘My dinner.’
Another photo pings through of her crying real tears with a sad face.
Her: ‘I spent all my money and I forgot about the most important bills. Please can you help me?’
-insert red swear mouth emojii
Example 3- is best described by the image below and has caused no end of friction between me and my daughter:
For me one of the hardest things is when I get a Facetime accompanied by sobs, a sad face and a tale of woe about how someone close to her has hurt her feelings. Now my girl is by no means perfect and without a doubt she has made mistakes within her relationships (like we all do), but I struggle so much with how to parent in this situation.
My intuition guides me to tell her to cut them off, ghost them, ignore them and never ever look at them or speak to them again under any circumstances – anything to ensure that they are never able to make her feel like that again. After this sort of incident, I carry her hurt, I can’t stop thinking about her, it stops me sleeping and then….ping…
A picture of my girl with said mean person having a whale of a time.
She now pre-empts my maternal grudges and eternal despise of these ‘friends’ by letting me know the severity of the relationship misdemeanour prior to the tears and woe. She is mostly just venting and having a moan.
Example 4- My needs more than hers.
Ever since she has been going out-out I have asked her to let me know roughly what time she will be home and to message me when she gets in. This has been especially comforting to me when she has been living away from home and I have not been able to hear her fumbling with the keys, banging the door shut, making toast, waking the dogs up and hiccupping herself to sleep.
She was home recently and as she swanned out of the door amidst a cloud of perfume and Rosé, I said:
‘Message me what time you will be home.’
and she replied
‘Oh my God, how long am I going to have to do this for?’
and I replied
‘For as long as I need you to, for as long as I am your mum, because I need to know that you are safe – OK?’
I told my mum I was writing this article and she laughed and laughed and laughed. I asked her why was she laughing and she said that one day I would understand.
I am sure she was implying that maybe I still need parenting too – cheeky woman!
“Dad – come on now! You can’t stay in there forever.”
Looking at the crumpled, shadow of a man behind the steering wheel, made Lisa’s heart hurt. His hands gripped the steering wheel, the calloused skin blending into the worn, rough leather. Lisa kept her eyes focused on the hands that had held her safe, wiped her tears, given her away and supported her like a rock, six months ago, when they had lost the queen of their world, her Mum, Jean. She didn’t need to move her gaze to know that he was crying. The trembling fingertips and the stifled, sniffled breathing were enough to let Lisa know that her dad was broken beyond belief.
Reg and Jean had adored their campervan from the day they got her. A retirement gift to themselves that symbolised freedom, escape and a new sense of living after over forty years in the hamster wheel of work and family life. They went everywhere and anywhere with a renewed zest and sense of adventure. Nowhere was off limits and armed with their Johnny Cash cassettes, tea, milk, cushions and blankets, the UK was their oyster. Their final trip had been to the Dorset coast where they had taken in the prehistoric coastline, the famous Golden Cap, Durdle Door and Portland Bill.
Moving her gaze away from her dad’s hands, Lisa instead scanned the outside of the van. Lovingly called ‘Spot’ in the later years, in celebration of the spattering of rust spots that slowly built up in response to miles and miles of bumpy roads, torrential downpours and wrong turnings, it had held her parents safe inside during their travels.
Jean was still there. Lisa could understand why her dad found solace in sitting in the driver’s seat for hours on end. The inside panels were not papered, or painted, instead they were covered in photos and postcards that painfully documented their happiest times. The Blu-tac that bound them would have her fingerprints embossed on them. The smell of Pears soap and Nivea hand cream melded with the faint whiff of Calor gas and knitting wool – blink twice and Jean could be seen sat at the table plump and happy – keep your eyes shut and you could still hear her throaty laugh and clucking tongue. Lisa’s eyes stung. This was too hard.
Taking a deep breath, a voice bought Lisa back to the present. She looked to the back of the campervan to see an awkward looking man standing in front of a tow truck. He was frowning at his clipboard and his mobile phone while incessantly clicking his biro, trying to work out what to do.
“Look love, shall I come back another time? Only I have got another job on, and I don’t want to upset that fella anymore.”
Spot had remained on the driveway for six months and in that time, she had served as a holy shrine to Jean. Reg had been adamant that he would never take another trip again. Lisa had been equally unwavering in her opinion that it was time for Spot to go. She missed her mum but having the constant reminder of her sat outside was not helping her, or her dad to move on.
Lisa looked at tow truck man apologetically.
“Sorry. I thought he was ready.”
His frown softened as he shrugged his shoulders and jumped into the cab. Reversing back down the street, he mimed to Lisa to call him anytime and with a thumbs up sign and a roar of the accelerator, he was gone.
“Right, Dad. Come on, let’s have a cuppa, it’s cold out here. We can sort Spot out another day. Dad?”
His grip had loosened on the steering wheel and his sobs had subsided. Something fluttered down from his hand and landed at Lisa’s feet. She crouched down and carefully picked it up. Turning the paper over she saw the photo of Reg, Jean and Spot. Reg and Jean were squinting into the sun. Jean beaming with joy and Reg proudly holding onto Jean’s waist. The sun and the heat were bouncing off Spot’s roof and Lisa could see the shimmering heat and light waves, obscuring the background of the photo. It looked other worldly. Like they were melting into heaven.
“Dad?”
Lisa crumpled and sank into her Dad’s still warm body.
Maxine Peake appearing in a film, television drama or play is usually a good indicator that it will be top notch entertainment. Peake is an accomplished actor and picks roles that represent women in all walks of life.
Born in 1974 in Bolton to lorry driver Dad Brian and care worker Mum Glenys, Peake is the youngest of their two daughters, with older sister Lisa choosing a career as a Police Officer. At the age of fifteen, Peake moved in with her Grandad and after completing her A-Levels, studied a two-year performing arts course at the Salford College of Technology.
Following this, Peake struggled to continue her drama studies and was rejected by Manchester Polytechnic Theatre School and the Guildhall School of Music and Drama before receiving a scholarship at the age of twenty-one to attend the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art (RADA) in London.
“At Rada I was told I would never play Juliet if I didn’t lay off the chips. “I went, ‘What would I want to play Juliet for? She’s well boring. I mean, killing yourself at 14 for love? Ridiculous!'”
Her big break came courtesy of Victoria Wood who cast Peake as Twinkle in the BBC sitcom Dinnerladies. Wood mentored Peake and told her, ‘You’re big, you’re blonde – take it from me, you’ll get typecast as the funny northern lass.’ After losing five stone with Weight Watchers, Peake went on to star in the gritty black comedy Shameless playing the no-nonsense next door neighbour Veronica.
Peake is unafraid to take on roles as real-life women and was mesmerising as Moors murderer Myra Hindley in See No Evil and gave a heart-breaking performance of Hillsborough campaigner Anne Williams in ITV drama Anne.
I recently watched the BBC drama Three Girls about the devastating story of the Rochdale grooming scandal, which resulted in the conviction of nine Asian men who sexually abused a group of white teenage girls. Peake gave a stellar performance as Sara Rowbotham, the sexual health worker who consoled the victims and repeatedly barraged the police to investigate the abuse and was repeatedly ignored. Peake described the experience as haunting but empowering.
“We still have an underclass in this country who are constantly ignored and vilified. These were young vulnerable children who were passed over again and again based on their class and place in society.“
Growing up in Bolton, Peake described herself as ‘a rough and ready girl.’ As a teenager, she played rugby for Wigan Ladies and joined the communist party under the guidance of her beloved grandad Jim, who she describes as her political mentor and the reason she pursued a career in acting.
“Look, this is what I’ve got, I don’t particularly like myself, and I don’t hate myself, I just get on with it.”
Passionate in her political views, Peake campaigned for the Labour party in the last General Election. She is also proud to use her celebrity status to help the homeless charity Lifeshare, who are based in Manchester and offer practical assistance to homeless people living on the streets and providing them with the support to secure a better future.
Peake lives in Salford with her long-term partner, art director, Pawlo Wintoniuk, whom she describes as her ‘soulmate.’ You can catch her most recent drama Rules of the Game on the BBC iPlayer, written during the Harvey Weinstein trial at the height of the #Metoo movement, Peake plays the cold and tenacious manager of a family run business in this tense thriller about sexual politics in the workplace.
“I watch ‘Take Me Out’ mainly for Paddy McGuinness. When we were younger, we worked together as lifeguards at the Bolton Leisure Centre.”
It was my friend’s 50th during lockdown so this year, when her birthday rolled around, we decided to push the boat out and go to a fancy restaurant to celebrate like we should have in 2020.
Six by Nico in Canary Wharf
There are other locations with different dining themes but the Docklands branch suited us all. As as side note, I was frothing with rage when I discovered there were no mainline trains and I would have to drive, seriously, have restaurants not been through enough to now make it a nightmare to get to them to spend the money they so desperately need? Rant over… Sadiq Khan = you can expect a strongly worded tweet!
So, back to Six by Nico and the Hollywood themed tasting menu.
There was an option to add snacks, which we did, and to pair wine with each course, which I couldn’t but my friends did. It was a six course meal and they were a bit worried about having six glasses of wine and not passing out in the dessert, but the friendly waitress assured them that it was just a 100ml glass with each dish and that they could handle it. They did!
The menu was in the form of a script with scribbled amendments and set the scene perfectly.
Opening Scene – Snacks
Scores:
Karen 8/10 Caroline: 10/10 Jemma: 8/10 Ce: 9/10
Really fresh and tasty. The broth was cold which was a surprise but it was delicious. It really set the scene and created as much excitement as the Pearl & Dean tune at the cinema.
Scores:
Karen 7/10 Caroline: 10/10 Jemma: 8/10 Ce: 9/10
I didn’t think I’d like this but it was sensational. The biscuit is savoury and the mousse perfectly smooth and packed with flavour.
Scores:
Karen 9/10 Caroline: 9/10 Jemma: 8/10 Ce: 9/10
A favourite course which would have perfect 10s if we had known to smash the cannoli into the broth. The cannoli tasted cheesy.
Scores:
Karen 4/10 Caroline: 10/10 Jemma: 10/10 Ce: 10/10
Stunning except for Karen who didn’t enjoy the texture of the tartar.
Scores:
Karen 6/10 Caroline: 10/10 Jemma: 9/10 Ce: 7/10
Quite smokey and fishy which split the table into two distinct camps.
Scores:
Karen 9/10 Caroline: 9/10 Jemma: 8/10 Ce: 8/10
Tasty and not too rich. The beignet (deep fried pastry) was the worst thing on the plate for me, quite bland but handy to soak up the sauces with.
Scores:
Karen 9/10 Caroline: 10/10 Jemma: 9/10 Ce: 10/10
Who you gonna call? Whoever made that!
It was delicious and after all the food we had eaten, it was astonishing that any of us had room for it. Saying that, I’d make room no matter what. It was amazing and I so rarely eat dessert that it was a real treat.
The tasting menu was filling but not stomach-bursting-got-to-have-a-nap-filling.
…and that’s a wrap!
It was a really fun outing, expensive, but worth it. There wasn’t a single thing I could have made at home which made it a gastro-outing to remember with my very dear friends. This one will go in the memory jar for sure.
It is a common occurrence in our household to endlessly scroll through Virgin, then Netflix and then Amazon Prime only to complain that ‘there isn’t anything on,’ when clearly there is, but we are so saturated with a multitude of options that we are now physically unable to commit to one show.
Recently, streaming giant Netflix announced that they had lost in the region of 200,000 subscribers in the first three months of 2022, prompting their shares to plummet by more than 35% with $50bn wiped off their market value. The reason, in part, is due to growing competition from other streaming platforms such as Apple TV and Disney and the increase in subscriber fees amid the cost-of-living crisis.
Simpler times
As a child of the 1980s, we had three television channels to choose from and a weekly visit to Blockbuster video to rent ‘the latest release’ – if you were lucky enough to arrive before the agony of ‘the turned over VHS cover’ (if you know you know…). On Saturday mornings we camped out on the sofa watching Going Live or Number 73, before heading outside to ‘play out’ with your street mates so that Dad could watch Grandstand and fill out his football pools.
Channel 4 launched in the early 1980s delivering more controversial shows such as Eurotrash, Brookside, and Big Brother. They kicked off the 1990s with their morning show The Big Breakfast. This hugely popular alternative to BBC Breakfast ran for ten years and was abundant with A-list celebrities and often inappropriate behaviour from guest hosts. Who can forget the iconic moment Michael Hutchence intimately cosied up with Paula Yates on the Big Breakfast bed?
The Word was the post-pub must watch. Huge bands such as Nirvana and Oasis performed their debut live performances, whilst Terry Christian, Katie Puckrick and Amanda De Cadenet interviewed a plethora of huge celebs with no holds barred questioning intertwined with games such as ‘The Hopefuls’ where fame hungry audience members would agree to literally ‘do anything to get on TV.’ This included eating lard and wearing dog poo filled sandals – two of the tamest examples I am willing to share with you!
MTV changed my life as a teen. Having put up with a once a week 30-minute episode of Top of the Pops, when a 24-hour music television channel arrived on Sky Television, it was a thing of wonder. Unfortunately, my family did not purchase the required enormous satellite dish to access this new world of international television, but other friends had and so most weekends we gathered at their houses to binge watch videos from Aerosmith, Red Hot Chili Peppers and of course Beavis and Butthead.
Watching four seasons in one day
This current world of constant programming is addictive. When a new series arrives on Netflix, you can watch the whole thing in one sitting. My teenage children can easily sit catatonic as each programme merges into the next, cutting out credits and not providing much of a window to opt out before delivering the next episode within seconds. And you can watch it anywhere, on your mobile, tablet or PC. It is a far cry from my childhood having to sit through Bergerac with my parents as we only had the one television in the lounge.
Despite much criticism, Channel 4 seems set to be privatised. Currently, the channel is a publicly owned network that reinvests the profits from its advertisements into their programming instead of into the pockets of its shareholders. Critics are concerned that the privatisation will affect the channel’s creative freedom. There has also been a lot of buzz about the future of the BBC and whether the television licence is a sustainable way of safeguarding this beloved institution.
Netflix are planning to crack down on ‘freeloaders,’ as it is estimated that more than 100million households watch the service for free by sharing passwords. However, to subscribe to all the streaming networks could cost a household a whopping £2,500 a year so how do we choose which provider is best? It is just not possible to keep increasing our monthly premiums for separate services in the hope that the one you choose will have the best content. Perhaps just four channels with Ceefax were not so bad after all?!
One Friday evening in 2019, I was a little merry with him on the other sofa watching Have I Got News For You, which is our custom, and one of the guest panelists was Gyles Brandreth. I remembered him from being a friend of Mad Lizzie on TV-AM with Anne Diamond and Nick in the 1980’s, and that Gyles was overly fond of a hand-knitted jumper (way, way, WAY before Christmas jumpers were acceptable attire).
Mad Lizzie leotard exerciser
On HIGNFY, Gyles was funny and we giggled along, enjoying his cheeky repertoire. I knew he was funny, he’s always been witty and had great stories to tell so – in a fit of merriness – I discovered that he was on tour. Tickets I did buy.
Covid.
Years later…
The venue was now open, Gyles is still alive and the new date was a goer. Mr booked a self-catering studio that was part of a hotel, as Bury St Edmunds isn’t next door to my house (I think I mentioned we’d been drinking when I booked it!). We decided to leave the youth’s home alone. Here’s a tip, tell them you are going out for lunch. Then at about 7pm call and say “would you mind if we stay out? Oh and Granny said she’s going to pop by as she has xxxx for me.”
I digress… the kids were briefed with strict instructions not to breathe a word of home-alone-ness to man or beast or especially teenagers, and we headed to the venue hoping for the best, The Apex in the centre of the very lovely Bury. The Abbey Gardens are marvellous and the old, winding streets with independent and chain shops are a refreshing mooching ground.
Gyles didn’t disappoint. I hadn’t expected much but I had a most fantastic time. It was like being in a room with a friend that chatters and makes you laugh. It was warmly humorous and very enjoyable. At one point, Gyles mentioned going to The Royal Variety Performance with The Queen and Prince Philip, then looked around and you could just see what he was thinking… Sunday night in The Apex, how?
It was funny, he was so self-deprecating, intelligent and interesting. Story after story with little insights and side-notes. I could have stayed for hours more. I would 100% recommend booking to see him if ever you get the chance (dates are still available). It’s clear why he’s been a TV fav since I can remember and has outlasted so many other chat show celebrities. He’s ‘a character’ as they say. I want to be his friend so I can hear more.
After the show we went to The Giggling Squid which I was really excited about as I’d heard good things and had never been. This did disappoint. Our food wasn’t good, however, to be fair, the manager was very apologetic and tried to rectify it, I think it was a bad day in the Bury branch and not a reflection of The Giggling Squid as a whole. I’ll not bore you with the details but you might want to let a different branch take your Squid virginity!
In the morning, there was a knock on our apartment door and the breakfast tray we had pre-ordered the night before arrived. It was like a miracle as I had totally forgotten about it. The studio was lovely and it was a shame that we had to leave early, but we ate and then rushed home to ensure that our non-party-mum-and-dad-away-house had remained just that. Phew! Thankfully, it was all fine and one of them had even remembered to feed the dog! All round, a winner evening.
AION’s resident book reviewer A Novel Page has read plenty this month, and here’s what she thinks of four of them. Follow ANovelPage on insta.
Verity by Colleen Hoover
Long story short: Lowen accepts a job offer of a lifetime. She’s soon catapulted into the lives of Jeremy and Verity Crawford and all is not what it seems.
Thoughts: This was meant to be a buddy ready with the lovely @ajcampbellauthor and @melanies_reads . Unfortunately, the book was TOO good for me to stop; I read it in one sitting…whoops, sorry!
This is the second Colleen Hoover novel I’ve read, and I really need to start reading more because it was bloody brilliant. The reason I’ve been so late to the CoHo bandwagon is because the books are incredibly hyped. I can safely say that I understand the hype!!
Straight away, the first few sentences drew me in. It’s an unusual start to a novel to say the least! My attention did waver slightly in the first couple of chapters, but once it got into it, I couldn’t put it down… literally.
I genuinely cannot even cope with what the ending was. To say that I didn’t expect it is an understatement. It literally hit me like a truck. It was so brilliant and so clever. It’s not so much the twists and turns, but how I was made to feel whilst reading it. How did CoHo do it?! I need answers because it’s a crime to have that much talent!
The prose is just excellent and I really cannot commend her writing enough. If I had to sum up the characters in two words: morally questionable. It is a rather creepy and dark read. I was second guessing myself with what I thought was happening and why. It’s incredibly atmospheric – there were points where I just didn’t know who or what to believe.
It’s quite fucked up if I’m honest. In that way, there are some sensitive themes. It’s not for everyone, and it is rather graphic in regards to some depictions of violence. Speaking of graphic, there are MANY sex scenes – I really wasn’t expecting it, nor for them to be that detailed.
I know this has been a very vague review, but you’ll thank me for it later.
If you’re not on the CoHo bandwagon yet, then buckle in for the ride of your life. This is a book not to miss! It is a MUST READ!
All you need to know about this book is that Sunny is the most relatable and down-to-earth character ever! I don’t know how much of it is to do with the fact that I am also a British-Pubjabi woman who was raised in Sikh family, but either way, it was brillliant!
If I had a shot for everytime I read a sentence and thought “my mum has literally said the exact same thing”, I would be paralytic about 1 chapter in… The accuracy was wildly shocking! Do Ojla and I have the same mum… or is every Punjabi mum like this? I need to know because it was eerie how accurate it was.
There are a lot of themes covered throughout: body confidence, romance, familial relationships, friendships, race, stereotyping, societal expectations, etc. Despite the seriousness of the themes, the overall tone is very light and funny. I loved the way in which Sunny tackled some of the micro-aggressions she faces (I’ve got a few new clapbacks now too!).
As I’ve already alluded too, the characters are all so vibrant and real. I really loved seeing Sunny’s relationship with her mum develop across the course of the novel – it did make me feel like this emoji 🥺.
The ending was absolutely perfect! I thought it was going to end in a specific way as other similar books have done, but this broke away from usual trend. It was incredibly satisfying and I love how it came full circle. Can we please have a sequel?!
This is a wonderful and witty debut novel which is perfect for anyone who also feels stuck between different societies/worlds/cultures, and those who just want a great read!
N.B.: I was kindly gifted this book in exchange for an honest review.
Other People’s Lives by
Long story short: Sophie’s husband has disappeared… where is he? What happened to him?
Thoughts: Erm so no joke, but this book genuinely confused the living shit out of me… and I LOVED IT!
I could easily write a lot about this book because I have serious thoughts. However, I’m going to try and keep it short. The long and short of it is that you have to read it!
So…review time! It’s an incredibly short book: I must have read it in under 2 hours. Admittedly, this doesn’t include the 15/20 minutes that I spent trying to piece things together in my head after THAT twist…
Controversial opinion: this delivered on what ’The Silent Patient’ failed to do… This is how you do it!
Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t massively sold on the book until about the 75% mark – I was really just riding the wave. Then it all changed… Just trust the process please! After the 15/20 minutes of confusion, I had two choices: put the book down or keep reading. I’m so glad I went for the latter because jheeeeeeeeeez it was insane.
The last time I was tricked by a book in such a huge manner was when I read ’The Twins’ by @lv_matthews_author . It’s rare, but it does happen! I was so annoyed at the fact that I didn’t pick up on the reveal earlier, but there’s no way I could have done! It’s so cleverly written and I definitely will be reading more by this author.
I cannot believe how much of a punch this book packs, especially considering the fact that it’s a short book!
N.B.: I was kindly gifted this book in exchange for an honest review.
What Lies Between Us by John Marrs
Long story short: Maggie and Nina live in the same house, except Maggie isn’t allowed to leave. She’s confined to the attic for wrongs she has committed…
Thoughts: This was Novel & Natter’s January book of the month (excuse the fact that it’s now April lol): it was so dark and so twisted! This is my first John Marrs’ novel, and it will definitely not be my last.
It’s actually such a wild ride!!
The novel is incredibly well-written. I read this in one sitting – I just did not want to put it down at all. Everytime I thought I had it figured out, a new twist/secret was revealed and my theories fell apart. It’s shocking!
It is an exceptionally dark thriller, so make sure you are prepared! I wasn’t actually expecting it to be like this at all, but I loved it that much more for it.
The most interesting part for me how my thoughts on the characters, particularly Nina and Maggie, kept changing with each chapter! You get to hear from both of their perspectives and the distortion of the ’truth’ is what makes this a great novel. You literally don’t know who to trust.
Even the ending was brilliantly executed. I didn’t expect it to end in the way that it did, but it was sensational. You may have to suspend some belief in reality and there were some unanswered questions left… but it is so worth it. The negatives are quite minor!
I think this novel is a real testament to John Marrs’ writing. It’s around 400 pages long and there’s only 2 main characters… how do you keep a reader glued to their seat (and the book)?! It shouldn’t be possible, but he did it.
It’s an incredibly clever and compelling psychological thriller that I cannot, and will not, stop recommending! Make sure you pick this up in 2022 – you will not regret it!
Do you have any John Marrs recommendations? Because I definitely need to read more of his books!
When I was first widowed, the constant thought going round in my head was “I don’t know how to do this”. How was I going to wake up every morning and remember that Chris had died? How was I going to function, work, take care of the children, keep on top of the house, pay the bills, arrange a funeral, attend functions, and appear normal? Why should I do all these things? How had the heartbreak I had just endured not finished me off too?
I learned quickly that it was all about survival – even if at that point I didn’t particularly want to survive. In that early stage of grief it’s not even a day at a time, but breath by breath, then minute by minute.
Slowly it becomes day by day and then week by week, and you find a rhythm to life, you start to do the things you enjoyed before, you make new habits. But it’s not a full life, it feels constantly that something is missing. There’s nothing in this new life you wouldn’t trade to have them back.It’s existing, not living, but it’s possible to get so good at it that nobody else notices – it’s just inside you, a feeling of not knowing who you are anymore, behind the mask that the world sees. For me there was a sense of wanting to be invisible and blend into the background, of being engaged enough that I wouldn’t be lonely, but not doing anything that might cause any pain or injury to my very fragile heart.
As the well known passage from Captain Correlli’s Mandarin says – “Those that truly love, have roots that grow towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossoms have fallen from their branches, they find that they are one tree and not two”. The problem with widowhood is that one of the trees has died, and the surviving one has to work out which of the roots is theirs.
Learning who I am now after Chris has been a painful process, which I know isn’t finished. Until recently I would have said who I am again – I was looking to unpick myself from me and Chris. I realise now that all that Chris gave me is still part of me, I don’t have to unpick myself from us. Instead I am asking – who am I now? Grief has changed me – in some areas I am harder, and in others softer. I am more willing to take risks now that I know life is short and can be changed in the blink of an eye, yet I am also more tolerant when things go wrong; since in the context of what’s happened to me, it doesn’t seem like that big of a deal if nobody died.
However, there has been a sudden shift in the last couple of weeks and I have held off writing about it in case it was just a temporary blip! It has been a few weeks now, and so I think it is more than just a passing phase. I have discovered under the layers of sadness and grief and loss, there is a Sue underneath it all who actually wants to live, not just exist, who wants to feel alive, that wants to push up into the sunlight and be seen again.
This awakening is such a contrast to the last couple of years of feeling hopeless and unable to imagine a future. And even now it’s not that I have an idea of what my future will be or what I want to do. But the simple desire to have a future, to achieve … something, to be… something – is a sea change from so much time of needing to rest and to grieve.
It is a sense of hope. The last 4 years have been dark with occasional bright spaces. Every so often there is a wave of realisation that he is gone and isn’t coming back. There have been times when I haven’t recognised myself, and I have felt so lost, not knowing what to do next. There is a relentlessness to grief, it can feel like an endurance race, but with no end and no medals. But recently, I have noticed myself beginning to see little chinks of light, little green shoots, a glimpse of hope, but most of all a desire to be me (even if that’s a new version of me!) and to not be defined only by my loss. A feeling of there being a point to this life that isn’t just waiting for my turn to go wherever Chris went.
A realisation that I didn’t die with him.
A transition from existing, to living again.
A feeling of hope and anticipation for a future, even without Chris in it.
I know this won’t be easy. I know there will be days where I can’t carry the hope, where I will need to grieve. There will be days when the absence of him will be so huge that it almost removes all the oxygen from the room. But I also know that it will pass, and I will be ok.
For example, I know that the next 3 and a half months will be tough at times, it’s the worst time of the yearly cycle. This is the time of year when facebook memories are not my friend and clicking on that link is a russian roulette. There will be memories of the hospital admission when his kidneys failed, the Easter Monday when I cried because the hospital café was closed early because it was a bank holiday and all I wanted was to get him an ice-cream! The unexpected call to come in for the pre-op assessment for the life-saving surgery, hurriedly making arrangements for his being in hospital for 3-4 weeks, followed by the meeting with the consultant where we were told there had been a mistake, we shouldn’t have been called in, and actually he was inoperable and there was nothing more that they could do. More admissions, his birthday, the Macmillan hike, the final admission, Chris dying, the funeral. I’ve done this before, I know the dates to watch out for, there will be days when I will need to be extra kind to myself. I haven’t yet found a way to stop these memories from replaying, but this year I will see the waves approaching from the horizon and I can prepare for them.
I am not suggesting that this is the end of my grief journey, but I do believe it is the beginning of a new phase within it.
Somebody I talked to about all this asked me what actually this looked like, and I appreciated that, otherwise it’s just more feelings and they can change. In practice, this is me moving to a job that will hopefully stretch and challenge me, after stepping away from my ideal job after Chris died. It’s me signing up for yoga, caring about what I eat and wanting to exercise. It’s saying yes to more events and gigs and even going by myself to the theatre. It’s being open to new things. It’s seeking adventure and booking holidays and creating a life that is interesting and engaging – not just going through the motions while mentally I sit in the waiting room for death.
For the first time in 4 years I genuinely care whether I live or die, and I really want to live!
Click for more beautiful writing from Red Kites & Beaches
We loved reading through your entries for this month’s short story competition, so much so that we want to make it a regular AION feature!
Entry is free and the winning story of no more than 3000 words will be published in our May issue.
Using the picture & text below as a starting point write a short story of no more than 3000 words.
You can take the van for free-on one condition…
Entrants must be aged 16 or over and the work must be in English.
Entries must be the original work of the entrant. The entry must be unpublished in full elsewhere.
Each story must be no longer than 3000 words, not including the title.
The closing date for entries is midnight (GMT) on Friday 29th April 2022.
Once submitted, work cannot be recalled or amended.
You can enter up to three submissions.
Entries should be formatted as a Microsoft Word, Open Office or PDF document in 12pt Arial or Times Roman with double spacing between lines.
The first page of your entry should have the title of your entry, your name, word count and email address.
Your entry should be submitted as an email attachment to submissions@andinothernews.co.uk
Please write Short Story Competition Feb 22 in the Subject field of the email.
By entering authors are agreeing to the terms and conditions set out here. The decision of the judges is final, and no correspondence will be entered into.
By submitting, the author is giving And In Other News permission to reproduce the work on its website and in any possible published anthology, however, the author retains full copyright at all times.
I am really struggling with what happened at the Oscars and I feel the need to unpick why-but there is so much to unpick.
The joke. The reaction. The behaviour. The context. The state of the world.
The joke wasn’t funny to anyone, least of all to anyone suffering with alopecia. Like a lot of ‘jokes’ at the Oscars and other congratulatory, high profile celebrity events, they are meant to be deliberately inflammatory. Fun is poked and insults are thrown around at current affairs, political debacles and the lifestyles and affairs of the rich and famous-but of a medical, or physical condition? -there the line is drawn for me and you can snowflake me all you like.
Comedians live their life balanced precariously on the tightrope that separates humour and decency-the finest of lines that many fall from. Jimmy Carr, Ricky Gervais and Frank Skinner have all landed on the wrong side of the line and faced a public and professional backlash. But there is no such thing as bad publicity-right? and to this day they are all still in the business.
However, as inappropriate as Chris Rock was, it was Will Smith’s reaction and behaviour that bothered me even more. Despite past experiences that have triggered me to retreat at the sights and sounds of aggression, there was something so coldly arrogant and menacing about Smith’s behaviour that completely appalled me. The swift strutting gait of Smith verses the chuckling unawareness of Rock was a performance of an abuse of power and control that was disproportionate to the initial provocation. And then all the shouting and the swearing that just smacked of self importance and conceit.
If someone very publicly took the p**s out of my partner’s physical being would I be upset and embarrassed? Yes. Would I feel hurt for them? Yes. Would I feel angry? Yes. Would I react in that way? No. Would I let it go? Also no. There will always be a better time and a better place for a knee jerk reaction-or stunt.
A popular public opinion was that it was ‘good on Will Smith for taking action,’ Really? So we can all go around smacking people any time we like in the name of being insulted (and in the name of love apparently according to Smith)-and that’s OK?
Surely not.
I remember when there was public outrage and petitions a-plenty when Jeremy Clarkson got sacked from Top Gear for punching his producer. Clarkson et al gave a raft of reasons- personal stress, hunger, pressurised work, being antagonised and not being given what he wanted for dinner (erm welcome to the world, Jeremy). During my working life I have felt all of the above but I have never even contemplated punching my boss. Furthermore, if I did, I would be sacked on the spot and quite rightly too-no one would be petitioning for me to stay in role, or congratulating me on my actions.
And of course there are bigger world issues at stake that should absolutely take priority over a few egos. However, there does seem to be an acceptance of celebrity endorsed inappropriate behaviours that allow them to think they can do whatever they want. This double standard is ugly and unjust.
Unpicking summary:
Comedians need to take ownership and be accountable for their choices on the bad days as well as the good.
It is not OK to use violence because you or someone close to you has been ‘offended’.
Money and fame should not make poor behaviour OK, or exclude you from common and decent rules of society.
The Oscars viewing figures were at their lowest ever.
I’ve never started a blog whilst crying before. And this is some of the strangest crying I’ve ever done.
It’s crying mixed with laughter bundled up in bewilderment. It’s sadness and gratitude and admiration and a little bit of shame.
Someone I loved but never knew has died. A man who I described as ‘my guy’, who was never really my guy, will never be my guy… yet will always be my guy.
Taylor Hawkins, doing what he loved most in the world.
On Saturday I woke up to the news that Taylor Hawkins, Foo Fighters’ hyper-powered streak of grinning, infectious energy behind the drums; the friendliest, happiest face of one of the biggest bands in the world, had died suddenly on tour in Colombia.
I loved him. And I’m so, so sad that he’s died. I feel like I’ve lost a friend or a relative.
But I also feel embarrassed, confused and a bit guilty. I feel like I am trespassing in other people’s grief. He is not mine to mourn. I didn’t know him. I never met him, although I was once in the same (verrrrry big) room as him at a Foo Fighters concert. Also, I am a fully grown adult for goodness’ sake, I am 45 yet I feel like a love-sick 14-year-old, which embarrasses me. But I know there will be thousands if not millions of other people who are feeling loss like me.
Grief is a funny old game. When it hits you, you don’t know the rules. In fact, it doesn’t ever seem to hit you in the same way twice, so maybe there are no rules. Maybe that’s because every person you lose is unique and your relationship with them/to them is unique so your grief will always be unique. The grieving of someone you’ve never met is not the same as grieving the death of a close loved one, the death of a beloved pet or of someone you had a difficult relationship with. But it feels like there are rules. And I feel as though I may be breaking them.
Taylor Hawkins was an extraordinarily talented drummer who in more recent years, had not only made an impact on me but also inspired my son, Ossian, whose veins are full of music and who is himself a passionate drummer. But it was [uncomfortable first-name-use] Taylor’s enthusiasm and his clear LOVE for what he was doing which endeared him to me. To me, he was lovable because he was full of life and mischief and joy because he was happy doing what he loved – playing music. What a wonderful thing. And all the more shocking that someone so very ALIVE is suddenly not.
I could see the shock in Ossian’s face when I told him. I could also see his uncertainty over how he was supposed to react, how he was supposed to feel about it. He is 12. About as awkward an age as there is to feel and process emotion. He stared right into my teary eyes and the first thing he said was: “Are you sad?” and I said “Yes, are you sad?” and he nodded and walked away.
As I write this, I don’t yet know why our hero died. I have read that he called paramedics because he was having chest pains. I have heard that there were traces of several different drugs found in his body. News of the post mortem is awaited.
It has led to important conversations with Ossian, who is already aware of the tragic fact that an awful lot of incredibly talented musicians have died fighting addiction. One of his other drumming idols is Led Zeppelin’s John Bonham, who died aged 32 having reportedly overcome a heroin addiction but continued to battle with alcoholism up to his death.
But it also led to a remark from Ossian which made me really sad and which I will probably revisit with him.
On Mother’s Day yesterday we had a chilled afternoon watching Spiderman No Way Home and at the end there was a teaser for the next Marvel movie starring Tom Hardy as ‘Venom’. I said to Ossian: “He’s GREAT, he’s in Peaky Blinders, he’s brilliant, he’s one of my favourites, I love him”. And Ossian immediately said: “Oh don’t say that, he might die.”
I instantly made the connection with Taylor Hakwins. It’s been a standing joke for years in our house that mummy loves him more than Daddy. I instantly felt the need to say: “Oh my gosh, we can’t not love people just in case they die, that would be a dreadful way to live”.
Am I a weirdo? Is it normal for 45-year-olds to love, or say they love, rock stars or actors? Did I actually love Taylor? Did I just admire him? Did I just appreciate his talent? Did I just fancy him?
I’m not sure I can answer those questions. All I know is that I felt a sucker punch as soon as I saw his happy face on my news feed with the words ‘Foo Fighters drummer dies, age 50’.
It took me back to 1991, when I was a 13-year-old schoolgirl rock chick. My favourite band was Def Leppard. I remember so clearly hearing the news on the radio that their guitarist Steve Clark had died of alcohol poisoning. I cried that day too, but I imagine I felt no confusion or embarrassment, I was just crushed. And I cried because I was sad for the rest of the band, in the same way I am gutted now for the rest of Foo Fighters and especially for lead singer and founder Dave Grohl, who has already suffered such shocking grief in his life as the drummer in Nirvana when the legendary Kurt Cobain took his own life.
I’m not exactly sure what the point of this blog is, except that I probably started it because I felt the need to try to make sense of the weird mix of emotions I am feeling.
Perhaps to help myself, and anyone else who is attempting to untangle grief which has taken them by surprise, to understand that neither love nor grief are feelings we choose to feel, they just happen to us and maybe we don’t need to question or define them.
I have a deep-seated need in me to understand why I feel what I feel. But I’m not sure I can ever figure this one out. I feel silly. Grown-ups are not meant to feel like this about strangers. Especially when there is a war going on and so many people are losing loved ones. Yet here I am, crying because I heard the Foo Fighters song, My Hero, on the radio and the shock and sadness took over me again. Pathetic, surely? Perhaps. Or maybe I am simply an emotional investor and I can’t help feeling emotionally invested when another soul has connected with mine from a distance – through a 4-minute rock song, an ever-present smile or a documentary film.
To borrow a quote from Maya Angelou:
Love is many things. It is varied. One thing love is not, is unsure.
I am grateful for a world that contained Taylor Hawkins. I am grateful for the music and the joy he shared with me, with my son and with millions of fans around the world.
Well done to our Anon author who is too shy to claim the big bag of glory on offer.
See our separate post for this month’s competition, details of which will be in tonight’s full issue, but without further ado AION’s first ever short story winner…
Fresh Eyes by Anon
She had always had a strong hold over me and we both knew it. Throughout my childhood I took it as love and it wasn’t until I was old enough to leave home that I began to see it as control, and even then I saw it as loving control if there is such a thing.
“Is there anything wrong with being protective of your child? One day you’ll understand, that I’d die too if anything happened to you.”
“You are my life. No one will ever love you like I do.”
“I gave you life.”
“You are my life’s work.”
“You do not need to live away to go to university, that’s why I bought this house. For you.”
“He’s simply not good enough for you.”
As the plane left the tarmac at Heathrow I burst into tears, uncontrollable person-next-to-me-wants-to-move-crying. The ugly, wet face tears that can only come when something inside you releases. I hadn’t even realised that I was so contained like I had been holding my breath all my life.
To be completely honest Graham wasn’t the love of my life, he measured up to everything I thought my mother would approve of. The education, the accent, the resources, the dull dressing boat shoe wearing kind of man I thought she’d expect me to marry. Graham is kind and a nice man, and we would have made it work, it would have been a nice life for us both. A companionable relationship that would last forever.
“I may have said that it would be better if he left. That if he truly loves you he can see that he’ll be holding you back.”
As it turned out Graham truly loved me and I know what an ear-worm my mother can be. She got into his head, she must have been ‘working’ on him for a while, a good long while. Probably since he gave me his grandmother’s ring. All smiles and joy to me and wheedling her way into his vulnerabilities, insecurities and psyche. I know it all too well, and if she hadn’t I may never have seen her with clear eyes. I shudder at the prospect of a lifetime of blinkers.
It happened when I was laying on her sofa crying that Graham had got cold feet and had gone to his parent’s house for a few days. She was her usual self in this situation, that when I come to think about it, has happened a lot to me. Best friends, boyfriends even jobs that through no fault of my own ‘just aren’t for you darling’.
“Do you really think you should be working in a pub at night darling? Your studies will suffer, you mark my words,” and variations thereof over and over again, some subtle some not.
Then when you get one duff grade you believe her, you believe that quitting the pub that you like working in is the best option for your future.
“There’s a wise girl. Oh look I ordered you this…(pulls out something expensive that she knows you’ll like) and I’ve made us lunch plans for Sunday.”
My father, Him, left when I was nine. He hasn’t been in touch with us since.
“He was a selfish and mean man.”
“Oh look no birthday card from Him again this year.”
“We have each other and that’s more than enough.”
When I was in her house looking for something ‘borrowed’ and she was downstairs with Graham, probably poisoning his mind, I was upstairs and for once I was poking around uninvited. I hadn’t asked her about borrowing something as I knew she’d choose it for me, give it to me and I’d end up with it as plan A, B and C. I was in the spare bedroom, at the top of the wardrobe when I found a stack of unopened cards, all addressed to me. I didn’t even need to open one, I knew. I put them back.
“Is this how you felt when dad left?” I asked as I lay there on her sofa and she brought me tea and tissues.
“Him or father. He does not deserve the affection of Dad.”
“Sorry. Is this how you felt when my father left?”
“No darling, it was far worse. He rejected you and that is unforgivable. The fact that we are so close and he was a mean jealous man is his own lookout and we are better off without him.”
It was like a flash, I saw something in her expression. Maybe it was her mouth, but something gave her away. I closed my eyes in case she could read my thoughts. Later I made my excuses and went home. I didn’t sleep. I watched my life back and saw myself as the pawn I had always been and never realised. I saw myself being told I was ill and couldn’t go on the school trip. I saw myself being told we had a new phone number as there’d been a problem with the old one even though it meant I’d lose contact with some friends. Being told kids holiday clubs were for children on benefits and that I couldn’t go. That I was allergic to horses when my friend invited me to the stables (I’m not allergic). That she was ill and needed me home (this is a well-used one). As I sat and looked at all these small situations I felt like there was a fast spinning Rolodex filled with situations that needed a fresh perspective. Each and every card I would pull would have me doing exactly what she wanted, often at the detriment of myself. Wow.
I left my wedding dress hanging on my bedroom door. I’ve labelled it for eBay ‘New without tags wedding dress. Never worn.’
She will find it when she lets herself into my home with the key she had cut without permission and uses every time she ‘just pops in’ even though Graham repeatedly asked her, and then told me to tell her, not to.
He wasn’t even hard to track down thanks to the internet. I called him at his office and he cried when I told him it was me. He said he knew one day I’d find him and that he had been waiting. He didn’t ask after my mother.
As I land in San Francisco I forward my watch to what would have been my wedding day and look forward to meeting my dad.
and in other news 
