Once a journalist...

Congratulations, Emma Raducanu! Same school; different century (and why I failed at tennis...)

2021-07-02T11:30:00.007+01:00

As I write, the incredible Emma Raducanu has just made it through to the fourth round of Wimbledon. Now I can boast that I went to the same school as Emma...AND Dina Asher-Smith.

DECADES before.

Newstead Wood was an incredible school, and I consider myself so lucky to have studied there for seven years. Teachers there sparked my passion for English language and literature studies, and put me on the path to a long and happy career in print and broadcast journalism.

But me and tennis? We really didn't hit it off.

I mean....these were very different times. It was a green grammar school. Green skirt. Green jumper. Green felt hat. Yeh, ok green gym knickers.

Surrounded by glorious green woodland, with tip top tennis courts. And while the stars at Wimbledon can really make the game sparkle; after five summers; I realised I never would.

I wasn't alone. So I joined a small band of rebels whose sole intent was to skip as much tennis as possible, without landing a detention.We'd turn up with racquet, tennis skirt and a smirk.

The aim, however risky, was to slope off for a smoke, fully aware that if we were caught, it would mean immediate, non negotiable expulsion.

Today, I think smoking's a filthy habit. But at fifteen, it seemed glamorous. And exciting. You couldn't do it at home. It was tricky on the bus, in case your mum's friends saw you.You could sometimes get away with it down the Wimpy if you cupped your hand round your fag the right way, kept it low and then blew the smoke back over your shoulder towards the kitchens. But it wasn't ideal.

This was our secret solution.

To the confusion of our games mistress, the tennis lesson escape committee began to focus determinedly on improving forehand strength. Not for the good of the game, of course, but to ensure that we had the power to doublehandedly whack the balls out of court, over the high fence, and into the adjoining woods. And once enough tennis balls had been `whacked into the woods`, someone had to go and retrieve them. I mean--Slazengers didn't come cheap. But woods, of course, could be dark and dangerous places for young girls. Nobody, apart from us, knew what might be lurking there, so our timid and trusting teacher usually allowed us to take a friend or two.

Once through the creaky school gate and down a soft, mossy path, we quickened our pace, turning into undercover jungle commandos, using our racquets to batter down the tickly, thigh-high ferns; scything through any brambles that had pinged back since our last foray. In the densest part of the wood, we'd glance over our shoulders, fall to our knees ...and lo. Game, set and matches. Just there; wrapped in a Woolworth's carrier bag, and stuffed into the end of a large, rotting log, deep in the undergrowth, and surely worthy of any nettle sting or bloody bramble scratch : one glorious, (green) packet of More Menthol. And a box of only *slightly* damp Swan Vestas.

Their presence meant that at least four of us, in the course of double tennis, once we'd got the damn things lit, got to have a smoke--whether we liked it or not. We chose the menthol variety to hide the nicotine smell, of course, but I'm sure Miss P knew what we were up to. Especially as it was rare to see us return with any tennis balls whatsoever. If she'd reported us, we'd have been marched off the premises for good. I assumed for many years that she kept quiet because she probably smoked like a trooper herself .

But I've realised since then, that it's far more likely that she let us go because we were so completely, utterly crap at tennis.

Anyway. No detentions. No expulsions. And no chance of ever making SW19 either. But Emma has, and she's flying....giving me one more reason to be a proud Newstead Wood girl.

Love, pride and a dad with dementia

2020-12-11T18:30:00.000+00:00

He was only about three; a bright eyed little boy, clearly bursting with news.

Alongside him, his mum, in comfy tracky bottoms, walking gingerly. And his dad, holding a baby car- seat containing a tiny bundle which was wrapped in a pale lemon blanket.

As he got closer to the bench where I was sitting, the boy wrenched his hand away from his dad's, and ran up to me.

"See that?" he said, jabbing a little finger back towards the car seat."THAT...is my new baby sister. I'm a big brother now. And I LIKE it!"

It turned out that little Emma was just one day old, and that the menfolk were there to collect her, and mum, from the maternity unit.

I waved at him as they drove away, his eyes still gleaming with excitement and pride, then finished my sandwich, soaked up the sun for a few more minutes, and headed back inside. I skipped the lift and climbed the four flights of stairs back to Dad's ward, well aware that it was one way of extending my "lunch break" on this long day in a week of long days ; knowing a tricky six or seven hours still lay ahead.

You couldn't get a bigger contrast between baby Emma's ward and this one, I mused, as I walked back to his room. One nurtures new life, forms families, full of future hopes and dreams. A lifetime and four corridors away, and you're in "Geriatrics". The care's just as tender; the 'customers' just as needy in their way, but time's ticking by. Life's ebbing away. Your heart can feel heavy here.

Some patients here today, like Dad, have dementia. The disease is like a giant eraser, rubbing out their lifeskills, one at a time. Independence? Deleted. Speech? Silenced. Mundane tasks? A muddle. Cutlery's confusing; even families seem unfamiliar . This is no place for planning; surely. No place for pride?

And then, as I sit beside him, he looks again at the framed picture of his grand-daughters. And we talk about what they're doing, and how much they love him.

I know he hasn't held a pen for weeks; won't touch the watercolours or sketching pencils I brought in for him, even though he once drew deftly with them. But I suggest it again, anyway. A note, maybe, for Alice. I could deliver it tomorrow, I tell him.

I busy myself in my magazine, aware that his left hand is moving towards the pen and pad. Moments later, he turns to me, that smile back in his eyes, the same bright, proud, almost child-like smile I'd seen on the face of the little boy downstairs. "There", he says, gesturing towards the book.

Stunned, I see that it's a note to Alice. Personal, and loving. In shaky, spidery writing. Just one sentence long; with words she`ll cherish for a lifetime.

Later, when the nurses come in, I tell them about it. They're surprised, and thrilled. And I guess my eyes are gleaming a bit too. With tears that something so simple is even newsworthy. And pride--for this is a day for pride-- that he managed it.

Dad died in May 2014, peacefully at his home. Alice still has the note from her grandad.

COMMENTS:

‏@racheljonespr2m

@janemcintyre12 fabulous blog Jane - cherish the moments - they're so few as that cruel disease progresses - but so very precious xx

Rachel Jones ‏@racheljonespr1m

@janemcintyre12 only really afterwards do u truly appreciate how special each "moment" was + the effort it took the person to achieve it xx

‏@alzheimerssoc4m

@janemcintyre12 thanks for sending that to us, it is a really moving post.

‏@ShropshireCraft19m

@janemcintyre12 @DementiaFriends @alzheimerssoc @DementiaUK Jane its great to see such positivity. That will be a treasured note:)

Dementia Friends and Ironbridge_AAC Nige retweeted you

57m:

Love, pride and a dad with dementia http://lovemymondays.blogspot.com/2013/08/love-pride-and-dad-with-dementia.html?spref=tw … #dementia @DementiaFriends @alzheimerssoc @dementiaUK

‏@IronbridgeAAC52m

@janemcintyre12 Love it :)

Catherine Hurley and 5 others retweeted you

4h:

Love, pride and a dad with dementia http://lovemymondays.blogspot.com/2013/08/love-pride-and-dad-with-dementia.html?spref=tw … #dementia @DementiaFriends @alzheimerssoc @dementiaUK

‏@butterflies747 Protected account2h

@janemcintyre12 thank you Jane for sharing this with us. A fab blog which has truly moved me.
You are a very special lady 
keep smilingXx

‏@edanaming12m

@karenellaB Very moving, beautifully written, thank you @janemcintyre12 @WhoseShoes @wwwframeworks4c I think @nursemaiden wld appreciate too

Jane McIntyre ‏@janemcintyre1222m

@berry45 thanks for retweeting my blog.Much appreciated.

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berry45 ‏@berry4517s

@janemcintyre12 pleasure. Work with people with dementia.

Sarah Mayo ‏@knittingbaker7m

@janemcintyre12 hold on to that moment. So special. Lost my dad 10 months ago today after 10 years of Alzheimer's.

Helen Murray ‏@Helenfmurray11m

@janemcintyre12 @karenellaB pleasure - i had a lump in my throat reading it x

Jenny Kean ‏@jenkean17m

A truly touching story from @janemcintyre12  http://lovemymondays.blogspot.co.uk/2013/08/love-pride-and-dad-with-dementia.html?spref=tw&m=1 ….

Catherine Hurley and 6 others retweeted you
5h:

Love, pride and a dad with dementia http://lovemymondays.blogspot.com/2013/08/love-pride-and-dad-with-dementia.html?spref=tw … #dementia @DementiaFriends @alzheimerssoc @dementiaUK
      
Sue Wheeler ‏@squeels51h

@janemcintyre12 @DementiaFriends @alzheimerssoc @DementiaUK such a lovely post thankyou, treasure the good times, such a difficult disease x

Allan Bennett ‏@allanbee32h

@janemcintyre12 hi jane just read your blog & next thing im blubbering away like I dont know what, but know only too well what it feels like

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Jane McIntyre ‏@janemcintyre122h

@allanbee3 hi Allan. Aww sorry to make you cry but thankyou for reading it and tweeting me. Tough road ahead.

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Allan Bennett ‏@allanbee31h

@janemcintyre12 its a very tough road indeed but seeing the good things hopefully far outweigh the bad,

Glynis Ellis ‏@Glynis19593h

@janemcintyre12 just read with much interest, my mom had dementia, it was hard to see memories fade, but sometimes funny too. I miss her :)

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Jane McIntyre ‏@janemcintyre123h

@Glynis1959 thankyou for reading it. I'm sorry you lost your mum, and in such a sad way x

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Glynis Ellis ‏@Glynis19592h

@janemcintyre12 Thank you it's a long old road but one some must take, I'm glad I was able to go with her,as hard as it was. I wish you well

Alistair Gordon ‏@AlistairGordon13h
@janemcintyre12 Got a friend with a father in similar situation. It's those little moments that she cherishes!

Hilgos Foundation ‏@IRememberBetter13m

Beautiful post: Love, pride and a dad with dementia http://www.lovemymondays.blogspot.co.uk/2013/08/love-pride-and-dad-with-dementia.html …  via @janemcintyre12

Patrick Wise ‏@rockanroldie4m

@IRememberBetter @janemcintyre12 Noting memories sufferers tell you about, for them to read, also helps to evoke further memories from them.

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Jane McIntyre ‏@janemcintyre121m

@rockanroldie @IRememberBetter .

Jane McIntyre ‏@janemcintyre121m

@rockanroldie @IRememberBetter Good idea. Last week we covered WW1, being sent down mines at 14, + being a royal bodyguard.Oh and Turner art

..I`ll write some notes and we`ll try those again on Wednesday. Thankyou.

Gill Phillips ‏@@edanaming @karenellaB @janemcintyre12 @wwwframeworks4c @nursemaiden Thank you - and so true. The juxtaposition with new life very powerful

Good grief...?

2020-12-05T10:00:00.005+00:00

(...with apologies to bereavement guide books everywhere. And Peanuts....)

OK. So losing someone's never going to be easy. And there are a million different deaths to deal with. Different circumstances, ages, whether you get a warning and time to say goodbye, or just one of those 'world-stops-turning' calls. But can you ever soften the blow? Can you feel, well, not a 'good' grief, but one with lighter moments that will comfort you in the days and months ahead? The pain of loss has been acute this year and, in #griefawarenessweek has led me to revisit this post, and reflect on how the weight of grief can, slowly, ease. So, apologies for the repeat. But I hope it might just help.

May 2014: Rewind to last Friday night; just nine days after Dad died from 'end stage' dementia, at the pretty respectable age of 85. This was limbo land; between a heart wrenching week of last rites, minor rallies, major tenacity, really, really last rites, and the final goodbye. The funeral was still two weeks ahead. And I decided I needed to be in Scotland; his birthplace. Immediately.

It didn't help, really, that it was nearly 10 at night. And that Edinburgh was 284 miles away. But the yearning to be there was so strong, that within 20 minutes, I'd sorted a train ticket, a 5 a.m taxi to the station and a half decent hotel in the centre of Edinburgh. I had a mental wish-list of the places I 'needed' to revisit. Places I'd been taken to as a child. Locations he loved.

I'd cried in the days before his death. Cried in the years before it too, as the Dad we knew and loved slipped further away from us as each shared memory was erased from his mind. But funeral arrangements keep you focused, don't they? Head down; get it sorted. Everyone's so kind. But nearly everyone you speak to at this time is 'in the business'. They know who and what they're dealing with.They speak softly. Pour coffee quietly. Guide you gently through the 'options'.

What I wasn't prepared for, was facing the world outside; away from the 'professionals' and our own circle of fabulous friends and family. I headed for Edinburgh regardless, thinking I could probably tough it out. I steeled myself for the first hurdle: the inevitable sound of a Scottish piper. (We've booked one for Dad's funeral. My mate Ian found him for us. He's called Donald. No Troosers.) And here was one almost greeting me; just steps away from Waverley.

I watched a while, gave him a brave, beaming smile, lost it, welled up, baled out, threw some change in his music case and legged it to the hotel.

Why was I there? Holiday or business? There was no box to tick for *this* trip at reception; nor at the coffee shop round the corner ('you here for the shopping, then?'); or during my chat with the lady on the bus to Leith. Yes, I have family here. No, I won't be seeing them this trip. And no, I can't tell you that it's because my Uncle Jim is so like my Dad, that one glimpse of his twinkly eyes would finish me off, today, so I'm waiting until I see him at the funeral. Thankfully, she rang the bell to get off, just before a few big, ploppy tears fell. Not the tiny, trickly ones, but the ones resembling the heavy raindrops that splatter down suddenly, before a major storm. That kind.

Waterproof mascara and my 'I`m OK--Just Hear My Confident Clunky Shoes' ruse paid off on the Royal Yacht Britannia tour. Dad had sailed on this beauty as a personal bodyguard; regaled us with tales of the on-board Roller; the sumptuous quarters; the quoits. I was getting the hang of this grief thing: you're OK if you don't speak; don't get too close. Being near certain places was connecting me with Dad. I took strength from it, even posed for a selfie in the Captain`s cap.

Back in town, I was reminded that grief can pop back up and grab you with no warning whatsoever. I skipped the Cathedral--couldn't face lighting two parental candles for the first time; and dodged the postcard browsing-- the Father's Day cards were way too close. Inexplicably, while heading through 'Ground Floor Perfumery' towards Haberdashery in Jenner's (I need some McIntyre tartan in my hair for the funeral...) I agreed to a spontaneous make-up makeover with Andrew. First time ever. Sky high risk. This would involve a stranger not only speaking to me, but touching my face. Quite a lot. And, inexplicably, it worked. He glossed my lips; I glossed over the real reason I was in Edinburgh. Result? I felt a million dollars; he felt my fifty quid.

The next day I felt like a local; legs now used to the endless steps linking city streets. I walked miles; smiled at every piper, bought gifts to take home, and abandoned the search for a possible F-day black dress in a Grassmarket vintage store, buying a fairly hideous Blondie T-shirt to wear at Glastonbury instead. I was smiling. So, was this 'good' grief? No such thing. But probably, I mused on the train hurtling home that night, they were the words Dad would've uttered if he'd ever caught me wearing a pink and black Blondie T-shirt. Or , for that matter, the Captain's hat .

John McIntyre June 1928-May 2014. Loved and always missed.

Hug-free. If it's that or nothing--we'll take it!

2020-06-22T12:46:00.000+01:00

June 21st. It was the longest day: and it started at 02.48.

I'd woken with a jolt; worry-dreaming about how to take socially distanced selfies at that day's planned family reunion.

I'm not, by nature, a worrier, but this lockdown had been taking its toll; most acutely --the inability to see my daughters. One's 100 miles away; one, 160, so it's not as if we can pop round for coffee on a whim. Even so, it was knowing that a meet up was all nigh impossible, that hurt the most. That, and the missing.

Word spread, and unbeknown to me, a plan was agreed. We'd meet at a National Trust property more or less equidistant from the six of us, have a picnic, and stroll around the grounds. Inevitably; there were questions. This was all outdoors. What if it rained again? How well would Jake cope in the back seat for ninety minutes with two, travel-queasy dachshunds? And, above all...how would it all be without the hugging?

Only days before, a small group of family members had been allowed to attend the funeral of a dearly loved uncle. That in itself was strange: we're a huge crowd, and we fill funerals, and weddings and parties to the rafters, normally. And we hug.
I'd watched the funeral service online, gulping each time a precious cousin came into view; sobbing at the beautiful readings and the song choices; and mourning the cruelty of Covid. If ever there was a need for cousinly hugs; this was it, and I could only imagine how tough it was for them.

But now it was Sunday, and here was our corner of the family, six of us, plus Chester and Chip, at Calke Abbey in Derbyshire--a circle of camping chairs, picnic rugs, and portable feasts, grey clouds scudding above us; hug free, but together. This was the first time my daughters had seen each other in six months; the first time their partners had met.We had lunch, laughs, face to face conversation, and a wonderful meander round the grounds.

Yes, it was the first time in nearly 30 years I've been with a child of mine without physical contact. It was so odd: a feeling, almost, of senses unsated. But the sight of them? The 'being together' ? The chance to eat, and stroll, and laugh at the antics of Chester, 'playing dead' when it was time to leave? It all made my heart soar.

June 21st: the longest day. When time flew so fast; it felt like the shortest. But forever, one of the sweetest.

Lockdown tears? Make 'em noisy, wet, long and loud.

2020-05-23T12:28:00.000+01:00

'It's OK not to be OK' is always a key message in Mental Health Awareness Week. Never more so, when the week falls slap-bang in the middle of a global pandemic. But it's a message for other people, surely. Not 'glass-half-full' people, like me?

The thing was...I'd just cancelled a regular Zoom catch-up session with two of my closest buddies, because I felt 'too weepy' to attend. Tears had--pretty unusually, for me--just spilled over, and for the fourth time that day, too.

There'd been other times during the past nine weeks when I'd found myself thinking about my family and crying with....well...acute 'missing-ness'.

Was I 'down'? Or just 'lockdown' down? And, I wondered on Twitter; was I crying alone?

Apparently not. So how often are we all welling up?

Benji tweeted back that throughout lockdown, he's cried 'most days, about something'. Helen's cried 'many' times; (so too, her mum, Ruth, who tweeted separately, about missing her family )Emma and Stephanie-- both doctors--reckon they've been shedding a tear three or four times a week. Kev; slightly less than that. Charity worker Sarah, who suffers from anxiety, says she veers between days 'brimming with positivity' to other 'very dark days which are spent in tears'.

A couple of dozen more reported crying weekly, for a whole mix of reasons: fatigue; anxiety about the future; their children's education; their jobs. Alistair who'd first just tweeted 'it varies...' returned a day later to report he'd got a bit teary the night before, Zoom-quizzing with friends. Jules said she'd cried quite a few times; 'for the loss of feeling safe and all the uncertainty and loss of freedom.'

For this ITU nurse though; it was specific. 'My eyes have leaked once only, '
said Andi, 'holding someone's hand whilst they passed away, as family couldn't be there. Very tough to smile for a few days after.'

Inevitably, it was the sad stuff, mostly, that had been triggering tears. GP Stephanie had cried when 'feeling very tired or ill; through intensely missing people; looking after lonely and scared patients; and utter frustration at the never endingness of it all.' As well as due to concern for her children who were 'desperately missing their friends'.

Laura's a GP, too. But in her words, 'not a big crier any more.' Even so, she'd cried that day after reading a sad post from a friend, marking the anniversary of a loved one's death. That was enough to get Laura thinking about her own late mum, and how much she misses her.

The sadness of missing grandchildren was mentioned by many, including Carla and Ian,
and Michelle, who's cried several times. 'Sometimes over nothing at all, ' she said, 'or at bedtime story time with a grand-daughter, and she cries because she wants a hug. I defy anyone,' said Michelle, 'not to cry, then'.

Luckily, mid-pandemic, good things are happening, aswell. Although,with widespread, heightened emotions, they're often making people blub, too.

Sarah was crying while writing, she said, having just heard about plans for an online memorial book for loved ones lost to the Corona virus. Carla was finding that 'people being kind..... or even bluetits fledging,' were likely to 'set her off'. And decorator David admitted to having 'had a moment' when a customer offered him a 50% payment advance for the next project; something David said he found 'very humbling'.

So, given that Covid's going to be around for a while, how are we going to deal with it?

Your tweets contained some great advice; for criers, and non-criers alike. GP Stephanie reckoned it's best not to aim too high. 'Getting through the day is as good as it gets, sometimes,' she said. 'And that's OK.'

Marie; who's feeling down about 'no life, no hugs and no job' is seeking solace in 'Netflix ...and running. If I make myself go for a run before breakfast, I find it helps me all day,' she said. Martin agreed that exercise was helping him, too. For Benji, Sarah and Peter, it's all about limiting the number of news bulletins they tune into. Glynis used to keep a diary, and is finding now, that jotting things down in a journal is helping her, and means she can 'rant, without worrying others'! 'Mr B', meanwhile, says he's been running chat and resilience sessions for colleagues and staff, which have proved useful.

And if all else fails....the message that came back loud and clear was 'carry on crying'. Kev said he'd 'always rather show emotions, than bottle it all up with a British, stiff upper lip'.

Marie 2 said crying was acting as a release of pressure...'like bleeding a radiator'. Carla agreed. 'When tears roll, tension pours out,' she said. Clare said talking to a friend online, had allowed 'tears to come naturally'. Carole; a relational psychotherapist, described what we're going through, and what's to come, as 'a major mental health issue. She predicts more tears ahead; and lots of them. 'Tears and weeping', she said, 'are essential and, ideally, noisy, wet, long and loud '.

So back to that Zoom call with my mates, that I cancelled, after thinking my mood might spoil the jolly catch up we'd all planned. The truth is, the three of us have already shared so many tough times and tears together --from tears of sadness, to tears of uncontrollable mirth, laughing so hard our mascara melted. It's friends like these who would've been uniquely qualified to cheer me up yesterday. Or to just understand that I felt a bit glum.

Probably time to reschedule.

(PS: There was a brilliant response to my Twitter post about crying --thankyou so much, whether you're mentioned here, or not, for getting in touch. And special thanks to Julie--another fantastic friend who's always 'been there' for me. Spotting on Twitter that I was planning to write about crying....she 'casually' fixed a check-in call with me. As if she was just passing. What a great buddy she is...)

Volunteering at #parkrun: my view from 'the other side' .

2020-01-28T08:53:00.000+00:00

Parkrun couldn't run....without volunteers.

Even so, as a new runner with just three events under my belt, I'd planned on getting my speed up a bit before joining the hi-viz heroes

But a minor knee problem meant no running for me last Saturday and, instead, gave me the chance to bring my first volunteering shift forward. Would I shiver on the sidelines and feel frustrated that I wasn't on the course? No. And here's why.

It was a bit damp and chilly, but I was wrapped up in a duvet-thick coat (and that hi-viz), and swapped my trainers for heavier hiking shoes. I was one of the marshalling team, planted on a corner to make sure people headed the right way.

One thing I've learned from my first three parkruns here is this: encouragement is contagious. I've been bowled over by the smiles, support, warm words and cheers from marshals along the route every time, and was damn sure that, standing on 'the other side', I was going to give some of it back.

It wasn't long before the speedy set hurtled past on the first circuit of our repeated course. 'Well DONE.....' I heard myself yelp...slamming my gloved hands together in a muted thud of applause, with, a rather gobsmacked: 'Blimey, you're so....FAST...! '

'Thank you, Marshal,' said one, without missing a beat, making me feel quite important. And then, as I ripped my gloves off to clap, and shouted a bit louder about a slippy bit, more thank yous came back. Some loud and clear, some breathless, whispered, grateful gasps: parkrunners are so polite!

There were the club runners. The hobby runners. The couples, the families, the female friends. The young, long haired girl with the beaming smile, which got wider every time she went past (fast!), the dad, thundering along with his toddler in a buggy; the buddies, the joggers, the walkers, the stroll- along-and-talkers. The anguished cry of 'it's so FAR'...from a lady in pink. The promise back from me that if I could do it, anyone could. (And she did).

I watched some of the fastest participants complete the course, then head back down towards the woods again to find friends and family; to repeat their own steps and run their friends to the finish. Saw a bloke struggling a bit near the end, but who still managed to wish me a great weekend. And I even felt a bit teary as the tail-walkers came into view; they were there, as ever, to make sure no-one ever finishes last.That's the brilliant thing about a parkrun: great running, for sure. But a great community spirit, too.

This was heightened even more by a pre-run tin collection for the local foodbank, and the presence of a local cricket team, fundraising by brewing hot tea and coffee for donations.

Apart from marshalling duties, volunteers are needed to set up, pack up, mark the course, scan barcodes, take photographs, write reports and more. Even though I hope to run again next week, I'll definitely join the hi-viz heroes again soon. For a newbie, it's not just an awesome masterclass in running: it's a pretty fine masterclass in teamwork, too.

Photographer: Ben Coates

Mud, sweat and cheers: my first #parkrun

2019-12-29T16:49:00.001+00:00

Despite having pounded around the same track as Dina Asher-Smith (OK, same school; very different decade)..... I'm a terrible runner.

But precisely because of inspirational people like Dina, Adam Gemili, Martyn Rooney, Laura Muir et al, I've always adored watching athletics, whether I'm screaming my support at the stadium, or from my sofa.

So why has my own running never been anything to shout about? Maybe because I just wasn't 'born to run'. Or maybe because at school, I was part of the group at the start of 'double athletics' who, when told to go and warm up with a brisk 400 metres, would veer across the track in a sneaky shortcut, before the teacher even got outside. (I bet Dina never did that....)

That memory came back to me on Saturday, as I faced my first 5k parkrun. It was a chilly, misty morning, and our first task was to leg it around the perimeter of a sizeable school field. Even if I'd had the cheek to attempt my secondary school shortcut in front of 144 other runners and an army of smiling, cheering volunteer marshals, it would have made my attendance there, pointless.

I've run alone, with friends, and at two different running clubs in other counties; never achieving any great distance or speed. The will is there but the style, the staying power, and the puff? Not so much.

So why bother again? Three reasons. I've recently lost 9.5 kg in weight and want to keep that off, with a more active lifestyle. I'd heard about parkruns, and how supportive they can be. But above all, my youngest daughter, Alice, was staying for the weekend, and as a regular at her own parkrun in Leeds, had offered to run alongside me at our new, local event.

There were cheers at the start for first-timers, for runners from other parkrun events and for the youngest in the crowd .We started with smiles, even though the drizzle soon seeped into our trainers, making the going decidedly squelchy. The rain had made the most gentle slopes shine with soft, slippy mud. A few gasps, and my lungs were filling with icy air. I asked to stop a few times to walk, to catch my breath. But Alice's smiles, encouragement, and even breathing tips, kept coming. So too, applause, warm words, and shouts of 'keep going, ladies' from the brilliant marshals right along the route. Even the fastest runners looping round us on their second lap, yelled 'well done; keep going!' as they thundered past. At one point Alice shot one of her beaming smiles at me and yelled 'you're doing SO well....!' and I gulped...(and yeh, wiped some *drizzle* from my eye...) remembering shouting the same words at her on school sports days.

But there was no time to get soppy....the home strait was in sight, and somehow, with Alice's encouragement, I managed the closest I could get to a 'sprint' finish.

Verdict? I completely understand why the parkrun movement has grown so fast. This isn't about winning or losing, how you look, who you are, or even how you reach that finishing line. It's about trying to be the best you can be. And while you're being buoyed up by encouragement along the way, it's about remembering to do the same for others--because for those 22, 32, 42 or even, OK, 47 minutes, you're all on the same track; all part of the same community.

So even though Alice will be back at her own parkrun next week, at 9 o' clock sharp, like thousands of others around the country, she'll be there at her starting line, 160 miles away; right beside me.

How to 'Escape to the Country'-- when you don't know a soul.

2017-09-11T09:29:00.003+01:00

Ever tried moving to a completely new area......where you don't know a single person?

I've recently left a county where I spent half my life working, raising a family and forging close and long-lasting friendships.

But sometimes, your life turns a right angle, for all kinds of reasons. And so suddenly, I'm a hundred miles from a place I once thought I'd never leave. New house. New partner. New life. And neither of us has any connection whatsoever, to where we are.

Some people seem to make a habit of moving. It comes with the job if you're in the forces--I know people who've packed and unpacked their worldly goods and started afresh, dozens of times. Often, though, there's a forces 'family' around them to offer support and friendship and an understanding of their challenges and changes.

Then there are the compulsive house improvers--always looking for a new project, and happy enough to start it in a new area, maybe with a business attached. Or those whose careers require them to move up the ladder in different regions of the country every few years. Meeting new colleagues.

But in our case, we can both work pretty successfully from home. Loads of advantages to that. But no new work buddies to meet, in the canteen queue. Oh, and on top of that, it's a tiny village with a smaller than usual potential pool of friends to get to know. So this really is a case of starting over.

But in spite of the fact that there are just around 820 people in the place we now live, happily, six weeks in, it's all going OK.

Sure, it helps that we're pretty sociable, and curious about the people, and the world around us. But this little village has given us the best kind of welcome. The day after moving in, a lady called Susan popped round with a lemon drizzle cake and a card. 'This is from the village,' she said, 'to welcome you'. Another lady round the corner dropped a card through the letterbox to say hello, and to let us know that she'd call in soon.

The local cafe has turned out to be a real hub. Staff there have lived here a long time, and seem to know everyone, and where to find a builder, or a locksmith, or a taxi firm. The same cafe has pizza and one meal-supper nights. We signed up for those, and within days, found ourselves seated at a table full of people with stories to share. One invited us round for a cuppa and a chat. Working outside our new cottage, people have stopped to introduce themselves, and ask how the unpacking's going. (Slowly, actually...I'm still missing all my fabulous winter boots and a couple of cosy coats...)

So why here? We're lucky that the village is so friendly and has its fair share of social events going on--but we did our research.

We lived 200 miles apart from each other, and so we started looking somewhere in the middle, because our number one priority was to be within reach of our daughters--we have four between us. Each of them is now carving out a life of their own, making us empty nesters, but we were determined that they could all get to us, and vice versa, by car or train, and that we had a good link to London for regular, but not daily work trips and social outings, too. We travel abroad a fair bit for our travel website--we whizzed round the world in just 57 days last year--so airports needed to be within range for us.

Once we'd decided to try and immerse ourselves in a village that had a social life...AND was close to that link to London in just over an hour, the bottom line for whichever house we chose, is that it had to pass the 'pint of milk and a paper' test. Both of those items, in some kind of village general store, had to be within easy walking distance. And of course, a pub was essential--as another means of getting to know people. And the local beer, obviously...!

So welcome to the Cotswolds. To a village that has a great pub, a school, a church, sports clubs, a brilliant cafe with great coffee and those social evenings, and, as a fabulous bonus, a separate, community owned shop selling fresh produce, an incredible array of cheeses, home baked bread, cakes, pies and freshly and locally created 'ready' meals. And although we have a car, there's a regular bus service into a bustling Cotswolds market town just four miles down the road, with its own thriving theatre, and great pubs, shops and restaurants.

Luckily--after enthusiastic, daily sampling of all of that lovely local fare, there are also stunning walks at every turn--with a network of footpaths to try. Also, glorious, historic houses, and more honey-stoned Cotswolds towns and villages to get to know, too.

But above all, there's a great mix: people in marketing, IT, education, publishing, small businesses, and complementary medicine; and people who've retired. People whose families have lived here for generations, and people who, like us, moved in only months ago.

Nigel has a desk and his PC, and soon a new study, for his business calls. I have a newly fitted voiceover studio in the old boot room: state of the art recording gear drilled into 200 year old Cotswold stone walls. Away from our individual workspaces, ideas for www.thetimeofourlives.net , our travel website, get thrashed out over coffee at the kitchen table. The site's growing well, with our next trip, to Sri Lanka, being planned.

We'll definitely feel the winter chill on our return, so need to order logs for the woodburner. Someone at the shop's bound to have a name. And I need to find those piles of winter woollies. They'll be in a box. Somewhere.....

Yes: Cry for Matthew. Just don`t forget him.

2017-07-19T14:00:00.000+01:00

Heard about the CRY charity? It works hard to spot potentially fatal heart problems in young people. Today, five years after his untimely death, I'm republishing my blog about Matthew-because he, like other young people who have died suddenly--needs to be remembered. Matthew's mum Sue Dewhirst is a leading light in the charity, and I was proud to meet her and moved forever by her story. Please read it, and think about whether someone special to you, should be screened. It could save their life.

Sorting out unwanted clothes for a charity sale was the easy bit.

Here's where it gets tougher: telling the story behind the event.

I'd read about Matthew Dewhirst; a 17 year old Shropshire student; highly accomplished at sport and music, and a loving, only son to Sue and Chris. He was also, I discovered, occasionally, 'class clown' to his mates.

With his talent for rugby and his passion for weightlifting, he might have hit the sporting headlines in years to come.

Instead, his name became known for being an apparently superfit teenager who collapsed and died during a pre-season rugby training course.

Handing over some clothes and sharing a coffee with Sue at the family home in St Martin's, she told me Matthew had shown occasional signs of health problems for years, such as fainting on the pitch and feeling chest pains. He'd been screened, tested and told he was dehydrated, stressed, or suffering from migraine.

Even when he felt unwell the night before he died, Sue found herself repeating the same old medical advice to him: 'You know what the problem is, Matthew,' she`d told him.'You HAVE to drink more'.

The next day: in July 2012, news came which would change their lives forever: Matthew had collapsed and died suddenly--one of 12 young people who do so every week in the UK because of undetected heart problems. Like the cases of presenter Gabby Logan's young brother Daniel, who died during a kickabout with his footballing dad at 15, and the nearly fatal,78 minute collapse of football player Fabrice Muamba, no heart condition had previously been spotted.

It's hard, whether you're a parent or not, even to imagine the pain of losing a child. It's arguably even more devastating to consider that kind of grief when, as Sue and Chris did, you've gone through nine IVF attempts to conceive that precious child in the first place.

'I remember, just before getting pregnant, being at the IVF clinic and the consultant saying he was hopeful this latest attempt would work,' Sue said. 'He told me things had been going well with his patients. He was "on a roll".'

Sure enough, Matthew followed; and was soon mastering, then excelling at most things he attempted: from sport, to maths, and music. I suggested he sounded really special: a golden boy.

'He could be a little sod at times,'Sue laughed, eyes sparkling, regaling stories of Matthew's seemingly endless energy, his need to be active, his stubborn streak. Always, though, happy, loving and loved.

I'd covered every kind of story as a journalist, but had still arrived here with a precautionary tissue up my sleeve. With a 17 year old of my own at the time, I had absolutely no plans to ask Sue 'how it feels' to lose one. I didn't have to. She told me that days after Matthew died, a doctor insisted that 'no one could have done anything'. They got, she assured me, 'both barrels'.

Sue and Chris run their own architectural design company, but Sue had always found time to be a charity supporter and organiser too. Since Matthew died, she's thrown her skills, positivity and any gaps she has between business trips, into CRY--Cardiac Risk in the Young. She's delivered talks and helped arrange sales, sporting and social events, netting more than £40,000 in the process.

This small charity battles hard to raise awareness of undetected heart problems; and to offer screening sessions around the country, supported by cardiac specialists who give their time to carry out the tests. If problems are spotted, help can be given; lives, potentially, saved--the charity claims that its tests find many more potential problems than conventional screening can.

Each test costs £35, or a donation on the day. To keep them running, CRY needs funding; cake sales, evening events, walks, runs, clothes sales....money raised is saving lives.

As our chat ended, a glance round the couple's immaculate home shows every superficial sign of 'business as usual'.Two lively, happy dogs, waggily post-walk; grinning at me through glass doors. Talk of a possible round of golf that afternoon. A heavy bag of delicious garden-grown veg that I'm handed to take home.

Sue's hoping as many people as possible will support CRY fundraisers. But she has another wish too: for people to remember Matthew's story--and to push for heart screening if they're worried about symptoms-- especially if they're playing sport regularly.

Maybe that's something you could help with? Tell people about CRY. Find out about screenings this November, and again in May and August next year. Retweet this blog if you can. And always remember Matthew.

Thankyou.

CRY UK. FIND OUT MORE AT www.testmyheart.org

COMMENTS AND INTERACTIONS ON TWITTER ABOUT THIS BLOG:

‏@dewysue

Thank you @janemcintyre12 for http://www.lovemymondays.blogspot.co.uk  keeping the memory of Matt alive.

Sharon McGuinness and 7 others retweeted you

Cry for Matthew: just don`t forget him  http://www.lovemymondays.blogspot.co.uk  @gabbylogan @davidwalliams @CRY_UK @dewysue #shropshire

‏@SharonMcG1971

@janemcintyre12 Important stuff. Young lad on my friend’s corridor in Halls of Residence died in the night with similar complaint. Only 19.

‏@karenellaB

@janemcintyre12 @GabbyLogan @davidwalliams @CRY_UK @dewysue well that made me sit up, listen and take note. With best wishes to Sue x

‏@BeezzzzzBee

@janemcintyre12 Met friends of friends at a wedding last week who've gone through the same with their 12yr old last year... Horrendous. X

‏@BeezzzzzBee

@janemcintyre12 Absolutely! Here in Belgium they've recently set up a programme for kids to be tested. Great idea. X

Jane McIntyre ‏@janemcintyre12 48m

@Casserly_Rock thanks for the blog RT, James. Much appreciated.
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James Casserly ‏@Casserly_Rock 44m

@janemcintyre12 Not at all. It's something important and more awareness is needed.

Jane McIntyre ‏@janemcintyre12 16m

@lauraxsav thankyou x
Expand
=^..^= ‏@lauraxsav 13m

@janemcintyre12 you're welcome. One of my little brother's friends died of an unexpected heart condition a couple of years ago during PE.
Jane McIntyre ‏@janemcintyre12 11m

@lauraxsav that's the third such case I've heard today just among Twitter friends since publishing my blog. Shocking.

=^..^= and 5 others retweeted you

12 young people are dying every week from undetected heart problems. Please read about Matthew+help spread the word. http://www.lovemymondays.blogspot.co.uk 

Jane McIntyre ‏@janemcintyre12 43m

@karenellaB thanks again, Karen. Lots of people have read Matthew's story today, thanks to RTs from you & others @dewysue #12aweek.
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Karen Higgins ‏@karenellaB 31m

@janemcintyre12 @dewysue beautifully written piece and an incredibly worthwhile cause being bravely brought into sight and mind.

‏@tracysim1 Protected Tweets

@janemcintyre12 made me sit up and read it. 
Thoughts are with Sue and her family x

Helen Murray and 11 others retweeted you

12 young people are dying every week from undetected heart problems. Please read about Matthew+help spread the word. http://www.lovemymondays.blogspot.co.uk 

Lee ‏@leelovesjerry 57m

@janemcintyre12 My mum had hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. Hocom. Had to have a difib fitted. Gave her an extra 10 more years :-)

9:42 PM - 1 Sep 2014 · Details
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Jane McIntyre ‏@janemcintyre12 56m

@leelovesjerry how scary. But great that help was there. Thankyou.
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Lee ‏@leelovesjerry 53m

@janemcintyre12 She used to pass out. I'd hope she'd still be there when I came home from school. Hurrah for medical science! :-) x
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Jane McIntyre ‏@janemcintyre12 52m

@leelovesjerry.blimey...yes.x

‏@fern_dell

Oh how would ya cope ...so moving http://www.lovemymondays.blogspot.co.uk  written by @janemcintyre12

+Find about more about Cardiac Risk in the Young here:

+And try and get along to support CRY events if you can:

Mum's Gone to Glasto. (But was once enough..?)

2017-06-21T08:00:00.000+01:00

Yes...it was three years ago. And yes, I loved it! Why...and then what?

The Mud: I'd heard about it. But went anyway. And while there was plenty of the squelchy stuff for a couple of days, the sun shone too, so the mud turned to clay. People wore wellies. And the bands played on.

The Music: Imagine the world's biggest pick 'n' mix candy counter. But instead of sweeties, you get the most varied range of music of every shade, every genre. Just pop them all in your Glastonbury bag and shake them up a bit. And make sure there are a few you've never sampled before.

The Other Bits: It's more than music. There's a whole array of street theatre acts, poetry and film. A massive polar bear in the Greenpeace area. A marching kazoo band. Two Del-boy types offering to take your car keys and 'mind your motor'. Tea ladies gossiping round their trolley. A girl juggling knives while dangling upside down. Women on stilts. Men in kilts.

The Food: What can't you get at Glasto? It's as varied as the music. From vintage cream teas to Beirut street food. Noodles. Pies. Thai. Dig in.

The Tents: Every shape and size. Up close and personal. Our 'base camp' boasted three, of the pop-up variety. Up in seconds. Leaked like sieves.

The Cost: It seems like a lot, when you`re shelling out over £200 for a ticket. But I saw 19 acts over three days--with more music at every turn. I've totted up how much that would have cost me at individual gigs. Way more. And you got 'accommodation' here, too. Kind of :)

The Vibe: Friendly, smiley, positive-whether you're standing in a field mid thunderstorm, wading through a quagmire or queuing for food. The staff, marshals, stallholders all seemed to have time for you. Asked how it was going; who you'd seen. If you had the wrist-band, you were part of a special community, looking out for each other, helping when you could. Fantastic.

The Toilets: I've seen better. And I've seen worse--at motorway service stations in France, for instance. Look. The longdrops ain't pretty. And you may have to queue for a flushing loo. But pack your Andrex and your antibacterial hand gel...and get on with it. Unless you have an *en suite* in your tent, of course. Rumour has it that *some* had dinky funnels and Fanta bottles close by. And bright torches, therefore, obviously. You wouldn't wanna...well, quite.

The Sex: (As in the song by The 1975...) was one of the most memorable ones of the whole festival for me. Expose yourself, musically, to something new. Fantastic young, energetic band.

The Drugs: More than a 'little weed'.And plenty of other stuff too, it seemed, along with a reported drug related death. If it's not your scene, (and it's not mine) steer clear, but don't be surprised to see it.

The Rock n' Roll: See above.From the incredible energy of the Kaiser Chiefs and Kasabian, John Newman and

Ed Sheeran, to the enduring coolness of Blondie and Bryan Ferry, to Plant and the Pyramid packing Parton. Glastonbury veterans reckoned they hadn't seen the Pyramid field that full in years. Everyone loved 'Jolene'. The ground shook when she sang '9-5'.

The Daughters: Two. One in late teens at the time; one mid twenties. Cautious at first when I told them I was off to Glasto with a woman I'd only 'met' on Twitter...but were then helpful with a backpack loan; harem-pant advice (!) and one even Tweeted about her tinge of envy while I was there.

The Friends: You could do Glasto solo. But it seems more fun with friends. You don`t have to stay joined at the hip, after all. The Glastonbury App helps you plan your own 'gig list'--and you can go your separate ways, meet up again, compare notes and scoff 99s together in the rain. You'd be hard pushed to find better festival friends than Michelle and Meg, though. Not only did they guide me through my first Glasto; they shared their home nearby with me--and pretty much everything in it-- when the weather turned. Top act (of kindness), M & M. Thankyou xxx

Oh yes...and that question right at the top. Would I go back? Well ...loads has happened since then. Including whizzing round the world in 57 days (using toilets in some places that were WAY worse...) So....I'll be watching coverage on telly this year. And I never say never.... :)

Die laughing....

2017-06-06T11:51:00.000+01:00

When I go, I would like to die laughing

(No, not right at this moment in time….)

But when my number’s up

Can it be down the pub,

Cracking jokes, as I croak,

With white wine?

Could I find a sure way to die laughing

With my feet up, in front of the box?

Could my heart go all racy

With some Gavin and Stacey

And then, when credits roll,

Could it stop?

And so, when it's my day to die laughing,

Could it be when I’ve reached 99….

…but still dancing with friends

Till the un-bitter end,

With bare feet, and red lippie, round mine?

Oh, and can all those I love, just die laughing?

No disease, no disaster, no shocks,

When they’re mellow, and old,

With a warm hand to hold

Knowing it’s time, without checking the clock?

Thanks.

Jane McIntyre.

June 6, 2017.

So I've just been out to support my local High Street.

2017-05-02T13:32:00.001+01:00

I live in Ludlow, where retailers are facing punishing rate rises. Many are asking customers to sign counter-top petitions against the increases, which I've already done. There are some excellent independent stores in this medieval market town and some incredible produce at the local market, and I'm happy to support as many of them as I can.

But traders are facing a tough time. The local branch of HSBC is one of scores around country due to close down soon. And if twenty minutes in town today is anything to go by, things could well get tougher as customers choose to shop and bank online.

I needed to make three stops in town--for an item of make-up which my daughter can't source in Paris, which I'm taking out to her when I visit at the weekend. For two small gifts for friends. And for some euros, for the French trip.

....here's what happened.

First: the make up. It was a Boot's own brand item. But this is a small branch of the chain, and their stock is limited. This one wasn't available. I waited to speak to an assistant. She went online, and ordered the product under their 'Click and Collect' scheme. It probably would have been quicker to do this online from home...but anyway, it's due in store tomorrow. So I'll go back in.

Next: gifts for friends I'm seeing tonight. I opted for little boxes of handmade chocolates from a local store with a great range of confectionery.

Flavours selected and packed, I offered my card. Cash only. There was a cashpoint at the One Stop (I wish...) supermarket, a few doors down. I belted along--but the machine outside was out of order. There's a post office at the back of the store, but the queue was long. I grabbed some washing powder, paid for it, and got cashback at the till. Then belted back for my chocolates. (Which look great.)

Last job : Euros, for my trip to Paris this weekend. Last time I needed some, I visited Thomson's travel agent in Ludlow. The woman who served me that time, was professional, speedy and charming, so I popped back in.

The shop was empty, except for the five uniformed, smiling, welcoming members of staff. Not sure which one to pick, I told the assistant in the middle that I just needed to buy some euros.

"Ah--we haven't actually got any at the moment," she explained. "We'll have some in on Friday."

This was Tuesday. I fly on Friday. I thanked them-- all of them-- and whizzed across the road to a branch of Nat West. It went like this:

Me: 'Hi--I just need to buy some euros, please.'

Assistant : 'OK--do you bank with us?'

Me: 'No, but my bank doesn't have a branch here.'

Assistant : 'Ah, OK, but we can only sell euros to our own customers, because we don't have a way of debiting your card, as you're with another bank.'

Me: 'Hmm. OK. So...if I whizz back outside, and withdraw cash from your machine, and come back in with it, can I buy some euros from you, please?'

Assistant : 'Well.....how much did you want?'

Me :'Only £75 worth.'

Assistant : 'I can't really, because you see, it's using our stock of euros, which are really meant for our own customers.'

Me : 'Yes but...there isn't a branch of my bank here.'

Assistant : 'You could try the post office'.
.
Me: 'I've been in there for something else. There was a very long queue and I need to get home now.'

Assistant :'Sorry.'

BANK CUSTOMER AT ADJOINING TILL POINT ENTERS CONVERSATION.

Second bank customer : 'Hang on,' (waves bunch of euros at me as bank staff behind glass look on.....)--do you just want to buy some euros?'

Me: 'Yes'.

Second bank customer : 'I've just come in here to change mine back into sterling. Do you want to buy some from me ?'

Me: 'Yes please. I'll pop out to the cashpoint and get out £80 and we'll sort it out over there by the chairs...ok?'

So I did. We calculated a mutually acceptable exchange rate--better for both of us than she would have got over the counter. The bank customer wished me a lovely holiday. She continued on her way, and I came home to record a voiceover job.

For an online shopping app.

End of story.

Two days, three women, one message.

2017-03-13T18:44:00.000+00:00

I've been thinking hard about three women I've talked to in the past couple of days.

They are facing very different challenges in their lives. But one of their situations puts the others' in perspective, somehow.

The first woman lives in my town, and has done the same job, in the same workplace, for more than 20 years, with hardly any changes in working practices there in that time. For instance, there is minimal use of IT; and there have been few improvements or updates in workplace furniture and equipment. She has skills and experience to offer and commands a reasonable income: one which secures her a couple of decent holidays abroad each year. She has a partner and kids she speaks fondly about, her own home, a car, and some good days out. But competition in her field is fierce, and the company's client base is dwindling.

I'd met her in the street on her way to work. "Hi", I ventured. "How are things with you?"

"Oh you know," she said, gloomily. "Same old. Nothing changes, does it?"

I bit my lip for a moment, and changed tack...asking about her weekend plans. It turned out she'd been given tickets for a major sporting event. One that some might give their eye teeth for. "I'm not that keen, actually," she said. "To be honest, it bores me. But I suppose I'll have to go to it....."

And off she went; even more gloomily, mumbling that she needed a fag before "going in there".

As I meandered home, I wondered if she'd ever tried to initiate change at work; seek advice; acquire new skills, or change jobs completely. Maybe it would make her life happier. She could choose to do that. And also, choose when to say a polite but firm "no thankyou" when she's invited to events that she doesn't enjoy. But she'll probably carry on spending 40 hours a week grumbling about her job and her social life. That's a sad waste of time, isn't it?

The second woman is a much loved friend of mine. We keep in touch via social media, but hadn't seen each other for more than a year, so arranged to meet for coffee. My friend has worked in the public sector all her life: in the NHS and in local government, re-inventing herself, re-training along the way, and achieving senior roles. She's loved her work. She's always been a loving, caring person, and is proud that her work makes a real difference to people's lives.

But she's becoming increasingly frustrated about budget cuts, about seeing bright colleagues having to re-apply for their own posts, then failing, and being made redundant. Like most of us, she knows people who give 110% every working day--then get sick, or too 'old', or just too tired, to enjoy the retirement they've worked towards. And she doesn't want to become one of them.

She knows she'll worry about the people she'll no longer be able to help. But she also knows that's

she's earned a break. She's done some financial calculations, and, even though she's years away from retirement age; she's found a way to live on less. And she's going to walk away.

She says she might do a bit of part time work at first. But most days, she's going to turn off her alarm. Have days with her friends and family, and days alone. Days walking. Days baking. Days driving to the coast for a paddle and a 99 with a flake. And days doing bugger all. She's going to change her life, and do what she chooses.

And so to the third woman--a passing acquaintance I exchange a brief hello with from time to time. She's lived a reasonably comfortable life in a reasonably comfortable market town in middle England. She's elegant. Accomplished. Sociable. She has children who are now young adults, whose company she enjoys. She's in her fifties. And she has early-onset dementia.

At this moment, she has a diagnosis, but little clue whether her condition is going to move forward gently, or gallop ahead. She has no idea whether, if her children have children of their own, she will manage to remember their names. Or even live to see them at all.

She didn't expect dementia. And no one would ever choose it. There is nothing she can do to reverse her diagnosis, and no sure way of knowing what her future holds.

I'm not saying it's easy to walk away from a job...or snap your fingers and find another one. We all have financial responsibilities that shape the way we spend our time and our money.

But you have one life. And not a huge amount of control over its length. You might chortle your way through to a hundred. Or face one of life's nastier right-angles this time tomorrow. So..... quit grumbling. Redirect your energy instead into finding people, places, work and play that make you smile.

On Facebook, these comments:

Debbie Mitchell great blog post. Really rings true xx

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Jane McIntyre xxx

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Frances Food for thought Jane. I'm just at the stage now where I'm ready to throw in the towel at work. X

LikeReply35 mins

Helen Towel thrown...1 week 2 days to go!!! 🤗

LikeReply126 mins

Frances Well done Helen

LikeReply24 mins

Jo Cunningham Wise words my friend. I intend to take your advice!

Lisa Silvester Tresise Time passes so quickly and it's quite confronting that we only have this one life to do something that inspires us. I've had many opinions on why I have gone back to Uni at 40 but if I'm getting older anyway I may as well be doing something I love and making an actual difference in people's lives. 😘😘

Carol Holliday 27 April! Counting the days. Xx

Samantha Bentall Great blog post Jane. Thanks for reminding us to make the most of every day

Thanks for responding, ladies....and why am I not surprised that there are ping-ping-pings from my friends and family...who are all positive and upbeat about life ....and are bloody well making the most of it? I guess that's why I love you!!! x

Thirty years without a mum...but the love's still there.

2017-02-10T07:00:00.000+00:00

How do you feel, when someone so pivotal in your life....disappears suddenly, cruelly from it?

You feel cheated. Cheated because, selfishly, they're no longer there to support and comfort you. And angry for them, too, that they've gone too soon. Gone before they achieved half of the things they wanted to do. Gone because, while they were trying their best to fight it, the cancer hurt them. Scared them. Scarred them. Then consumed them.

Today it's thirty years since mum died of breast cancer at 55. She was diagnosed seven years before that--just before she was due to marry Bertie. He'd lost his first wife to breast cancer, and she thought hard about whether she should go through with it; whether it would be fair to him if things didn't work out. She was like that, our Jeannie. Putting other people first; worrying about their feelings. We talked to her doctors, went to the appointments. But no matter how much we thought we knew, the call that brought news of her sudden death, that grey February day, was still a world-stopping shock.

We hadn't talked about death. Didn't want to consider it.

I think she was trying to start a conversation about it one day when she was feeling rotten and the chemo and the drugs and the surgery weren't fighting as hard as she was. 'I'm sorry that things are...you know...not looking so good,' she said--thinking of us. I can't remember what I said. Probably told her not to be silly, not to talk like that. I should have been brave enough to hear what she wanted to say. But I wasn't, so I put the kettle on and told her the snowdrops were coming up. Not suspecting that, this winter, they would see her out.

I could have stayed angry all of those thirty years, at our loss; the unfairness of it. I used to feel huge pangs of envy, soon after she died, spotting mothers and daughters out shopping; laughing in coffee shops, snatching a bite in their lunchbreaks like we used to do. We were all working in London, then. Jeannie,(the pet name Bertie used instead of Jean; one that we teasingly adopted too...) was (proudly) at the shiny, new Nat West Tower. She'd worked in the City most of her life. I was a young reporter on a doctor's paper in Soho, and would jump in a cab to and from EC2. My sister Ali worked in advertising--so we'd all meet there, laughing, often, that we'd turned up in the same colour. We barely had time to grab a snack within the confines of a London lunch hour, but it was worth every second. Nearly every time, she'd find someone at the bank to introduce us to--'showing us off', in our skirts and heels and lippie. When I joined the BBC and left London, she'd send me cards. Some had a fiver or tenner stuffed in the envelope...with an instruction to 'buy a cornet'. She was proud of her daughters, as I am of mine.

And, so, I could have stayed angry, that she never met her grandchildren. Not just Juliet and Alice, but my sister's son Chris. She would have loved them so much; been so proud of what they've all achieved. Angry that not just mum, but two of her sisters lost their lives to breast cancer, too. Angry that I couldn't ever call her for a chat, for advice, to share my great news and the stuff that made me sad. But anger; like cancer, can consume you, too. So it's OK in short, fiery flashes, I reckon...but not good for you if it drags on.

Instead, I've tried to do some important, more constructive things to take the place of anger at losing my mum too soon. Firstly; I try to stay close and true not just to my sister, whose memories are so similar to mine, but to my extended family. Jeannie was one of nine: six girls, three boys. Two remain. All of her siblings, and all of my cousins, and their children--are fabulous, funny, precious people. We're spread across the UK, Europe, Australia and the USA now, so social media keeps us connected between meet ups. Every day, those messages make me laugh. And while breast cancer took three of the six sisters, a fourth smashed it. Beat it twice. Told it who was boss. She's over ninety now. And looks amazing. Yep, breast cancer, take THAT.

Next: I try never to waste a second. Time, like people, is also precious.There's nothing like losing a mum too early, and then having a few hair-raising health scares yourself, to make you want to grab opportunities; to be only with people who warm your heart, and to travel. Not someday.This day. I'm glad Jeannie got the chance to do that, through Bertie's work. I still have her diary from a trip to New York--she went on Concorde and managed to phone me, so excitedly, before they took off. She went to San Francisco too--a place I had to add to the list when I did some travelling of my own a few months ago. She, like me, last September, would have hummed the Judy Garland song from a fast moving trolley as she held on tight, down those hills.

So, thirdly, if the person you've loved and lost is your mum: try to remember how strong that love felt. Her unconditional, motherly love didn't falter, even through the teenage years when I screamed stuff at her that I regretted in an instant. Lied to her, too, like when she spotted a packet of 10 'More Menthol' cigarettes poking out of my coat pocket and I swore blind that they belonged to Carol (actually, we'd gone halves)....even though my coat reeked of (slightly minty) smoke. She didn't even really mind that I'd changed the 13% to 43% on the physics exam result on my school report before I showed it to Dad. She just reminded me how good I was at English, instead.

So even though mum's been missing for most of my adult life...I'm here, and I can live by her values,(OK...forging a school report wasn't our greatest collaboration....) and be there, instead, for my own daughters. I love to tell them, and tell the world, that, every day, they make me proud. I send them cornet money sometimes too. Bank transfers, mainly. And no, I never found any fags in their pockets.

How about you? Ever been loved that much, by someone who's no longer around? If you remember that love... feel lucky. But above all: pass it on.

One fabulous family: Jim, Vic, Tony, Jeannie, Sheilah, Bette, Rita, Marjorie, Joan.

Alice, Juliet, me.

Jenefer Kell Lots of love to you both xxxx

LikeReply10 February at 10:24

Jane McIntyre Thanks Jen x

LikeReply10 February at 11:13

Annie Silvester Still bright and beautiful in my memories. Thinking of you xxx

‏@Casserly_Rock

@janemcintyre12 Thinking of you Jane and sending you *hugs* Your mother was obviously a wonderful, caring and thoughtful person x

‏@tracesi1

@janemcintyre12 big hugs xxxx

‏@abbyaug

A lovely blog - one that I can identify with.

‏@JHA111316

@janemcintyre12 A sad story full of love. Thank you for sharing

‏@Annette1Hardy

@janemcintyre12 Lovely post. x

Feb 10

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Lisa Silvester Tresise 😘

LikeReply10 February at 08:52

Jenefer Kell Lots of love to you both xxxx

LikeReply10 February at 10:24

Jane McIntyre Thanks Jen x

LikeReply10 February at 11:13

Annie Silvester Still bright and beautiful in my memories. Thinking of you xxx

LikeReply10 February at 17:31

Jane McIntyre That's sweet Annie. Thankyou xxx

LikeReply10 February at 17:55

Debbie Mitchell I can see where you and your girls got their beauty from. She was lovely. My mum was also called Jean, and she died from cancer at the age of 55. I miss her every day too. Much love to you petal xx

Debbie Mitchell we're still here though, able to enjoy sunny days and chocolate and friends and family

LikeReply10 February at 20:41

Write a reply...

Maureen Silvester · 11 mutual friends

Thank you Jane that is a poignant piece. Passing the love on is the best way of remembering xx

UnlikeReply110 February at 19:30

Jane McIntyre Flying the flag Deb! Currently in Camden about to boogie with Mark Kermode's skiffle band. Yeee hah !! X

LikeReply10 February at 22:04

Amy Borg · Friends with Debbie Mitchell and 4 others

Beautifully written, sorry for your loss. Haven't seen you for a long time but won't forget your warmth at radio Shropshire in the mornings and how welcoming you were. You certainly exude motherly love and your kids are very lucky x

LikeReply21 hrs

Jacqueline Williams Thank you Amy for commenting on this post as it enabled me to read it to. It's quite simply beautifully honest & I hope one of my FB friends gets to read it. Thank you Jane McIntyre x

LikeReply15 hrs

Jane McIntyre Gosh thankyou ladies. Amy..you rocked and am sure you still do xx

LikeReply114 hrs

Jo Cunningham Spot on pal!

Nancy Pant and 8 others liked your Tweet

There's no grave. I can't leave flowers today. So I did this. About love, loss, and pride.
http://www.lovemymondays.blogspot.co.uk 

Speaking Spanish, getting fresh, sexy moves...and no clothes.

2017-01-24T08:57:00.000+00:00

Have you abandoned your new year's resolutions yet? Maybe, like me, you don't usually bother with them.

But I had a rather delicious incentive this year to do things a little differently.

It was Claire's idea. She suggested that four of us meet up, over Prosecco. As corks popped, we would produce slips of paper, on which we'd written our personal New Year's resolutions. These would be read aloud to the group, ventured Claire, then "sniggered at, discussed randomly, signed, sealed, and committed into the dark recesses of a Resolutions Box, 2017". We would then meet a year later, see how we'd done.....and start the whole process again.

She had us at 'Prosecco,' frankly. But nevertheless....our resolutions were prepared, penned and produced with a flourish, at our favourite coffee house just days later. Chief protagonist and Prosecco pourer Claire kicked things off in verse--food and booze featuring strongly--but not quite as we'd expected.

Instead of giving up the sauce, Claire resolved to drink a glass of red wine every day, having convinced herself, and us, after a glass or two of fizz, that it would be "good for the health and the digestion." She'd already started eating fresh food every day, too, and was feeling 'revitalised....'.

One and a half bottles in...so were we. Sue-- a seasoned traveller--was already in the throes of planning a trip to Portugal, she revealed.... then a bigger trip--to Burma. She loved taking photographs on her travels, but readily admitted she wasn't making the most of the decent camera she had, or documenting her pictures for posterity on return. This was all due to change, she promised, adding a pledge to read more; organise her emails better...AND learn a new language. We drank to that.

And to Rose's plans, too, which, possibly, were the most eye-opening of the lot.

She lured us in gently: there'd be a walk each day....even if it was just to town and back.While she was at it, she'd shop locally, rather than at the large, budget supermarket that had become a bit of a guilty habit......AND, for good measure, she'd slap a strict weekly spending limit on herself. She'd keep a diary. PLUS--(we gulped here--Prosecco, mainly--at her next proclamation, in case she'd planned to replace us all)-- she'd resolved to forge new, nurturing, and probably female, friendships. (KEEP us!)

But probably the most radical of all the promises made that day...was Rose's decision to "buy no more clothes for the rest of 2017...". She had plenty already to sort through and wear, she reasoned...rounding her list off with a much applauded Polonius promise "...to thine own self be true...".

Four and a half glasses in....even though every resolution was being cheered rapturously...I was relieved that mine was short and sweet. Only two months before, I'd completed a whistlestop, round the world tour--something I'd always dreamed of doing. But..as the song goes '...there's such a lot of world...to see....'. Including..sometime.... South America. But you can't really go there without enjoying the music along the way. Especially when your partner is a proficient dancer and all-round party show-off. So my resolution for 2017 is to be prepared....by learning to dance a half decent, sexy samba. On the tables, this time next year, at Ludlow Cicchetti again, probably. As long someone clears the Prosecco bottles. And Sue leaves her camera at home....

So...how are YOU faring? Resolutely avoiding cakes, booze and pasta? Or steering clear of resolutions themselves? I tested the water today, by throwing that question out to friends and family on Twitter and Facebook.

Three weeks in...both Chris in Japan, and Carol in Reading, said they were still pondering over theirs. Carol suggested that I check in with her next Christmas. Jenefer and Angela said they just don't bother. Nor does Dave--adding, somewhat mournfully, that it would be "just one more thing to fail at." (Cheer up, mate!) At a time when many are opting to take part in 'dry January', Rich said he gave up on giving up." I questioned why I was doing it," he said, "and had no good reason!"

Juliet had a different approach. "I don't think you need a new year to start a new resolution or a change in lifestyle," she wrote--adding that she started her new workout routine to get fit for Christmas--"a nicer goal than just working out 'because it's January' ".

Bob agreed. "Rather than re-inventing the wheel every year with New Year resolutions, I've instead always tended towards setting a long-term compass bearing--and sticking to it," he said.

And then there was this, from Annie, who, thankfully...never takes life too seriously...

Whatever's in store for you this year....have a fabulous 2017!

Round the world in 57 days...really?

2016-08-31T13:48:00.002+01:00

Hello...and thanks for popping by.

I'm just getting ready for a quick whizz round the world. I'll be back on here again soon,but in the meantime.... fancy popping over to www.thetimeofourlives.net to find out about our trip?

If you click *follow* on that site, you'll be able to follow our progress....37,250 miles, 9 countries, three very different train tracks oh....and how about the post I wrote today about missing people...and even an English autumn.... while travelling.

See what you think? http://wp.me/p7ezGr-MV

Turn a different corner.....

2016-07-13T10:53:00.001+01:00

Ever been far from home....or far, far away in time from where you started....and you see a familiar face?

It just happened.

I was in my favourite coffee hang-out. I had no food in the house after a few days away... so I ordered breakfast too. While I ate, I chatted with the owner and chef, Martyn. We often compare notes about our London days....people we've met, places we've worked. Today we agreed that much of life: love, business, relationships...is down to timing. It was one of those conversations that drifts away into the middle distance...

A couple came in, and ordered food. The woman looked vaguely familiar--someone I'd been to school with, partied with, even holidayed with on a couple of cocktail fuelled teenage girls' package holidays.

Surely not. It had been more than thirty years. More than 200 miles.

I got up to pay, and tried to get a better look. It had been a long time; so I was probably wrong, and anyway, she probably thought I was a bit odd, staring back at her. I didn't want to interrupt their meal...so I left. I headed home, and three paces from my door, did an about turn and walked back up the hill, past the coffee shop and back again....and there she was. " Um.....you're ...not....erm....Sue...are you?", I tried, tentatively...now certain that I'd been right.

Yep, it was Sue. There with her partner....just days after they'd tied the knot, and in my now home-town for a brief honeymoon before heading back down south. In the few moments we had...we compared notes...jobs...children....homes...lives.

Coincidence? Fate? Both there for a reason? Or just a damn fine latte?

You can never be sure, really, can you? But I won't die wondering. And I know I'll be grinning about those "summer nights" for the rest of my Wednesday, now.

Ahhh.... timing....

You don't HAVE to take your clothes off....

2016-07-12T09:13:00.000+01:00

Women around me are lying oiled and topless.

The man beside me is stripping into shamelessly skimpy trunks; cologne reeking more strongly with each discarded layer.

This is Nice in November, and sitting alone and I'm feeling coy, British, and slightly overdressed.

Beach man half runs, half hobbles painfully over pebbles towards the glistening sea; arms flailing, throwing shapes like a drunken dad on the dance floor. After five minutes' immersion, he's mincing back over the stones to his sun-roasted shirt and shorts; scent still, inexplicably pungent.

Above the beach, the beautiful people are barely breaking sweat as they pound the Promenade des Anglais, happily lapping the designer clad walkers in the slower, 'no-look-at-me' lane, out to pose in size two Gucci, with poochie.

I'm now feeling overdressed, and overweight, in Nice.

I grab a comforting almond croissant and retreat to the cooler, shadier old town, for my own work-out: an ungainly clamber back up the near vertical, hamstring-stretching 39 steps to my rented top floor studio. It's five minutes and several centuries away from the city's blindingly bright yachts and designer stores; and thankfully so.

The sunlight's dappled here; dancing on higgledy terracotta terraces of homes so close you can inhale the heady aroma of someone else's supper; hear who`s coming… and (cue slamming door…) who's going. You can squint at the headlines in Monsieur's "Nice Matin", opposite; or the frilly flutter of Madame's smalls on their balcony line; blushingly close.

In fact, there`s such a patchwork of scenes unfolding, that I'm tempted to stock up on baguettes, cheese and fruit from the feast of stalls in the Cours Saleya , shout “ACTION!” and stay in this royal box of a balcony for the duration.

But with holiday clock ticking, I chase the bigger picture; the mesmerizing, breathtaking, sparkling sweep of city and shore from the wooded castle ruins high above the town. Far, far below, more beautiful beach people are home from school with their beautiful children, splashing and squealing as they play in the warm water.

Reluctant to leave the view, I dawdle down, stopping for a crisp, skinny slice of socca, and a fat scoop of sorbet .

That's supper sorted; superfluous the next day, though after a simple, filling lunch at another Nice surprise: The April knitting café (needles optional.)

Women, mainly, meet here, away from the bustle of the city's big squares and their

everlasting lunches, to chat, eat, and create something. Travelling alone, I find the female clientele comforting, especially when Lisa serves me her incredible cauliflower soup with bread and salad, then lemon cake and coffee. On the Ruelle de la Boucherie, this is a real sanctuary; a gem of a find.

I discover other Old Town treasures too; the minuscule but opulent, Genoese- Baroque Palais Lascaris, near tiny shops packed with soaps and shoes and spices. There are eye-popping displays for free at the gleaming Modern and Contemporary Art Museum, and just streets away, the Opera de Nice. I`m only here to ogle, but it's offering free concert tickets for that night. I grab one, gratefully, and return later, smarter; taking the tiny lift to the dizzy heights of the sixieme etage. My heart soars at magnificent Mozart from the Orchestre Philharmonique de Nice with its incredibly talented young guest soloists.

Show over, I scuttle back through the dark side streets to pack; woken for my morning flight by unsynchronised bells sounding seven, from two churches; overlapping noisily, boastfully, like squabbling children.

Later, airborne, I look back at the bay, and my break. One of sated senses and uncovered secrets; but with tankini untouched, none of them, mercifully, mine.

One of my favourite solo trips, and blogs from the last few years. Please dip in for more...or cross to thetimeofourlives.net to find out about our pretty big adventure #writearoundtheworld . ...and some pretty fab medium sized travel adventures, too....Thanks for reading !

COMMENTS:

‏@RCWMedia

@janemcintyre12 http://www.lovemymondays.blogspot.co.uk   @GirlsThatTravel  #travel #france #Nice > another rewarding read Ms M :)

‏@Onceatenor

@janemcintyre12 "unsynchronised bells...overlapping noisily...like squabbling children." An amazing felicity of expression.

Jennifer M: Loved it, Jane. I was transported there instantly. You’re a natural and a loss to the BBC.Keep travelling and (not) taking your clothes off….Regards Jennifer

Artist Helen Parry ‏@helenparryart15m

@janemcintyre12 thank you for the journey to Nice this morning, loved it :-)

The customer is always.....invisible..?

2016-07-05T18:03:00.002+01:00

I'm going round the world this autumn. (Sorry if you're the last one to know....) And that involves a lot of planning, budgeting....and buying stuff for the trip. I've got one small-ish bag to carry all my clobber in, so I'm breaking the habit of a lifetime and travelling reasonably light.

That means buying clothes that suit all weathers, can be washed and dried fast, and can move seamlessly from a mountain hike to dinner..... some time later.... in a swanky restaurant (now and again). Sheesh. Anyway, I knew that finding something that wouldn't let in the wind or rain but could do me a turn in sunny San Francisco would be tough. And pricey. And when you're spending a fair bit of dosh, and need advice, you really hope you're going to find someone helpful.

Take my Lowa walking boots. I bought them a few months back at Cotswold Outdoor in Tunbridge Wells. Strolled in. Told them exactly where I was going, how much walking I'd be doing, on what kind of terrain, and how much I had in my back pocket. Sorted. The guys there knew what they were talking about, walked a lot themselves, were happy to help, and within about half an hour, they had a sale. Look. Me and my boots at Loch Lomond. Happy as anything.

Today: Hereford. Mission: to buy a light, but very waterproof jacket, that was also breathable. Possibly a couple of pairs of those glamorous trousers that morph into shorts. And, if things went well, a fleecy top.

Three different outdoor type shops. Here's how I got on:

Shop 1: Two assistants. One admittedly busy on the till. Some good sale items on display. Tried to make eye contact and smile at Assistant Two. He looked away, said "Excuse me..." and squeezed past. To nowhere in particular. I meandered around for seven minutes or so....felt the merchandise, looked his way. Nothing. Left the shop.

Shop 2: Three assistants. All chatting. About childbirth and whether freckles were genetic, mainly. Some potential jackets in the sale. Tried one on. Looked their way. They chatted on. Put jacket back. Pulled out another one. Looked their way. Looked for Mary Portas. But the band played on. Nothing. Left the shop.

Shop 3: Four assistants. First caught my eye within moments. Came over, and asked if she could help. She was brilliant. Left me trying on jackets. Narrowed it down to a couple of options but couldn't find quite what I wanted. A second assistant took over, and confirmed that the one that might work for me was available online, at the same price, and could be delivered to my door. They (hello, Mountain Warehouse, Hereford...!) could not have been more helpful, informed, or charming. I knew there were a couple more shops to try and said I'd be back if I didn't have any luck. But I did. In one of those huge, apparently assistant-less, discount clothing stores. The service wasn't there, but the Regatta jacket was similar, and cheaper, so I bought it. A bit guiltily, to be honest, because the ladies in Shop 3 had been so good.

As for the rest of the gear I needed? I couldn't face going through all that again...so that's still on the list.

So. To shops that ignore their customers, please sharpen up your act. You're in a big battle with online sales and out of town outlets as it is. I have a budget, but it's limited, and while I don't want to be pounced on, I do want you to register that you've seen me.

Is that too much to ask? Is it just me? Or do you sometimes feel invisible, too?

(Oh...and the round the world bit. We leave on September 12th. Drop in on thetimeofourlives.net . We'll smile, say hello, and everything.....!)

You'll never walk alone? Women and safety.

2016-05-19T11:29:00.000+01:00

I've got a confession to make.

I'm just back from a fabulous couple of miles to kickstart my day. It's gloriously sunny, and my route took me across a little common, through a quiet, wooded area, along a tranquil path by a river, and back up through another hilly woodland track.

There were plenty of other twists and turns I could have taken. Higher up into the woods, alive with morning birdsong. Through `verdant pastures`with not a soul in sight.

But I was too scared.

I'd chosen to go out slightly later in the morning, when I knew there would be runners, dog walkers, local people enjoying the morning sun. Even then, I checked back over my shoulder three times because there was a bloke I'd noticed out alone, on the same path as me, not too far behind. Why? He was enjoying the countryside, too.

I've always loved walking or running, and my favourite time of day has always been early in the morning, when there's still dew on the grass and the birds still aren't quite sure what day it is. I love being alone with my own thoughts, or quite often, my earphones and some classic Aretha Franklin. But I'm always looking over my shoulder. And I feel resentful about that.

I have plenty of friends who clock up mile after mile on their own, especially before a big race.Trainers laced, music on; no looking back. Maybe they're fit enough to run themselves out of a

worrying situation. I'm not. I've been a member of two running clubs, and have also run with one or two friends. It's fun,and companionable, but I'd like to yomp across a country field on my own sometimes too, without feeling scared. You know...at six on a summer's morning, when everyone else is still asleep.

I can hear my own voice, reminding me I've travelled happily alone in European cities. I've even had stuff published about being a lone female traveller . I've strolled around New York side streets, dined in Rome with a bunch of total strangers, negotiated narrow Parisian walkways after dark....marched through London late at night as a young reporter, slightly squiffy after a hard day's writing....and a couple of hours in the pub. All of which were probably far riskier.

And now I'm away from the city, in glorious Shropshire, I can hear my sensible side reminding me that the countryside's for everyone, male or female. Run or walk through it and you feel great and lose weight. You just need to know where you are. Use a tracker on your phone. Take your earphones out in lonely areas to heighten your awareness. Pretend you're on the phone if someone's worrying you. And study the stats, for goodness' sake... it's pretty safe out there.

Trouble is.....I'm not listening to my own advice. I play it safe, and go where I know, where I'll see other people .Am I stupid? Do you feel the same, because you're female--or are you happy to roam pretty much anywhere? Maybe you could help talk some sense into me; share your tips. I'd love to hear from you!

Thanks for your comments today... most of them below. But there have been views of the blog so far from (in order...) USA, UK, Germany, Japan, Ireland, Bulgaria and Poland...that's great....but if you have a moment....say hello? :)

‏@JulietMcGrattan

Important blog by @janemcintyre12 Being active often means being alone (through choice or necessity).

Jane McIntyre @janemcintyre12

You'll never walk alone? Women and safety. http://lovemymondays.blogspot.com/2016/05/youll-never-walk-alone-women-and-safety.html?spref=tw … #women #running #safety #countryside @thisgirlcan @julietmcgrattan

‏@JulietMcGrattan

@janemcintyre12 @Shaz_and_Kaz btw thanks for intro to these ladies. I've followed ... they had me on 'cake'!

‏@Helenfmurray

@janemcintyre12 I was scared walking for so long. Somehow I don't get that fear running. Yes once or twice I've thought what would I do?

‏@Helenfmurray

@janemcintyre12 but usually I just go out and enjoy it for the pure love of it the freedom, the escapism, my time etc...

‏@peterctid1965

@janemcintyre12 @thisgirlcan @JulietMcGrattan Use a tracking app. My daughter used one called ecrumb-but I think there are better(newer)

‏@Dogearedtatty

@JulietMcGrattan @peterctid1965 @janemcintyre12 @thisgirlcan wouldn't sthg like Find My IPhone work? And I think Garmin has live tracking?

‏@peterctid1965

@Dogearedtatty @JulietMcGrattan @janemcintyre12 @thisgirlcan I'm not an expert, but some phone your contact if you are stationary-much safer

‏@Dogearedtatty

@peterctid1965 @JulietMcGrattan @janemcintyre12 @thisgirlcan ah fair dos. Could backfire if you get a cramp/stop to stretch I guess!

‏@Dogearedtatty

@peterctid1965 @JulietMcGrattan @janemcintyre12 @thisgirlcan I vaguely recall this, but not what the app was. @WomensRunning might know?

‏@sussexmouette

@janemcintyre12 very sad reflection on Society that you feel that way, Especially so in rural county like Shropshire

Jane McIntyre ‏@janemcintyre12  3m3 minutes ago

@sussexmouette I know. I'm cross with myself! But I've always felt that way, even years ago, walking with our dog.

‏@sussexmouette

@janemcintyre12 better to be safe than sorry. Just sad.

Jane McIntyre ‏@janemcintyre12 9 minutes ago

Lots of comments added to my blog today on whether women feel safe #running and #walking alone. I don't. Do you? http://lovemymondays.blogspot.co.uk

1 like

‏@TeaLady24

@janemcintyre12 it dictates my route if it's dark but otherwise no.

Geoff. Lamb‏@Onceatenor
@janemcintyre12 Terrific blog about 'safe'. Shared with FB friends.

James Casserly ‏@Casserly_Rock  37m37 minutes ago

@janemcintyre12 I feel sad that this is the case. It's past time that men take responsibility for their behaviour and start changing. It's extremely simple. Women are people with the same rights as men. Stop treating women like property and start treating them with the same respect we treat other men.

Charlotte Hattersley ‏@CLHattersley  8m8 minutes ago

@JulietMcGrattan @peterctid1965 @janemcintyre12 @thisgirlcan on an iPhone you can simply use "find friends"

Why the Teme's tame for boatman Ike

2016-04-08T16:26:00.002+01:00

Considering its beautifully tranquil setting, Ludford Bridge has had a pretty violent past. Battling factions during the Wars of the Roses, batterings from the weather`s worst, and now a mighty thwack from a weighty lorry; it's long been a troubled bridge over Ludlow's waters.

It's not surprising, then, that the locals, inconvenienced by the bridge's complete closure to cars during these latest repairs, have been squeezing past the scaffolding and warning cones on foot to check what's going on. They see the huge gap caused by the collision and the stonemasons' skilled-- but painstaking-- progress on this listed landmark.

And some of them lean over the bridge's 'good' side and spot Ike, bobbing about in his boat. They carry on with their dog walk; return an hour or two later...and find Ike's still there. And the next day, and the day after that.

"What's he doing down there then...health and safety?" chortles one elderly man. The workmen nod and smile and get on with the major task in hand.

But my curiosity gets the better of me, and four days later, I'm back to find the man you almost miss while the clever stuff's going on at road level. I'm in luck. The men are working a safe distance from the gaping hole in the bridge for a while, and so Ike's on dry land for a bit, and has time to talk.

It turns out that yes, Ike's there for 'health and safety'; yes, he's getting used to people asking whether he's caught any fish yet, and yes........nine hours bobbing about in a tethered boat is "the most boring job" he's ever done.

"Basically, yes, I sit in the boat and wait for someone to fall in--but that's not going to happen," he grins.

But it turns out that if it did...this guy's the one you'd want coming to your rescue. After a life on the ocean wave; for Ike, the Teme's tame.

A former commercial diver turned mariner, Ike--Isaac Adam-- spent around 20 years working around North Sea oil rigs on dive support vessels. Conditions were often rough; and occasionally life threatening. In 1998, for instance, his diving partner was trapped for 10 hours, 140 metres below the sea's surface.

The team had been undertaking decommissioning work on old wellheads, using explosives.

"There was a fault in the lifting gear," recalls Ike."A section of the wellhead being lifted, fell off. It just missed me, but hit his section."

It meant vital gas wires were disconnected and that the men had to get back to the diving bell, and after working at that kind of depth, had to spend four days in the ship's decompression chamber. Both were fine.

Four years later, Ike retired from diving,but rather than put his feet up, bought a 12 metre yacht and spent the next seven years sailing round the world with his then wife and son. From the UK, they headed out to Madeira, the Canaries, Cap Verdi, the Caribbean, Venezuela, through the so called ABC (Lesser Antilles) Islands to Panama...and on to the Galapagos Islands.

Their journey took them on to French Polynesia, to Tonga, and to New Zealand, where they stayed for seven months. After that, there was a year in and around Australia, with seven weeks of that stay seeing Ike laid up in hospital.

" We were on a river, and there'd been a flood," he remembers," We'd just cleared customs and were on our way but I got trapped between two yachts and smashed my pelvis."

It wasn't the only drama. Sailing between New Zealand and Australia, their yacht had hit major weather, which disabled the yacht's steering mechanism. They were 300 miles from New Zealand and found themselves having to shut themselves inside the boat, sails down; one keeping watch while the two others tried to sleep.

"But you had to sleep on the floor, not the bunks, " says Ike. "My wife tried it. The sea was so rough, she got flown out of the bunk, over the table on to the floor". When the storm eased, Ike managed to dive in, lash the broken steering system to the boat and continue repairs from the inside, using their supply of spares.

The family's amazing seven year trip also took in East Timor, Sumatra, Mauritius, South Africa--round the Cape to Capetown..on to St Helena and Tobago (a four month rest for the hurricane season there...) up to the Virgin Islands, Bermuda, the Azores and...eventually...to Falmouth.

Ike's been back from that trip for ten years now. These days, he often drives yachts for wealthy private owners. And, from time to time, helps a friend out manning safety boats like the one on the

Teme. So--(hopefully....) without any rescues to attend to, and with no rod and bait to help pass the time...what does he DO all day?

"I just think," says the diver, turned mariner, "I write a bit, so I think about that, too.."

I urge him to write his autobiography, pump him for a bit more information about Tonga, before my own round the world trip this autumn. And reflect on my way home how even people who appear to be doing very "boring" jobs.....are rarely ever boring, themselves......

PS: Why would I want to know about Tonga?! Thought it might make a change from Aberdovey this year. Follow me with fellow empty nester Nigel on www.thetimeofourlives.net as we finalise plans to whiz round the world.

Made a decision today?

2016-04-04T20:56:00.002+01:00

What's the biggest decision you've made today?

Maybe you faced a crossroads at work. Applying for promotion, perhaps. Or re-training...trying something new.

There's a chance you've only had to sweat the small stuff today: what shoes to wear. Whether to grab an umbrella on your way out this morning. What to eat for lunch or how to entertain the children while they're off school.

It's part of everyday life, isn't it?

Sometimes...a real biggie comes along, concerning your health. I've often wondered, since my mum died way too early from breast cancer, and Dad died a couple of years ago from Alzheimer's, whether I'd take a test to see if I was likely to develop either of those conditions myself. (I don't think I would, actually...). Then there's political stuff, concerning the way we live; who to vote for; whether to stay in the EU or not.They're pretty key issues, too.

But the point is...one way or another, we're continually making decisions. Some are incredibly tough, but we have to learn how to make them, and how to live with the consequences.

So why on earth....would anybody have the job title...of 'Decision Maker'?

I got a letter today from one of the big high street banks. I'd complained about an endless wait to get through to somebody the other day. They'd just noted my comments, pretty much. But the letter was signed by...(name....)...with the job title of: Decision Maker.

I'm tempted to write and complain about how stupid that sounds.

I might.

Can't really make up my mind......

;)

Stopping a stranger: why it's sometimes a great idea...

2016-03-22T20:55:00.002+00:00

They'd travelled the six thousand miles from China to Ludlow without a hitch. But now, beside the train station in this English medieval market town...they appeared to be faltering. A mother and teenage girl, a mound of luggage almost bigger than both of them...a steep hill ahead....and no taxi rank.

As they pored over a map on a phone, I asked if I could help. It turned out that Gloria was 16, and due to start in the sixth form at a local boarding school. The plan was to stay at a local pub, take a cab to the school the next day, and for Gloria's mum to have a quick turn-around before starting her long journey home. I walked them to their accommodation and we exchanged names and numbers. Gloria's mum and I had coffee before she headed back to China. With two daughters of my own, I had a sense of how she might be feeling.

It was that meeting that led to Gloria staying at my place over half term. She had a huge pile of schoolwork and a couple of Skype tutorials with her chemistry teacher back in China, but somehow we found time to go out for walks, to go shopping (best bit: watching Gloria sign her name in intricate Chinese at the till....) to lunch and dinner, and to cook each other some of our favourite

dishes. Incredibly, it turned out that this teenager tackling five tough A' levels in a foreign language (she can play a mean violin, too, by the way, and run an easy 10k...) was also a brilliant cook; insisting on buying incredients, then rustling up fabulous pork, chicken, vegetable and noodle dishes with aplomb..... several nights running.

I'm writing this (with Gloria's permission...) just to say this. If you ever get the chance to welcome guests from a different country or culture into your home...take it.

I learnt about life at a boarding school in rural England through the eyes of a Chinese girl...and about three generational living back home. I got an insight into the now relaxed 'one child only' policy in China...and how to survive (very easily, it seems...) restrictions on social media. I heard how Gloria hopes to try for Oxford or Cambridge....and, personally, how to stop faffing about and use chopsticks confidently. I also learnt how charming and generous a young guest can be.....and why, if you ever see a visitor looking a bit lost in a place you know....it's a great idea to say 'hello...'.

PS: Thankyou for reading! I also write for www.thetimeofourlives.net , a travel website tracking preparations for a big trip this autumn....and looking for help from you if you know the places on our itinerary! Please take a look and click on the site's *follow* button (this will automatically enter you into our next prize draw, by the way!)

Eighteen minutes in Ireland

2016-02-29T08:57:00.001+00:00

'Ah...,' they all said, with a knowing smirk. 'If it's your first time in Ireland, it's all about the craic. And the pubs. And the Guinness.'

But here I was, diving into my first ever Irish hostelry, with little expectation of enjoying any of that stuff. There had been no research: this doorway was any old escape from the cloudburst in Howth harbour; an overture to Storm Imogen; shrieking, mocking seagulls the rebellious, discordant string section, drowning out the gentle squelching of our rain-soaked shoes. We were freezing.

Even worse, we had to be in Dublin by midday to meet a man about a ticket, and the train from Howth was leaving in 18 minutes. There was barely time to neck a shot; never mind savouring my first pint of the black stuff and an hour or two of laid back blarney. Anyway. We needed a hot drink.

We blinked at the candlelight. Absorbed the silence. Craned our necks; strained our ears for the crackling fire...or just the craic. Nothing.

Then....a shout from the darkness. 'No--it's OK. Yous can come in if you like. It's just--well--be careful like, because it's twelve minutes past eleven and well, like--we're only insured from eleven thirty.'

Risking razing the place to the ground with no payout, we gently wriggled butts onto barstools in the murky light, without rocking the candle and bottle combo on the table too much and ordered, shamefully, coffees.

'Ah--but will those be straight Americanos?' asked the barman, hopefully--clearly assessing the additional, pre-11.30 risk that a damn good frothing could involve.

Recklessly, we ordered cappuccinos, and discovered that the barista and his equally devil-may-care, cappuccino quaffing friend at the bar, were called Frank, and, possibly for comedic effect, Frank.

They, in turn, heard that we were there not just for the craic, or the Guinness...maybe later....but for the rugby. A speedy, Frank-Frank debate followed about the forthcoming Ireland-Wales match, peppered with questions about our mini-break and indeed...our lives thus far. We were warming up.

As we drank our coffees, their talk turned a new member of staff. 'Ach...see here...and she doesn't make up a fire like Betsy, that's for sure...' said Frank, pulling Frank off his barstool, through to the now smoky snug. Poring over a pall of peatsmoke, they fixed the fire, stepped away, and sighed, partly because the air was clearer now, and partly because it was almost 11.30 and any ensuing smoke damage would, at least, be covered by the insurance.

With the Dublin train about to rumble on to the platform above, we downed the dregs of the wrong kind of froth, said our thankyous and goodbyes, and prepared to leave. At the door, we realised we hadn't paid, and rushed back to the bar. Maybe that's what the craic's all about. Showing up as customers; and; 18 minutes later...feeling, frankly.... like friends.

Like this? Check out my other posts on here: travel, life, health scares, Alzheimer`s, running (badly), loving chocolate and anything else I want to rant about.

And NOW AVAILABLE..... Preparing for a huge great travel adventure with @nigelridpathx31 and blogging as we go. Please have a look at:
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Learner driver: PLEASE pass!

2016-02-25T12:00:00.000+00:00

I`m a nosy parker at the best of times. But being two floors up, I have access to a busy view of town.... my eyes often out on stalks; my mind racing about the scenes playing out below.

Most of the drama surrounds a nearby driving test centre. I see learners parking, looking under the bonnet with their instructor for final checks, and going off to meet their maker. Well...examiner.

Sometimes, I see them returning--and if I do, I have to wait until I know whether they've passed or failed. It can take a while. There's stuff to sign. So all I have to go on, is body language. Wringing of hands...or relaxing of shoulders?

It happened just now. A lad came back with the examiner, and I could see quite an animated conversation going on, before the official handed him some paperwork, got out, and walked back to base. The lad sat there, motionless. Five minutes later, he got out of the car and someone, his Dad, probably, approached him from the other side of the street. They hugged. Still wasn't sure. Then the lad peeled the L plates off the car..they both got in...lad at the wheel...and drove off; smiling.

It's two years since youngest daughter Alice passed her test, just five months after her 17th birthday.I remember the mix of pride and relief. No more frozen tweets from dark winter car parks outside rehearsals, or parking tactfully round the corner from late night parties. Sure, you feel anxious for a while. But only months after that, I found myself in the passenger seat with 'baby driver' (by then working as an au pair...) as she negotiated icy hairpin bends through the mountains to take me to lunch and a spa treatment at a Swiss ski resort. And later drove us both, in her own car, to Normandy; motorways, car ferry--no worries.

I`m sure my parents never relaxed.They probably thought they'd be driving me home from parties into their dotage...as my first and second driving tests came and went. Then the third. (Nobody could think of anything reassuring to say to me by this stage. They all looked a bit embarrassed. I think they'd all given up). Then the fourth. (It's OK, I passed fourth time.) I hugged the examiner, then burst into tears. I still had panda, mascara smeared eyes when I got home--and no mobile to call mum in those days--so she took one look at me and put the kettle on ; convinced I'd failed, and was heading for driving test number five.

Yeh, the M25 is still a bitch, and punctures usually only happen in horizontal rain, but there are lots of little things that can make driving pleasurable. First exits on massive roundabouts, for example. Always a joy.

Driving gives you real freedom to go anywhere, any time. Like Aberdovey on a sunny Sunday. Or on a wet Wednesday, really.You can head out on late night chocolate mercy dashes. And sing whatever you choose, at the top of your voice, with nobody complaining. So--well done to anyone in the street below, passing their test today. But if you're the one with the slumped shoulders and the wrong kind of paperwork from the examiner, don't worry. It'll be your turn to peel the plates off soon.