Work, Life & Everything Inbetween

New Girl

Sat, 17 Jan 2026 09:51:03 GMT

I’m the new girl in the gang, aged fifty-three.

For years, I’ve wanted to join United Ghostwriters and finally, in December 2025, the door was unlocked. Philip sent me an email, we had a coffee, he reported back to the team and then next news, I’m on a train from Leeds to Kings Cross for their quarterly lunch in Bloomsbury. It was a bit like being invited to join the Delta sorority in 1992 in Tennessee, except I was spared from snogging a frat bro and given Malbec instead of moonshine.

I did have to meet certain criteria to ensure my place at the table though. For one, I had to be a best-selling ghostwriter (check) and, I was later informed, I had to be quite nice (which was a relief to find out). Who knows what background checks were involved – I'm hoping they didn’t stretch as far back as Knoxville, because although life experience counts in this job, some misadventures are best left in departures.

I was nervous before meeting the other ghostwriters. I’d done my due diligence days before Doncaster, so imposter syndrome had settled in by Stevenage. I knew they were all brilliant; most with tonnes of books under their belts and a few with film rights too. Blimey, I thought, I’m only from Bingley. But by the time we’d all ordered mains, I’d relaxed a little.

What struck me most was their camaraderie; they clinked glasses over recent successes and re-filled them for failures or frustrations. It was a real breath of fresh air and gave me confidence to share a few things I’d been silently struggling with, which turned out to be standard gripes for ghosts. Phew.

They know stuff, and they know people - and they’re not precious about sharing that knowledge with each other. I think this is invaluable in our largely solitary profession, where, after initial interviews with our authors at the start of each project, most of us then just retreat to mainline tea until the tome takes shape. Now though, I’m just a group email away from “Is this okay?” and a WhatsApp closer to “What next?”

So, if you want to find out who my new friends are, and perhaps even reach out for a helping hand with your book in 2026, head to www.unitedghostwriters.co.uk and click Meet the Ghosts.

Ilkley Literature Festival 2025

Mon, 27 Oct 2025 16:56:44 GMT

That's a wrap for me at Ilkley Literature Festival 2025.

I loved being on stage in conversation with such a variety of authors.

Lamorna Ash with 'Don't Forget We're Here Forever'.

Prof Louise Mullany with 'Polite: The Art of Communication at Home, at Work and in Public'.

Sara Barnes with 'The Cold Fix: Drawing Strength from Cold Water Swimming and Immersion'.

Jill Liddington , who gave a fabulous talk about 'Women Writers in The North'.

Thanks to @walkingphotogtapher for pictures 1 & 4.

AI & Ghostwriting

Wed, 15 Oct 2025 15:00:11 GMT

Helping or Cheating?

A fascinating article about the use of AI in ghostwriting. Is it helping? Is it cheating? Either way, it is here to stay.

https://www.unitedghostwriters.co.uk/the-ghost-in-the-machine/

Just Giving

Thu, 14 Aug 2025 14:05:51 GMT

Have a listen to this incredible woman, Georgina (George) Hurst, talking to Gayle Lofthouse on BBC Radio Leeds this morning. https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m002gs7b

[Scroll forward to 3:17:30]

Way back in 2020, I wrote an article about George for The Yorkshire Post, and off the back of that, she asked me if I would collaborate with her on a book about her amazing life. Phil Caplan at Scratching Shed Publishing loved it, and worked with us to create 'Unbroken: The Woman Who Walked Again.'

https://www.scratchingshedpublishing.com/products-page/autobiography/unbroken-the-woman-who-walked-again/ .

Before losing her mum to bowel cancer nearly three years ago, George promised that she would continue to inspire others however she could. On 6th September, George (with the aid of friends as crutches) will be walking up Whernside to raise money for Bowel Cancer UK. Please donate if you can.

https://www.justgiving.com/page/georgina-hurst-1735573883076

Happy Client

Tue, 03 Jun 2025 13:16:24 GMT

I was given these gorgeous flowers by a client recently. We've been working together on her memoir, and now the final manuscript is out of our hands and on the next leg of its journey.

The nature of ghostwriting is that I'm the silent partner, but when the time is right, I'll be shouting loudly about this fabulous young woman and all that she's achieved, overcome and laughed about.

Your Voice, Your Vote

Sat, 29 Jun 2024 09:50:53 GMT

After a few sleepless nights, lots of advice and help from the amazing BBC Look North and BBC Radio Leeds teams, I produced an hour-long live election debate with candidates from across West Yorkshire. It was hosted hosted by BBC Yorkshire's Political Editor, James Vincent.

You can watch it here .

Radio Reporting

Sat, 15 Jun 2024 15:22:38 GMT

Over the last few months I've enjoyed a bit of freelance reporting for BBC Radio Leeds. It's been a real mixture of topics from the unveiling of a blue plaque at Batley Variety Club, to vox-popping on election views, preparation for Eid, and meeting the artist behind a mural of rugby legend, Rob Burrow. Here's a selection...

The Potting Shed Murder

Thu, 18 Apr 2024 14:16:18 GMT

I had a smashing time chatting with author Paula Sutton on stage at The Malthouse in Ripponden. Tickets were sold out and signed copies of her fabulous cosy crime novel The Potting Shed Murder were flying. The event was even featured in the Halifax Courier .

It was arranged by Emily Moran at Dialogue Books for a great group of women who call themselves 'Not-the-WI' after their local Women's Institute disbanded.

You may recognise Paula as the face of @HillHouseVintage where she showcases her wonderful cottage-core and cosy Norfolk life. Think country interiors, gardens, frocks, flowers and cake.

On publication of The Potting Shed Murder, Paula was dubbed 'Miss Marple for the 21st Century'.

*****

The Potting Shed Murder

Welcome to the sleepy village of Pudding Corner, a quintessentially English haven of golden cornfields, winding cobbled lanes ... and murder.

Daphne Brewster has left London behind and is settling into her family's new life in rural Norfolk, planting broad beans in raised beds and vintage hunting for their farmhouse.

But when the local headmaster is found dead in his potting shed, amongst his allotment cabbages, the village is ablaze: Who would kill beloved Mr Papplewick, pillar of the community? Daphne soon comes to realise perhaps the countryside isn't so idyllic after all...

When the headmaster's widow points her finger at Minnerva, Daphne's new friend, Daphne vows to clear her name. Sneaking into the crime scene and chasing down rumours gets her into hot water with the local inspector - until she comes across a faded photograph that unearths a secret buried for forty years...

They say nothing bad ever happens in close-knit Pudding Corner, but Daphne is close to the truth - dangerously close.

Lessons from Loss Podcast

Mon, 19 Feb 2024 15:47:56 GMT

I was invited onto the Lessons from Loss podcast recently. We talked about the power of sharing our experiences to help others and ourselves. I was a bit nervous at first, but the lovely host, Rachel Smith, soon put me at ease. You can listen by clicking the picture above or here .

This is Rachel's blurb about it:

In this episode I'm in conversation with author, ghostwriter and journalist Becky Bond. Becky is passionate about giving people's stories a voice and she does this brilliantly in two ways.

Through her ghostwriting she captures people's stories, and her first ghostwriting opportunity happened when she wrote an article about former paramedic, Georgina Hurst. After an horrific car crash caused by her boyfriend, Georgina rebuilt her life from scratch, learning to walk, talk and eat again. She is now a pole dancer. When Georgina read the piece, she asked Becky if she would help with her book. 'Unbroken: The Woman who Walked Again’ was published in 2021.

Becky then received a message from a man called Richie who was ready to share his own truth, but didn’t know how or where to start with his story of abuse, childhood prostitution and the failing care system. His book ‘Richie: Who Cares?' was published in 2022 and is currently being optioned for film and television.

More recently Becky has developed a service called 'Your Story Your Voice' wherein she beautifully captures a recorded slice of personal history for future generations to enjoy. We cover the importance of telling our stories, the impact of not doing so, and the joy of having something captured of those we love for when they have passed.

Your Story Your Voice

Wed, 20 Sep 2023 14:40:15 GMT

Your Story Your Voice is a unique, fun and easy way of capturing a slice of personal history for future generations.

Over a pot of tea or glass of wine, you can share stories about your life; poignant moments, achievements, loves, losses and everything in between.

I’ll pop a small broadcast-quality microphone nearby, then prompt and guide you along in a conversational interview.

When we’re finished, I’ll make a few edits back at home, then put it on a memory stick for you to keep or gift to loved ones.

FAQ

How long will it take?

Set aside a morning, afternoon or evening. The final recording is usually around two hours but this allows for a bit of setting up time.

Where will the recording take place?

Wherever you feel the most comfortable, so usually your home.

Can my partner, friend or another family member join in on the recording?

Absolutely. Three people is probably the maximum though, to ensure a quality recording.

Do I need to prepare anything?

It is useful to jot down a few bullet points but I will email a short list of topic ideas beforehand. We can also have a pre-interview chat on the phone.

When will I be able to hear it?

I will email you a link within a week. If you are happy with everything, I’ll then save it onto a memory stick.

What if I said something that on reflection I’d like to take out?

That’s fine. I can make edits before saving it onto a memory stick. Everything is confidential.

Will the recordings be broadcast anywhere?

No. They are for your personal use, but you can share them on your own social media platforms.

Could I do this via Zoom?

Yes. Though the sound quality tends not to be quite as good as an in-person interview.

Could I get a written transcription of the final interview?

Yes. I offer this as an add-on service.

Can I buy this as a gift?

Yes. I can email or post a gift voucher. The recipient then just needs to contact me to schedule a date and time to suit them.

What are the costs?

Interview, edit & one memory stick in a gift box: £199

Additional memory stick in a gift box: £15-£30

Written transcription: £130-£160

Travel expenses may apply outside West Yorkshire

Where can I find out more, hear some examples and book?

Just click www.yourstoryyourvoice.co.uk

Ghostwriting: How it Works

Tue, 12 Sep 2023 12:19:47 GMT

Ghostwriting is a collaboration between someone who wants to write a book (the author) and someone who can help them achieve that goal (the ghostwriter). People use ghostwriters for a variety of reasons - from not having enough time to write it themselves, to feeling over-faced with where to start, or just the simple fact that writing isn't their strength.

The nature of the job means that, as the customer, you can choose whether or not you want people to know you have had a guiding hand in the process. Discretion is key and nobody need ever know. On the other hand, some people prefer to let their readers know that their book has been a joint effort.

Every project is different, but it usually begins with an initial conversation about the story itself and the main purpose of the book (i.e. to help others through sharing an experience, to boost a business, to expose a truth or as a legacy project for family and friends). The subject matter might be timely, so a tight turnaround could be in order, or a looser deadline might suit better, allowing the pieces to fall into place more organically.

It is important to find a ghostwriter who you feel comfortable with because not only are you are placing your story in their hands, but throughout the process, there will be quite a lot of communication. Nobody wants to feel uncomfortable about picking up the telephone for the odd clarification.

Here's how 'Unbroken: The Woman who Walked Again' took shape:

Once terms and a deadline were agreed, the author (Georgina) and I met face to face and over zoom for a series of interviews. These were all recorded to keep the conversation flowing and natural. Georgina gradually shared her story and I used my journalistic skills to dig deeper, guiding her into areas she may not have originally thought about.

I then transcribed each interview for Georgina to read back and check. I also interviewed a handful of other people who were integral to her story. Older documents and photographs were unearthed and a timeline and structure were planned. I had already spoken to a publisher who was keen to work with us and guide us through the process.

Then I began writing and Georgina could relax for a while. Like any book, there were drafts and re-drafts until everybody was happy. Then the publisher made the final tweaks, set the pages and chapters, designed the cover and blurb and sent it off to the printing company.

Some ghostwriters already have media contacts and can utilise them for promotion (like myself). Or an author may choose to employ a publicist to help with that side of things. It is generally a collaborative affair between the author, ghostwriter, publisher and publicist. Then it's all systems go.

Georgina was invited onto BBC Radio Leeds to share her story with Gayle Lofthouse.

The Features Editor at The Yorkshire Post, Catherine Scott, wrote a superb article about Georgina's book.

We had a fabulous review from Helen Mead at The Telegraph & Argus.

Readers were happy.

Georgina's dream of sharing her story to help others became a reality. Later this year, she will also feature on the award-winning Naked Podcast and has signed a deal with a women's magazine.

You can buy a copy of 'Unbroken: The Woman who Walked Again' from most good bookshops, Amazon or direct from Scratching Shed Publishing .

Ilkley Literature Festival 2023

Fri, 01 Sep 2023 15:05:30 GMT

Ilkley Literature Festival is celebrating it's 50th year this autumn with a golden line-up of writers, authors, well-known faces and masters of their craft.

I'm thrilled to be back in the hotseat on stage again, hosting four fascinating people, whose books I'm currently diving into, in preparation:

Ray Mears: The British Woodland

Nobody sees and understands the woodland better than Ray Mears. His television series Bushcraft, World of Survival and Ray Mears Goes Walkabout have made him a household name and an internationally recognised authority on bushcraft.

Join Mears as he takes to the King’s Hall stage and offers a different way of experiencing our wooded landscapes. Inspired by learning from the last remaining indigenous peoples, Mears shows us how to live inclusively in nature – for our own wellbeing and enjoyment, and for the future of our planet.

Sophie Pavelle: Forget Me Not

Travel the length and breadth of Britain with millennial science communicator Sophie Pavelle as she recounts her journey in search of ten animals and habitats threatened by climate change. Exploring rare native species that may disappear by 2050 – from the harbour porpoise and grey long-eared bat to the Atlantic salmon and the mountain hare – discover the problems they face and what we can do to ensure we don’t ever have to forget them.

J enny Graham: Coffee First, Then the World

16 countries, 124 days, 18,000 miles, one solo lap around the planet by bike. In 2018, amateur cyclist Jenny Graham became the fastest woman to cycle around the world, cycling near terrifying collisions in Russia, in extreme weather conditions in Australia, surrounded by breathtaking landscapes in Mongolia, and amongst exhilarating wildlife encounters in North America. Her travels now bring her to Ilkley where she will be sharing insights into her remarkable Round the World adventure.

Helen Skelton: In My Stride

Throughout her career as a presenter – featuring on Blue Peter, Countryfile and the Olympics – Helen Skelton has become no stranger to taking on great challenges: from kayaking the entire length of the Amazon River to the Namibia Ultra Marathon. But where did she find the inner strength to carry on no matter the challenge? Trading the screen for the stage, Skelton will be sharing the lessons she has learned throughout her life: how putting one foot in front of the other – whether on the Strictly dance floor or in the great outdoors – can help us heal, grow and find the resilience to move through challenging times with authenticity, courage and confidence.

To see the full programme and book tickets click here

Amazing Reviews for 'Richie: Who Cares?'

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Fri, 25 Aug 2023 19:15:10 GMT

It really does make me happy when readers enjoy my books so much that they take the time to leave a rating and review. 'Richie: Who Cares?' has received some fabulous 5 star feedback on amazon . Here are some screenshots of my favourite reviews so far.

If you haven't read 'Richie: Who Cares?' yet, you can buy a copy from amazon , any good book shop or direct from the lovely Ros at Scratching Shed Publishing .

Different with Nicky Campbell

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Tue, 04 Jul 2023 20:30:26 GMT

One of the reasons I love being a freelancer is the variety of projects I get to work on. For Audio Always , I spent time brainstorming ideas with other radio producers for this fabulous podcast series with Nicky Campbell.

This is the blurb for the series: What does it mean to be different? Is it how we think? Or how we act? In this BBC podcast, Nicky Campbell explores just that with guests who are extraordinarily different.

All the episodes are fascinating, but I particularly enjoyed helping out with one called The Old Gods , where Nicky travelled to a remote cottage in the Highlands to meet Tonks, a Hedge witch. They talked spells, religion and being menaced by the celtic gods.

Check out the series: Different with Nicky Campbell

Five Reasons Why You Should Write Your Own Book

Tue, 06 Jun 2023 08:50:11 GMT

There’s nothing quite like the feeling of opening that first box of copies of your brand-new book. Seeing the front cover in real life, holding it in your hands and smelling the fresh print as you flick through the pages. Finally, you’ve done it.

Except, not quite. There’s a whole other chapter once your words are out there. Most people who decide to write a book see it not as the end goal, but as a tool for something else…

To Raise Awareness. Your book might shed light on an issue which has previously been hidden. You could be a whistleblower within a group or organisation, a medic with new research or an environmentalist with plans to protect the planet. Your knowledge is key to helping others.

To Share Your Experience. You might have lived through a particularly tough time and managed to survive and thrive: a soldier overcoming PTSD, a partner escaping an abusive relationship, a former cult member, a recovering addict, the list is endless. By sharing your story of how you overcame the odds, you could encourage more people to seek support or guidance.

To Boost Your Brand. Perhaps you’re already a keynote speaker with specialist knowledge in a particular field. Having a book in your name which backs up all your research and advice gives you a professional edge - and could be an additional income stream.

To Increase Your Personal Profile. If your book is saying something new or offering a different perspective on an older problem, then it’s likely to be picked up by the media. This means radio, podcast and tv interviews as well as features in newspapers, magazines and specialist blogs. Once you’re in a journalist's contact book, repeat bookings are common.

To Leave a Legacy. Sometimes, you just want to document your story for future generations. Maybe you had a particularly interesting or unusual life, met fascinating characters and travelled to far-flung places, or perhaps a belief or passion steered you in an unexpected direction. Turning your story into a book can be a succinct way of sharing your life with readers.

So what are you waiting for? If you'd like to get in touch to talk about your book idea, drop me a quick email to beckybond72@outlook.com and we'll take it from there.

Copywriting: The One Armed Chef

Mon, 22 May 2023 13:14:28 GMT

How stepping on an IED changed Giles Duley's life

WARNING: This article contains graphic descriptions of injury, violence and war

When photojournalist Giles Duley became a triple amputee while embedded with a unit in Afghanistan in 2011, his life changed - for the better.

“I stepped on an IED and was thrown in the air. I didn’t lose consciousness. It was absolute silence… but I remember a big white heat and looking up at the sky where I could see parts of me in the tree above.”

As the medivac helicopter whisked him away, he had a flash forward...

To read more or to listen to Nicky Campbell's fascinating interview with Giles Duley on his 'Different' podcast, click here .

That's Life & Saturday Live

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Tue, 13 Dec 2022 17:21:51 GMT

'Richie: Who Cares?' is a classic example of how a story, well told, can reach a wide audience across a broad range of media.

When it was published in June 2022, Richie was interviewed for television, radio and newspapers. Six months on, there is still media interest.

Last weekend, he shared his story on BBC Radio 4's Saturday Live programme :

https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m001g2vr

(interview begins 40 minutes and 24 seconds)

Richie is also featured in December's That's Life Crime Scene magazine (a double page spread).

Not only is his book now an Amazon #1 Bestseller , but Richie's story is used for training NHS and Social Care staff in safeguarding.

Literature Festivals

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Mon, 17 Oct 2022 14:09:48 GMT

I love literature festivals. As a reader, there's always a handful of authors I want to see. As a writer, I enjoy the variety of workshops with experts in their field. And of course, as someone who loves to meet interesting people, it's great to get on stage for an in-depth Q & A.

I had a great chat with Simon Mayo at Ilkley Literature Festival recently. As well as dicussing his excellent new thriller, Tick Tock , we talked about his long career in broadcasting, his route into writing and how he felt when he met Prince William to collect his MBE.

Tick Tock

It starts quietly enough. A tick tick ticking you can hear in your ear. Tinnitus, you think. It will pass. But it doesn't. It gets worse. And then you pass it on...

Before you know it, it spreads. Elsewhere across the globe, it emerges: small outbreaks at first, but then suddenly it's a plague - and only days later it is already killing people.

In an increasingly affected north London school, teacher Kit Chaplin is struggling to understand what he is witnessing. Even Lilly Slater, his partner and an eminent vaccinologist, can't work out what's happening. As it spreads, little by little, they are inexorably drawn into the mystery behind the illness. And what they discover will change the world as they know it...

Exciting and urgently contemporary, this piercingly insightful novel tells the story of a global catastrophe through the eyes of the three people at the heart of the storm.

Copywriting: Ralph & Katie

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Sun, 09 Oct 2022 20:23:38 GMT

I was asked to preview the excellent TV series Ralph & Katie for BBC Sounds. It was a joy of a job, made even better by being given early access to the corresponding podcast Inside the World of Ralph & Katie produced by Audio Always .

You can read all about it here or below.

Ralph & Katie is the highly anticipated spin-off series from ground-breaking BBC drama The A Word. Through six episodes we follow newlyweds Ralph and Katie as they embark on their first year of marriage, navigating all the domestic trials and tribulations faced by most couples. Ralph & Katie tells an uplifting story of life with Down’s syndrome.

Ralph, played by Leon Harrop and Katie, played by Sarah Gordy MBE, show viewers the joy and reality of life as a couple on their own terms, dealing with universal issues such as friendship, jealousy, independence and identity. They’re joined by a host of favourite characters from The A Word, as well as some new faces, including the hilarious Craig Cash, who takes the role of well-meaning neighbour, Brian.

It’s a celebration of what can be achieved when we approach things differently. Director Jordan Hogg - who has cerebral palsy - is an advocate for disabled talent on and off screen. He and series producer, Jules Hussey, agreed from the start that with this production, they wanted to change the world.

“The way I look at it is that every kid has a dream and every kid should be able to achieve that dream. There’s so much disabled talent out there that’s not being used. We had to put a few adjustments in place, but it was nothing major. That’s the thing, it doesn’t cost anything. All it costs is the will to do it” says Hogg.

After each episode, viewers can hop over to BBC Sounds to listen to behind-the-scenes podcast Inside the World of Ralph & Katie. It’s hosted by Leon and Pooky (aka his on-screen mum, Louise), with guest appearances from cast, crew and family members. They reflect on issues raised in the show, sharing their own personal stories with humour and warmth. We’re also treated to some secrets about the filming process - and all is not as it seems.

Episode one of Ralph & Katie sets the tone perfectly for the rest of the series. The couple employ a new Personal Assistant and Katie hopes for a promotion, but true friendships are questioned when Ralph suspects Katie’s boss of being a ‘pity friend.’ We see the pair making important decisions based on what feels right for them, while the wider family learns to cope with letting go.

The atmosphere of fun behind the scenes shines through on-screen. When Creative Coach, Jess Mable Jones was asked to put together a dance routine for the Valentine’s event in episode two, she went straight to Leon for inspiration: “He has the best, most iconic dance moves in his repertoire, so we took all of those moves and popped them together in a sequence, then hey presto, we had a dance. It was amazing.”

Fans of The A Word will be pleased to see the reprise of Tom, played by Matt Greenwood. His character has a love interest of his own and brings a blast of colour and sparkle to the show: “We wanted to take Tom and give him a bit of a spin and I was given creative involvement in that. It’s really important that people see themselves represented and although it’s great having LGBT people on screen, not every LGBT person looks the same, so we need to show differences are good.”

Viewers are cleverly made aware of some of the lesser-known issues faced by those with Down’s Syndrome. In one particularly sensitive scene, Ralph’s doctor explains to him what having a lump in his testicle might mean, and how that type of cancer is more common for men like him. But the master stroke is Ralph’s inner turmoil when sharing this news with Katie, and the way she responds like any wife would: “One day at a time, Ralph.”

Perhaps unsurprisingly, one of the biggest fans of the show is Leon’s real-life mum, Tania. She feels Ralph & Katie hits just the right note in portraying what life is like for people with Down’s Syndrome. This is played out brilliantly towards the end of the series with an all-too- familiar battle of whose parents are hosting Christmas Day. Heartbreak is perfectly laced with comedy as we realise the best gift is love, in whatever form it might come packaged.

Written by Peter Bowker alongside a team of emerging disabled writers, this masterpiece showcases talent which has been searching for the spotlight for too long. It challenges our perceptions of what it means to be learning disabled and opens our eyes to how good life can be if we’re given the space to thrive. But most of all, Ralph & Katie is just a great watch and will leave you wanting more.

Ralph & Katie starts on Wednesday 5th October on BBC 1 at 9pm, with two episodes back to back. If you can’t wait a week for the next episodes, you can head over to BBC iPlayer straight afterwards to catch the rest. And don’t miss podcast Inside the World of Ralph & Katie on BBC Sounds.

BBC Radio 4 - Saturday Live - 'Unbroken: The Woman who Walked Again'

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Sat, 03 Sep 2022 12:43:30 GMT

A great morning for Georgina Hurst.

George was invited onto BBC Radio 4's Staurday Live programme, hosted by Adil Ray and Nikki Bedi. She held her own in the company of physicist Carlo Rovelli, writer Olia Hercules and Nabil Ayers.

George was able to talk about the story behind her book 'Unbroken: The Woman who Walked Again' and you can hear the interview by clicking this link https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m001br7p and scrolling to about 38 minutes.

'Unbroken' is available from all the usual biggies, but if you can support your independent book shop, that's great. You could even go direct to Scratching Shed Publishing or ring Ros on 0113 225 9797.

Lights, Camera, Action

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Tue, 30 Aug 2022 15:12:00 GMT

Richie was invited onto BBC Radio Tees to share his story. The team were so taken with it - and him - that they suggested BBC Look North did a feature too. Then the online team wanted to share it. You can click the picture above to watch.

It is one thing being brave enough to tell a ghostwriter your truth, but it takes extra courage to re-tell that tale to a camera crew, knowing it will be broadcast on the news and online.

After the programme went out, Richie was contacted by award-winning screenwriter and playright Simon O'Corra .

If you would like to read Richie - Who Cares? it is available online , in all good book stores or direct from Scratching Shed Publishing .

BBC Radio Interview for 'Richie - Who Cares?'

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Fri, 01 Jul 2022 13:17:10 GMT

Richie Barlow with Gayle Lofthouse on BBC Radio Leeds

Just before 'Richie - Who Cares?' was released in book shops, Richie took part in a series of interviews for radio, television and print. This is his amazing interview with Gayle Lofthouse on BBC Radio Leeds in June 2022.

Gayle asked many searching questions, and Richie did a fantastic job, coming across as calm and confident despite the horrific nature of his story.

'Richie - Who Cares?' is available online and in most good book stores. You can also order direct from Scratching Shed Publishing here .

Mirror Exclusive for 'Richie - Who Cares?'

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Tue, 10 May 2022 12:27:29 GMT

This exclusive article was written about one of my clients, Richie Barlow. In it, he explains how he sought justice for his horrific childhood which was riddled with abuse of every imaginable kind.

His book 'Richie - Who Cares?' (Lost Childhood and a Boy's Journey for Justice) is out on 17 June 2022 in all good book shops, online or direct from Scratching Shed Publishing . You can pre-order here.

All media enquiries are being dealt with by the fabulous Sofia Cann at Cann Communications .

Menopause Month on Magic Radio

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Thu, 07 Apr 2022 14:43:02 GMT

I loved being part of the team at Audio Always making this happen for Magic Radio .

As a freelance producer, I was tasked with finding various groups of women across the UK who were happy to share their stories of the perimenopause and menopause on national radio.

What an eye opener. I had no idea of the sheer scale of symptoms women struggle with - nor the plethora of treatments available. It’s not all hot flushes and HRT. And nobody need suffer in silence.

The campaign was supported by new research from Bauer which looked at the awareness of menopause, how it’s perceived and personal experiences. It was championed and led by Magic Radio Presenter, Emma B.

The research was discussed in full during an hour-long launch show, hosted by Emma B with guest Dr Zoe Williams. This was followed by four weeks of daily audio packages, with each week focusing on a different area around the menopause: Physical Health & Diagnosis, Family & Relationships, Workplace, and Mental Health.

The whole campaign was wrapped up with a final two-hour show where there was chance to reflect on the input from ‘real’ women as well as the celebrity contributors including Michelle Ackerley, Louise Minchin and Penny Smith.

Miracle Man

Wed, 03 Nov 2021 01:00:00 GMT

A BBC Radio Special

"He snatched him out of the coffin and threw him against the wall."

A church in Bradford is having a revival, based on the teachings of a Victorian Evangelist, who claims to have healed the sick and raised the dead.

I went on a journey to find out about the legacy of Smith Wigglesworth and found myself in South Africa, searching for miracles.

There are two links here:

The first is the full length version (56 minutes):

https://soundcloud.com/user-767736925/miracle-man

The second is the cut-down version (4 minutes):

https://soundcloud.com/user-767736925/miracle-man-shorter-version-of-documentary

The New Normal

Wed, 15 Apr 2020 16:11:02 GMT

My New Normal changes as regularly as my mood. I’ve been through so many phases it’s ridiculous. The jigsaw phase (done four, got the t-shirt, created a cartel in the village). I’ve gone the whole nine yards with yeast and flour, giving rise to robust loaves fit only for ducks on the Bero adverts circa 1981. The bike tyres have been pumped up and pedalled two metres away from pretty much everyone in the vicinity and I’ve even done the ironing.

Three years ago I bit the bullet and went freelance, leaving a perfectly stable staff job at the BBC to try sparkly new ventures. So far so good. I honestly haven’t had a work-free month and the only job I regretted was the one where I ended up face-to-face with a Doberman, trying to tease a bag of narcotics from his mouth. But this April, I’m staring down the barrel of an empty calendar and it’s more unnerving than the drugs dog.

I’m not prone to pessimism. According to my husband I’m annoyingly chipper in the face of adversity. OK, so I haven’t exactly had a tough life on the streets, but I’ve coped with lumpy-breast scares and scattered the ashes of both my parents. But this just feels different.

My closest friends from school are all discombobulated. The Policewoman has just recovered from Covid19, but at one point thought she might end up hospitalised. The nurse was on her knees after witnessing wards and mortuaries prepare for the worst. The businesswoman has furloughed friends. But we all still got together on zoom, where it was apparent I'd put the jungle background on by mistake and ended up with green-looking teeth.

Still, I didn't look quite as ludicrous as my father-in law who dressed up as, well, we're still not sure, for another zoom session for my daughter Emma's fourteenth birthday lockdown party.

I’m hunting for household tasks. I killed a morning glossing the front gate, dusted off a day sanding and varnishing the bin cover and wasted a whole evening re-working my wardrobe. The basement is tidy, the kilner jars are labelled and I’m keeping my brilliantly eccentric 84 year-old neighbour suitably pickled with regular wine deliveries. I’ve even got around to writing a will.

I’m envious of my fifteen year old, Molly, who with the sudden absence of GCSE’s to study for, has the ability to sleep in until midday, conscience free. But I’m sad for her that there’s no prom, no snogging and the probability of her Leeds Fest ticket being rolled over until next year. But she’s at peace with her new normal. Emma prefers more structure, so we’ve taken to writing timetables. She’s so thorough that even snacks and smoothies are scheduled for after our 10am work-out to some lithe American on YouTube.

In a distanced way, we’ve all come closer together – and I love that. I’m a naturally social person. I feel swizzed if I nip to the co-op and don’t bump into anyone I know. I’ve never been more in touch with my extended family or friends abroad. I’m sleeping like a log, eating meals from scratch and in the midst of the boredom, am having bursts of creativity. The new normal is not that bad. But I'm still hoping it's just a phase.

Anyone for Escapism?

Fri, 20 Mar 2020 00:00:00 GMT

I was lucky enough to be a researcher on this fabulous BBC 2 programme all about the history of Robin Hood's Bay.

If you'd like to watch it, click this link: https://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/m000c79y/villages-by-the-sea-robin-hoods-bay

I still get a kick out of seeing my name scroll up on the credits at the end.

Being George

Sun, 16 Jun 2019 17:18:51 GMT

I went shopping in a wheelchair even though I'm completely able-bodied. My friend George lent me her spare one so I could experience how she’s treated on a day to day basis. It was a real eye opener. The rules were simple: absolutely no getting out of the chair until the mission is complete.

I’d assumed we’d be getting the train to Leeds, but George explained that unless there's a guard on the train or at the station, you have to rely on a passenger to sort out the ramp. Or wait for the next train. It was also raining, so we needed an undercover shopping centre because you can’t hold a brolly and wheel a chair at the same time – and who wants to browse in a wet cagoule? Also, Leeds is quite hilly and it wasn’t a work-out we were after, it was merchandise. Clearly, George knew what she was doing, so drove us to the best disabled-friendly shopping centre she knows - The Trafford Centre, in Manchester.

We parked outside Selfridges and I got both chairs out of the boot, then plonked myself in the spare one next to George. Yes, I did get some funny looks, but we’d decided that if anyone asked I would either come clean or say “I don’t like talking about it.” George furnished me with some rubber finger-less gloves to stop blisters forming and a key for the disabled toilets. Then we were off. Double trouble. This was a first for George too because she’d never been shopping with another wheelchair user.

The first comment came outside the disabled loos: “Aw, do you have to take it in turns?” Seriously? WTF? I just smiled and nodded as the woman looked on sympathetically. I felt a fraud standing up once I was safely locked inside the toilet, but one step at a time, I reasoned. Second comment came from a shopper in Zara Home “Ooh, it’s Bill & Ben.”

Everything looks different from lower down. It was good in the toy department because all the fun stuff was at eye level, but when we went to Café Nero all I could see was a row of wafer biscuits and an adjacent pensioner’s groin. This won’t be news to anyone who uses a chair all the time, but I had to ask for our drinks to be brought over and I could barely see the card machine for payment because the wire didn’t stretch far enough down. I gambled and tapped my card, but I could have been paying nine hundred pounds for a latte for all I knew.

After re-fueling, George sent me off on a solo mission. I had to go to a shoe department and use a lift. I’ve never been so aware of flooring. Most shops have hard floors, but then within department stores, the franchises are sometimes set on carpet. Carpet, I’ve learned, is a bitch to wheel across. And that’s when you’ve finally got onto it, over the giant lip which threatens to tip you backwards. The second time, I reversed up to Carvela, but really felt like I was getting in the way of other customers. You can’t just sidle past someone to look at sandals. Either they have to back up or you do. This was when I first noticed people physically looking down on me. I had to look up at them and it felt like I was pleading.

I was keen to impress George, so tried two different lifts. The main glass elevator in the centre of the mall was the easiest. There was plenty of room to turn my chair around once I was in, but it was weird being face to face with a sleeping baby and again, being looked down upon by a mother. I wanted to say "I've got children too, you know." But what was I trying to prove? That I wasn't really disabled? That - guess what - disabled people could have sex, babies and husbands too? It felt weird and I kept quiet.

It was a whole different sketch in River Island. For a start, when I tried to pull the lift door open, it continued to open of its own accord and I had to swiftly back up out of the way. Then it just stopped. A man on his mobile casually opened it for me and nodded so I could get in. But the space inside was really narrow so I couldn't turn around without a right kerfuffle. I pressed the up button and it went up for a second then halted. I pressed it again and it went up for another second and halted again. I thought Oh God, I’m going to get stuck, then my claustrophobia will kick in, then I’ll have to press the panic button and everyone will know I’m a fake when I run out. But then I spotted, in quite small writing, a sign that said “press and hold the button to operate the lift.” Fine, if you’ve got steady hands. What if you have ataxia? It would be like being on an horrific theme park ride. When I reached the first floor, I then had to turn my chair around because the entrance to the lift and the exit from the lift were through different doors. I didn’t even want to buy anything from the top floor – it was menswear – but felt should get out wheel around anyway so people didn’t think I was crackers.

On my way back to George, I noticed Gap had a sale on, so popped in. This was really disappointing because all the sale rails were so tightly placed together that there was absolutely no way I could wheel in between them. There were about five rails of jeans and tops that ordinarily, I’d have spent a good fifteen minutes flicking through. It was probably the first time I’ve left a Gap sale empty handed.

When I re-met George and told her of my plight she wasn’t in the least bit surprised. She thought it was time for a bit of fun. Now that I’d got the hang of the chair a bit more, we wondered if we’d be able to pull each other along, for a bit of a jape. So George leaned forward and grabbed onto my handles at the back and we gave it a go. Because the chairs are so well made, we got a right pace on. George was killing herself laughing behind me and we got some very strange glances. Next time, I’m going to take giant reins then she can steer me like a horse and cart.

It’s tiring though, all that arm work. Even though I do a fair bit of swimming, you need good upper body strength to be able to use a chair with ease. On a shopping trip like that, it really helps if you can plan where you want to go to first, but obviously, that takes any spontaneity out of the event. I made the rookie error of writing a list of shops down, but not their location, so ended up doing about seven laps of the Trafford Centre before finally reaching Waterstones. When I asked a friendly looking shopper and his wife if they knew the way, they went over and above to help – checking their app and even offering to lead me there. I only needed an ordnance survey map for my husband’s walking holiday. The guy in the shop obligingly reached the item from the top shelf for me, but he must have wondered if I was taking the mick.

Going for lunch was easier than I expected though. I thought the restaurant would look at two wheelchairs and wonder where on earth to put us. But they simply took a couple of seats away and asked if we’d prefer to sit next to or opposite each other. The tone of voice was definitely patronising, but I don’t think it was intentional. I allowed myself a small glass of wine when George had a prosecco, but daren’t have anymore. Drunk in a wheelchair is a whole other level of chaos. But when I took my gloves off to raise a glass, I noticed my fingers had black marks on them from where they’d rubbed on the wheels.

In general, I found most shop assistants to be helpful. The chap in Muji went over and above when I asked for some out-of-stock flipflops. He had a rummage in the back room and brought out the last box to my knee. When I asked the lady on the till in Ted Baker to take a photo of George and I with all our shopping, she gave us a load more bags to make the picture funnier. And when we went to the Levi shop, the fit assistant took his time to get various styles of jeans and shirts out for us to see properly. Towards the end of the trip though, when I had lots of bags balanced on my knee, I felt I was being watched like a shoplifter in Lakeland. A sense of being closely followed by a detective trying to catch me stuffing a melon baller into my knickers.

So what did George get from our day out? Well, she enjoyed me being at eye level with her all the time, we had a good laugh and she appreciated someone wheeling a mile in her shoes for a change. But there’s a vast chasm of difference between a day and a lifetime in a wheelchair. When George dropped me home, I stepped out of the car and walked into my house. So really, I don't know what it's like to be George at all.

Control

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Thu, 13 Dec 2018 20:45:18 GMT

In the last few years, three people I know have successfully managed to extricate themselves from abusive relationships. Not physical abuse, but clever, drip-drip, confidence-sapping, bank-balance-draining abuse.

One of them had a very messy divorce, with children involved. Another eventually moved out (but they weren't married) and fortunately, one was lucky enough to see the light just before getting sucked any further down that route – but it was a close shave.

All of these people (two women and a man) are kind, caring, funny, strong and what's more, very intelligent. So how did they end up with a partner who left them temporarily mentally battered and bruised? Did they lack the confidence to hold out for someone who treated them better? Were they hoodwinked from the off by a person who could sense their vulnerability? Were they in some way to blame? Absolutely not. But it's a question they have all asked themselves.

Speaking to them separately, one theme is constant and this comment summed it up: "It sounds daft, there were so many incidences, which taken alone, might just seem a bit odd or petty. It's only now I've stepped back from that scenario and have spent time with other people, that I've realised how destructive that partnership was."

Coercive control ( https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abusive_power_and_control ) seems to be the buzzword.

Sociopath ( https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Sociopath ) was mentioned too.

As was Munchausen’s syndrome ( https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/munchausens-syndrome/ ).

Websites offering help are littered with checklists of behavioral traits of someone who is abusing you. Once seen in black and white, they can be hard to explain away.

"The way I was living my life had slowly become normal to me. He was very subtly in control of everything – even down to what we ate, the time we ate it and who we ate it with."

Isolation was a factor in all three scenarios - finding excuses for their partner not to spend time with their own family and friends. There would be an illness, a catastrophe, a forgotten appointment, a well-timed argument to create a bad feeling and in some cases, an outright, well-thought-out lie.

"I'll take care of our our social life, you're so busy" - so I can say 'no' to invitations or cancel without you even knowing we've been included. Inevitably, the invitations dry up and the victim is left wondering why. The abuser gets to play the part of sympathy-giver, making it appear like they are the only one who truly loves and understands them.

I was told about an off-the-cuff comment received from an acquaintance: "Whenever you're out together, as soon as you look like you're having fun, you get whisked off". It was always faux concern about them drinking too much, or a sudden urge to 'get them into bed', or an invented slight from someone else at the event to sour the mood.

The woe-is-me or martyr theme is a common thread, with the bully blaming their own behaviour on outside events or influences, never accepting responsibility for their own actions. Usually the abuser is unhappy with their own life and by subtly making the people around them unhappy, they feel less miserable themselves.

Twisted behaviour is packaged up as love or concern, to induce feelings of guilt in the victim, for thinking badly of them. But that victim probably knows, deep, deep down that what they are living through just doesn’t seem right. Maybe they are unwilling to acknowledge what they fear, for fear of facing reality themselves.

These patterns are often noticed by friends and family a long time before the victim - and it is a brave person who brings this up in conversation. Will it be taken the wrong way? Look like you're interfering? Spoil your own relationship with them? It's tricky.

But one thing I’ve learned is that somehow, the real truth eventually surfaces. And when it does, when the jigsaw pieces finally start falling into place, the best thing you can do is just be there.

Embalmed in Rio

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Wed, 12 Dec 2018 14:51:51 GMT

I wanted to donate my body to science but my daughters have banned me. They don't like the idea of their mother’s torso being poked over by a zitty med student with a clipboard and scalpel. I pointed out that it would save them a fortune in funeral costs, but they still won’t have it. So I’ve expanded my morbid research and found more fabulous ways to move from earth to heaven.

I particularly like the idea of solving a murder after my demise by being left to wither on a body farm in Texas. In one programme, they showed a man with a mattress on top of him, to mirror a homicide and assess how long the corpse had been hidden. Another cadaver was propped up against a tree, fully clothed, to monitor when birds of prey might sniff it out and peck through the denim jacket. One lady had just been left in the nuddy with a tag on her toe.

But if you’d prefer something altogether more jolly, you could be carted off to the crematorium in a motorbike side car, have your ashes rocketed into space, or, book an Elvis look-a-like to croon ‘Return to Sender’ ahead of being buried in your own back yard. One woman hosted her own fake funeral because she didn’t want to miss out on the party when she was actually dead. Why suffer from FOMO?

If you fancy adding a spot of sunshine to your send-off, there's a place in Rio de Janeiro where you can be embalmed and set in a pose. One chap chose to be forever playing dominoes in his favourite bar. For those liking their mercury a little lower though, why not take a dip in a cryonic chamber for a century or two? That zitty med student might bring you back to life in 2119.

One of the most controversial methods of eternal preservation is plastination, where you are kind of steeped in plastic. Think 3D lamination. It was made famous by a chap called Dr Gunther Von Hagens, who has an exhibition called Body Worlds in London. Not one for the faint-hearted, but fascinating nonetheless.

There’s a new kid on the funeral block called resomation, which is gaining traction in Minnesota. From what I can gather, you’re placed in a tank of watery chemicals and somehow magicked into a syrupy substance. Your loved ones can choose to keep you in a bottle or flush you down the lav. Perhaps one for an in-law who’s always been a pain in the backside.

Some people make a living from filming funerals. Now at first, I struggled to think of one possible reason why that would be a good idea. But the pamphlet pointed out that a DVD could be sent to mourners who were unable to make it. The package deal includes testimonies from grieving friends, and, for an added fee, they’ll throw in a copy of the order of service to help you join in.

So, should you, or someone you love, find yourself facing the final curtain anytime soon, consider this little article your handy one-stop-shop for a dirge-free do. You’re welcome.

Mum's Eulogy

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Wed, 07 Nov 2018 10:53:35 GMT

First of all, thank you for all coming today, to celebrate mum’s life. She would be thrilled that so many of you are here – if not a bit annoyed that she couldn’t join you for a glass of prosecco back at Oakwood Hall afterwards.

One of the many things I loved about mum was her organizational skills – from rustling up a small dinner party for twenty-two to a huge marquee on the garden for Lu and Andrew’s wedding. Lists were drawn up, menus were planned and executed, flowers were arranged and Tufty was told what to wear and who not to offend. Not that he listened...

So it probably won’t come as a surprise to any of you, that apart from the actual date and time, everything that’s happening today – the music, the readings, the willow basket detail, had all been prepped and left in an envelope, way back in 2003. You’ll be relieved to hear that, unlike dad’s departure, we haven’t got a Chippindale dumper on standby outside.

Lots of you have been in touch to share your sadness at mum’s passing – but also to tell me about some of the great times you enjoyed together. Her nursing days were a particular joy, where many lifelong friendships were forged. The legacy of her often having to cope with some very poorly patients was apparent in her parenting techniques.

Simon, Nigel, Lucinda and myself literally had to be delirious with fever before we were allowed a day off school. Her regular response to any of her children’s illnesses – feigned or otherwise – was “Two disprins and an early night dear and you’ll be fine in the morning.”

Although Lu does have a fond memory of a rare day off school, snuggling up with mum, watching Pebble Mill at One. And Nigel recalls her compassion fondly, when he was on crutches for so long, aged ten.

The only thing mum really couldn’t cope with, was seeing any of her children upset. But this was often remedied with a trip to Carters toy shop for the boys or a heavy dose of retail therapy for the girls.

Occasionally, mum would help us with homework – but usually only if it was a project which lent itself to cutting out and sticking on. She did manage to instill in Lu and I a love of reading – though it’s fair to say that Shakespeare never got a look in, due to Catherine Cookson novels being much more fun.

As well as having a nursing career and four children, mum threw herself into all kinds of other clubs and committees. I particularly remember the Bingley Little Theatre phase, where she was involved in props. She took the role very seriously, once leaving dad and I to sit on kitchen chairs for a month, as she’d moved 90% of our lounge furniture onto the stage for a period piece.

I think it’s fair to say that mum tolerated tennis, rather than excelled at the sport. But what she lacked in finesse on the court was made up for in support for dad, joining him on many a weekend and summer nights at Bailey Hills, cheering on the sidelines with a chilled chardonnay.

It was a similar scenario when it came to skiing. She was scared of heights and couldn’t bare being cold, but for dad, smiled her way through bubble lifts in Verbier and dragged her handbag up the button lifts in Obergurgl. It was really only the gluwein and posh shops that could help regain mum’s equilibrium.

It was golfing that mum really took to – and walking. Two things she usually managed to beat dad at, much to his annoyance: “You just haven’t got the patience, Brian.”

She spent hours at Branshaw and Beckfoot golf clubs – either swinging an iron, playing bridge or sorting out flower rotas. And even took her turn at being Lady Captain, a role which she thoroughly enjoyed.

And lets’ not forget the pleasure mum got from gardening. She loved pottering in the green house and had a real flair for making her surroundings look natural and beautiful.

But mum also found time to support plenty of good causes - from Save The Children Fund - to driving, who she called, “the old dears” to The Little Hut in Bingley, for lunch, every week.

But charity really did start at home, because however frantic mum was, her open-house policy for all our friends, boyfriends, and girlfriends was well-known. She could always find a spare place at the table for those needing a Saturday roast or a portion of chicken Thornfield. And the zed-bed was constantly on stand-by, ready to spring open at a minute’s notice - if you didn’t mind sharing it with a Labrador.

As a family, we had some amazing holidays. Simon often refers to our American road trip in a motorhome, which was soon renamed 'the smelly hole' due to our on-board toilet overflowing in Death Valley. It wasn’t long before dad was dispatched to find us a hotel in Vegas.

But wherever we went in the world, mum always had a fear of us getting cold. Nigel says on a trip to Italy, during an 85 degree fahrenheit tour of Pompeii, the Chippindale children were all trussed up in anoraks, while every other holiday maker breezed around in shorts and tee-shirts.

Both Margi and Tufty loved their grandchildren dearly, but after raising us four, we knew we had to make an appointment at ‘Longreach’ before landing with our offspring. But when we did, you could guarantee that Jess, Harry, Holly, Cameron, Molly and Emma got their full attention.

Many an afternoon was spent baking, dressing up dolls, colouring-in or being let loose on the ride-on lawnmower with Tufty. And I know mum was so happy to be introduced to her great-grandaughter, Anya, just recently.

It’s no secret that mum struggled for quite a while towards the end of her reign. And we’ll never know for sure what the real triggers were, but I think many of us believe it coincided with dad’s ill health. A testament maybe, to how much she loved him and feared his loss.

But throughout most of mum’s life, whenever she was faced with a tricky situation – be it medical or personal, she always approached it with dignity. She never once asked “Why me?” It was always a case of “What can I do to make it better?”

We’re so grateful to those of you who supported us with the many decisions we had to make about mum’s health and well-being over the last few years. It gave us great comfort to know that she felt safe, warm and loved by those caring for her at Cottingley Hall.

And I know mum didn’t have a faith as such, but I’d like to think that now, somewhere, she’s been welcomed with open arms by dad, and they’re cracking open the Chablis, toasting a smashing life together.

Miracle Man

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Sun, 30 Sep 2018 19:56:15 GMT

Do you believe in miracles?

There's a man from Yorkshire who claims to have brought people back from the dead. I went to investigate for the BBC and ended up in South Africa.

Here's a taster, from BBC Radio Leeds, ahead of my full documentary this Christmas:

https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/aodr1t0lw8du7frqg87ej/SMITH%20WIGGS%20PACKAGE.mp3?dl=0&oref=e&...

Bitterballen

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Fri, 11 May 2018 17:42:53 GMT

12 Things I Learned in Amsterdam

If there's a fire alarm at Leeds Bradford Airport and you're evacuated to the car park, take your gin and tonic with you.

Don't rely on Googlemaps to get you from the train station to your hip hotel. Hail a 6-man taxi to take you three minutes to your destination around the corner.

Hip hotels don't always have the best bathroom facilities.

Card entry to your bedroom is fine if you can remember which floor you're on at 0415. Not so much if you're the roommate who bailed out at 0200, being woken up by the automatic lights triggered by the entry card.

Literally everyone is good looking. Exhibit A:

Bitterballen taste like reconstituted rotting molluscs rolled in sawdust.

The Rijksmuseum is OK, but there's too much fruit in dark rooms and I hate the angry swan painting. This was the best picture because at least there's some arse on display. It's called The Massacre of the Innocents by Corneli Cornelisz van Haarlem (1562-1638).

Your husband misses you.

This mode of transport is not called a Gupta, as thought by my friend Kate. She meant a Tuk-Tuk. It's actually just called a bike taxi.

If you add the letters Geitenkaas to the end of every word, you actually sound a bit Dutch.

"How are you today?"
"Goodgeitenkaas"

It is unwise to show your friends the state of your favourite yet tattered bra. It will end up in a bin at Schiphol airport.

When you're 46 years old, YOLO is a great idea for 48 hours. At some point though, you have to catch the Reality Coach home.

Ice Cream for Breakfast

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Fri, 20 Apr 2018 09:12:09 GMT

Thank God for my mother's forward planning. For the third time in two years, we received a phone call from the nursing home suggesting we get there sharpish to say our goodbyes – then the old bird's rallied. With her mild dementia, I'm sure she's no idea of the trauma we go through each time we brace ourselves for her last breath. It's probably just as well.

An ambulance had been called and we were told to meet them in A&E. She had pneumonia. But one thing I remember mum saying to me years ago was "I don't want to end up a vegetable in a nursing home." She even went as far as suggesting I collect up all her pills so she could down them with a gin, when the time came.

So my sister and I had a horrendous discussion about whether or not we thought she should be taken in, knowing that a frail old lady with dementia probably wouldn't come back, once admitted. But medical teams are legally obliged to save lives and as there wasn't a spare canister of oxygen kicking around, or facilities for administering intravenous antibiotics, we had no choice but to let them take her.

Fortunately, after two nights on a noisy ward, we got mum back to her familiar surroundings, where she's now being cared for in comfort by nurses she knows. She's still pretty much bedridden but is eating ice cream for breakfast (she'd never have let us get away with that) and is drinking enough juice to keep the oral antibiotics working.

But this incident brought the question of what happens next time? into sharp focus. Then I had a vague recollection of mum telling me about something called a Living Will (now renamed an Advance Decision). As my brother is executor of the estate, we asked him to see if there was anything in the envelope regarding her wishes for care. Bingo. We found her handwritten and signed Advance Decision document from 2007. It specifically states the circumstances in which she does and doesn't want medical intervention.

Grim reading as it was, it has taken a huge pressure of my siblings and I because it basically backs up everything we thought. She's even gone as far as attaching funeral specifics. I know it's horrific to even think about this kind of thing, it really is, but her canny forethought has helped us enormously.

So, along with making a financial will, which I still haven't got around to, I'm going to put down what I'd like in terms of end of life care. That way, when it comes to it, my family can focus on holding my hand and making sure the gin drip is working, rather than tearing around, trying to guess my wishes.

https://compassionindying.org.uk/library/advance-decision-pack/

We Need to Talk About...

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Sun, 28 Jan 2018 17:07:16 GMT

I've been on a work-related course called 'Dealing With Difficult Conversations'. It involved partnering up for role play and a glitchy PowerPoint presentation. Fortunately, I ended up with a girl I really like, so phew, no difficult conversations to have there.

The aim of the game was to recall our feelings from previous awkward discussions, then tool up with coping strategies for the next time we need to tell a colleague they have B.O. or a pungent lunch.

I have a whole back catalogue of conversations I would prefer not to remember. Obviously, there's the standard "It's not you, it's me", when we all know it is them and not us. And the ones requiring a lot of eggshell-treading when what you really want to say is "You are absolutely barking mad and completely wrong" but you actually say "I'm sorry", then continue to seethe.

What could I share with the group though, without confirming their suspicions that I'm weak-willed, weird or worth avoiding? I needn't have worried. One guy launched right in, regaling us with details of a stand-off between him and the missus . They'd not spoken for days and it was all to do with miscommunication, or in other words "You weren't bloody listening to a bloody word I said". We all wanted to know who or what the argument was about, but that was a difficult conversation nobody wanted to broach.

Then it got a bit 'awks' as it became apparent that there are a fair few grievances in the office. The tone shifted from share and help to not-naming-names, but... It was an eye opener for me, because I just assumed everything was tickety-boo down the other end of the room, but apparently not. Unless it was me they were talking about and I've not twigged.

One of the main reasons we prefer not to parley is fear of causing offence. Will he or she think I'm sexist/racist/homophobic? Is there a way I can ask him/her to do the job they're paid for without the fear of being labelled a Tory? This was all explored via the medium of putting your hand up and adding something to the mind map. Though we soon realised it was better to pick short words due to the course leader's spelling issues.

Scenarios were handed around on slips of paper and we were invited to get into character. But confusion ensued because five of us ended up as the boss, trying to explain to our boss why they had been passed over for a promotion. A tricky tête-à-tête had to be held with the course leader: "It's probably not you who cocked the exersise up, it's us".

So did this 90 minute conference give me confidence to collar the eternal leaver-of-mucky-dishes-on-the-desk? Will I be brave enough to bring up the burning issue of who borrowed, then bit the end off, my biro? I doubt it. I'll probably just send a snarky email and continue to seethe.

A Bit Unbalanced

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Sun, 05 Nov 2017 19:57:39 GMT

I've had what we now know was an acute attack of labrynthitis. No, I'd never heard of it either until I did some googling. Initially, I just thought it was my new prescription glasses giving me some jip, but the wobbliness escalated rapidly and within fifteen minutes I was floored. Forty minutes later, I was in a wheelchair being pushed out of the office into an ambulance.

Labrynthitis makes you feel like you're completely and utterly hammered, without any of the preceding fun parts. Your balance disappears and it's as if you're on a dinghy in the middle of the North Sea in a force 10 gale - then you spew everywhere. But basically, it's just an inner ear infection and the only thing to make you better is rest and anti-sickness tablets. I feel like I've had a celebrity illness though, because it turns out Vincent Van Gogh suffered with it in the 1800's, shortly followed by Anne Widdecombe in 2013.

One of the heroes in my dramatic rescue from BBC Yorkshire was my friend and colleague Sarah, who kept me from the brink of hysteria when everyone else was in a Wallace & Grommit style panic. When the paramedics strapped me into a wheelchair, Sarah carried my bag, held the bowl and accompanied me to A&E, waiting patiently until my husband took over with a roll of his eyes.

The next day, my GP confirmed it was text-book labrynthitis and nonchalantly waved away my fears of a brain tumour, stroke or early menopause. So after another a good night's sleep, I thought the least I could do was send Sarah a bouquet of something lovely. But what should have been a simple click of the credit card details, ended up in a middle class social minefield worthy of an entry in Very British Problems.

My burst-of-sunflowers were due to arrive by 5pm the next day. Perfect, I thought, congratulating myself on my kindness. But by 6pm, I hadn't received a thank-you-for-your-thank-you-flowers text. Now, Sarah is one of the poshest people I know, so I thought it a bit odd (she went to an all-girls boarding school where writing notelets is part of the curriculum). But you can't exactly ring up and say "Er, did you get my flowers (you ungrateful cow)?"

So, there were three options on the table: 1) The delivery person couldn't be arsed. 2) No, that was the only option. Then, I got an email informing me that the driver couldn't find the property so had taken the posy back to base. Infuriating. So I called the track-my-order hotline, cancelled the burst and bobbed round with a bottle instead.

But the next day, some bedraggled flowers appeared on Sarah's doorstep. The only logical conclusion I can draw is that the delivery driver had suffered an acute attack of labrynthitis on the way and was carted off in an ambulance. But who helped him ? And how will he be able to deliver his own thank-you flowers? And will they have a similar note attached?

Dementia

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Sun, 03 Sep 2017 19:20:26 GMT

Once again, I left mum and wept. She has dementia and has been living in a care home for eighteen months. One of those months was with dad.

Dad lived with prostate cancer for ten years, but the last year involved many hospital trips. After five weeks on an oncology ward it was clear he wasn't returning home. Around that time, mum was diagnosed with dementia, then broke her hip. So they went from hospital to care home together, where dad lost his war on cancer but mum remained. It was all rather grim.

I fill the time during my visits with non-stop chat about what I've been up to. I busy myself with putting new flowers in the vase. I check the clock – has it been half an hour yet? Today, I had a good three hours to spare, but I made my excuses after forty minutes. I really wanted a hug, so I bent down and squeezed her bony frame and she squeezed me right back. I held her hands and looked into her eyes and told her how I wished I could see her more, that I really loved her and thought about her all the time. She smiled a big, wide smile and I think she welled up. But I couldn't stay.

I don't know how to make her happy again, so I just talk. But while the words are spilling out of my mouth, I wonder, does she want me to shut up so she has chance to say something herself? Does she know I'm over-compensating? Is it because she can't think what to say or because she's forgotten how to begin a conversation? Maybe she really wants to tell me something, but it's too jumbled to articulate? She struggles to remember names, so perhaps feels embarrassed to ask how people are. Is she sad or content? I don't know.

I tell myself that if she was compos mentis, she'd be shoving me out, insisting I go and enjoy myself instead of sitting in a stuffy room with an old lady. But I do it because I want to see a glimpse of my old mum. The mum who was a force to be reckoned with, the mum who helped others, played golf, raised four children and numerous pets. I want to ask her advice, confide in her and have a giggle. I'd like to go shopping with her and have lunch out. But that's never going to happen again.

Most of the time, it's fine. My siblings also visit and the care home staff are fabulous. But today, I just couldn't hack it. I said goodbye, got in my car and sobbed. Some people like to cry on their own, but that's not really me. I mean, I do, but then I always want to reach out and talk about it, so I rang my oldest friend Jill.

Jill lost both her parents so knows how it feels. She knew mine from the age of five and has witnessed most of our family highs and lows – birthdays, weddings and funerals. She let me catch my breath between tears. We compared notes on how we felt about our mums and dads and by the time we'd finished, she had me in stitches over a story involving a home-made curry, six bottles of Peroni and her new slippers.

And life goes on. Tomorrow, I'll get up, do a job I enjoy, have tea with my husband and children and probably watch a bit of television. And next weekend, we've got a family wedding, which will be wonderful.

So anyway, that's just how it is. No veneer, no pictures of fluffy guinea pigs or stories of hilarious japes. Just a bit of what occasionally goes on in my head about my mum, her dementia and what it's like when I go to the nursing home.

Rebecca Lacks Concentration

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Wed, 22 Mar 2017 21:19:26 GMT

It was like the pub quiz from hell with no prospect of a pinot grigio. The Speed Awareness Course.

We've all done one to dodge the penalty points. OK, perhaps not all . I accept there are some law-abiding citizens out there who make a habit of sticking to every ruddy rule in the book, but most of my friends have signed up at some point or another.

I was driving home from an early shift and had taken my eye off the speedometer for a nanosecond. Then flash - clocked doing 34mph in a 30mph limit. A month later, I found myself in a windowless sports hall on the outskirts of Skipton with a collection of other reprobates.

Our punishment/re-education was served with powdered coffee in cups made from the same stuff as the ceiling, at a cost of £85 all-in. Tables were laid out to encourage law breakers to mingle and we got special name tags so the teachers could tell us off with more authority.

It was a good-cop-bad-cop carry on. But unfortunately, the first man up to the podium had a dreadfully distracting physical feature. I'd better not say exactly what it was,* but in the circumstances, he coped remarkably well with the flipchart. His sidekick was harmless enough, apart from her patronising head tilt every two minutes to check it all made sense.

Well, the bits I caught were clear enough, but I've always struggled in a we-talk-you-listen scenario. If I'm not on-board I'm bored and find myself meandering into minutiae mode. Wonder if she knows she's got a VPL? Is that an intentionally messy bun or couldn't she be arsed this morning? Ooh, wedding ring – straight or modern lesbian marriage?

Physical Feature Man baffled me with physics. He said something about inertia and kinetic energy, demonstrating details with graphs and a laser pen. I got 10% in this subject at school, signed off with an encouraging 'Rebecca hasn't grasped the situation at all!'

Then I really had to use my grey matter. We were given a booklet and asked to fill in what we thought the speed limits were in certain areas. It was a multiple guess sketch, which I failed.

"Zigzags. Toddler. Fit workman." We were moved onto partner work. Linda (for argument's sake) held the pen while I shouted out hazards between junction A and central reservation B. "Conker tree. Mobility scooter. Sarnie shop." Actually, I could murder a chicken pesto mayo on ciabatta...

You'd think, at forty four years old, I'd have mastered the art of concentration (or at least perfected my 'that's fascinating' face) but even a potentially life-saving seminar can leave me in La La Land. Which reminds me, I must get that on DVD. I'll bet Emma Stone didn't have a VPL at the Oscars. Though in fairness, that was probably the last thing on her mind after the wrong winner gaffe.

But back to my terrible driving. What did I glean from this road safety equivalent of Blankety Blank? Well, it turns out I need to focus, slow down and be more alert to danger - which all sounded worryingly familiar.

And then I remembered. I'd done this course before.

*He had an arm missing.

1988: Snogging, Spewing, Crying

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Fri, 06 Jan 2017 20:49:56 GMT

As far as sixteenth birthday parties go, it was wasn't exactly standard. I mean, yes, there were your basics - snogging, spewing, crying. But in terms of classroom talkability, it won hands down in 1988. As such, the following names have been misspelled to protect the innocent...

Mum inadvertently set the scene by demanding it be held at my big brother and sister's digs – rather than her Lladro-laden detached. It wasn't dissimilar to a student house - freezing bathroom, shit carpet and ashtrays everywhere, with a handful of interchangeable housemates to cover costs. Think The Young Ones but more minging.

Dad, bless him, wanted to ensure it went with a swing, so got some crates of Merrydown in from Makro. It came in 1 litre bottles with an ABV of 8.2%. The phrase kicking around Bingley Grammar at the time was 'One minute your merry, next your down'. Or was it 'Get merry before going down?' Or 'Go down merry?' Anyway, we downed it, merrily – and brought a lot of it back up later – but that's a whole other story involving the Hoover.

Annette snogged eight boys. EIGHT. And when I say snogged, I mean no further than a nipple tweak under her Manorgrove crop-top. Or at the very most, a lingering digit. Which is more than can be said for the girl (who shall remain nameless) who was found fully embracing my big sister's Joy of Sex book in the attic, with a boy who was so excited even his acne was throbbing.

I texted a few friends to ask what they remembered from the function: Smashed toilet door. Helen holding the mantelpiece after it was ripped off the wall by the school dickhead. Stereo hurled out of the window (at least it wasn't playing my fave single – Erasure's 'Chains of Love'). Leanne losing her knickers in the adjacent cemetery – twice. Me asking the police if they'd "brought a bottle?". A mysterious object blocking the bog. A black eye and a major grounding for the twins.

Oh the innocent days of hangovers and herpes. Thank God social media wasn't a thing. It was bad enough when someone brought a camera, got the photos developed at Supasnaps, then pinned the evidence on the class notice board. And if you wanted a copy, you had to ask for the negatives (I wonder what did happen to that one with said girl and the raw bacon...).

There's a certain politician (who appeared on Question Time recently), who was in my form. He was so unbelievably square and passionate about issues that he was never going to be picked for this party. Looked like a Young Conservative but was actually in the Kinnock camp. Think Will from The Inbetweeners.

If you're reading this now, Kris , I only hope your pain of not being selected for the soirée has been outweighed by relief that you can't be traced to any relations with such lowbrow riff-raff. In hindsight, I wished you had rocked up – I could've stashed the negs for a red top on a rainy day...

Would you believe that a long-lasting marriage was actually spawned from this jamboree? My big sister's boyfriend was so appalled with the aftermath that he simply sighed and said "You'd better move in with me." He's still undecided on the very final straw. It's a toss up between walking past the multi-splattered car bonnet at 9am and seeing brother Simon vac up the vom.

When you're sixteen though, there's kudos attached to hosting such a hooley. My amour propre was tip-top in maths that week. I may not have known what sine or cosine were, but I got full marks for taking the class off on a tangent.

And I nearly snogged as many boys as Annette.

FFA: Form-Filling Anxiety

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Sat, 31 Dec 2016 10:54:51 GMT

I suffer from FFA: Form-Filling Anxiety. OK, it's a made-up syndrome, but it feels real to me. Even something as innocuous as a prize draw ticket stub has the potential to cause chaos in my alimentary canal. Three dotted lines goading me to misspell my name, forget where I live or write down an ex-lover's mobile by accident.

So if you're one of the new year statistics casting around for a bigger challenge, better partner or debt consolidation, then I feel your pain. Frankly, I'd give a kidney to skip the part where you scour the house for JUST ONE BLOODY BLACK BIRO in order to complete the boxes.

The scariest part, really, is coming face to face with what you don't know or haven't achieved. I once got a question: "Who are Tinky-Winky, Dipsy, Laa Laa and Po?"*. I panicked and wrote down Paula Yates's children. I'd have googled it, but it was in an exam setting for a broadcast journalism course.

DOB? Am I that old? Could I lie? But a face-to-face interview would scupper that. Wrinkles aren't interested in settling down on the under thirties – they prefer to creep up on unsuspecting forty-somethings mid-bolognese, then make themselves at home with your drifting waistline.

And National Insurance number? Really? Who knows theirs off by heart? Absolutely not me, no way, not never. No need when it's safely filed on the back of an envelope in the 'stuff' drawer. Of course I can read it through the unidentified oily covering. Ah, that's where my warming mitt went...

I can't decide which are worse – paper or online applications. At least with t'internet you can spell check but how do you know prospective employers/husbands/debt-collectors can't see the unfinished draft? What if they're all sat round a computer, howling with laughter at your transferable skills/love of dining out/inability to add up?

Received wisdom dictates you let someone clever cast an eye over your application before posting or clicking. Here though, there's the very real chance of a 'helpful tip' being offered - which could involve having to start over. Then delivery panic sets in. What if the postman dropped it in the rain? Or it's caught up in a random cyber attack?

Oh, the agonizing wait for a response. Hoodwinking your id into believing whatever happens, it's fate. Fully braced for '..due to the enormous amount of applications for jobs/men/people who can use a calculator...'

Of course, we could avoid the whole wretched rigmarole and reach for a beer and box set instead. But you've got to be in it to win it, right? Which brings me to the if-all-else-fails option – The National Lottery.

But do you register online or fill out the boxes in-store?

At least they provide pens at the Off Licence.

*They're The Teletubbies, apparently.

Budget Hygge

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Wed, 23 Nov 2016 23:42:56 GMT

Want to feel hygge but haven't got the cash? Follow my budget hygge plan to feel more Scandi than a lumberjack in a snowdrift.

First, you need to get cold.

Proper Hygge (PH): Flight to Iceland: £319
Budget Hygge (BH): Opening freezer door: FREE

Then, get warm.

PH: Woodburner, fitted & working + cashmere socks: £3k
BH: Turning radiator up a bit + old socks: 53p

Create ambient lighting.

PH: Loads of posh candles from Jo Malone: £600
BH: Taking a bulb out of your big light fitting: FREE

Get drunk.

PH: Craft ale/glühwein/boozy hot chocolate: 6 mugs @£7 per mug: £42
BH: Bottle of House Red & cooking chocolate: £4.99, all in.

Eat ham.

PH: Air dried hock on a plinth: £80
BH: Sliced & ready to go: £3

Intercourse.

PH: Foreplay with a lumberjack: PRICELESS
BH: Cut out & keep beardy weirdy: FREE

PH TOTAL: £4041.00
BH TOTAL: £8.52

SAVING: £4032.48

You're welcome.

It's not clowns you should worry about this Halloween – it's little girls.

Sat, 22 Oct 2016 16:04:05 GMT

"Becky... tell the truth... do you and Jill know anything about why the custard for the pensioners has had to be investigated?"

Ah.

It was October half term and we were ten. Mum was a volunteer for what she called "The Old Dears", driving a minibus around Bingley, scooping up housebound fogies for hot meals and bingo in a prefab. Wheels-to-meals.

We'd been carted along as a mischief preventative, having form with a catalogue of minor misdemeanors – prank phone calls to Mr Crappa, fake collections for Save The Children, something to do with the dog and an onion...

So we found ourselves in the back of the minibus, bored. Colouring books and felt tips were never going to cut it. Initially, we entertained ourselves by straining to see the biddie's ankles under the seats. Then we made use of the desiccated coconut from our quarter of mushrooms and stealthily sprinkled it onto their shoulders – edible dandruff.

At some point during our next activity - breathing on the window to draw willies with our fingers - we remembered the Halloween spiders in our pockets. Our original plan had been to lob them down the bus when mum was knocking at the door of someone infirm, but a more rip-roaring ruse was hatched. 'What would happen', we wondered, 'if the wrinklies got a spooky surprise at lunchtime?'.

Meals for the codgers were collected from the local hospital en route – fish or cottage pie and a sponge - plus a few flasks of parsley sauce or such to swill it down. Cook trundled the trolley out to the car park and Mum duly hoisted the denture-friendly fodder into the back of the minibus, asking Jill and I if we'd kindly look after it.

Kindly look after it?

Our eyes locked. No, we didn't mind looking after it at all....

I think you can guess what's coming. As Jill kept lookout, I reached behind for the first flask and positioned it between us. Our throats thick with swallowed giggles, I unscrewed the first lid. We'd all-on not to wet our knickers. This was our best wheeze yet.

One by one, we plucked off the plastic spider's legs and popped them into the various sauces – driving the final meaty body into the gravy with a felt tip. Then, tops replaced (and sides nearly split) we re-stowed the spoiled goods – and grinned. Oh yes, we'd really looked after their lunch.

Pulling up at the prefab, mum praised us for being "such good girls" as she went about maneuvering one elderly lady after another into the warmth. The arachnid broth was handed over, then it was Home James. A satisfying morning's work for all.

Well, about three days later I was wigging-in on Mum's phone conversation; "I know Doreen, it's a mystery...Closed down the whole kitchen for inspection...Unfit for human consumption...Lady serving-up nearly had a coronary..."

Pause.

"BECKY....?"

#NationalPoetryDay

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Thu, 06 Oct 2016 15:22:33 GMT

Granny's Golden Gardening Shoes

Illustrations by Kelly McCarthy-Wright

Have you heard about my granny’s shoes?
They’re just for the garden, but always look new
They live in a cupboard next to the door
A comfortable, practical, golden size four

A miracle happens each time they’re worn
Toes twitch and then tingle - old feet feel reborn
Then guess what happens? Shall I give you a clue?
This is what golden gardening shoes do:

They make weeds disappear
And brambles all clear
They can tidy up shrubs
And get rid of grubs

They plant bulbs in the spring
And make the birds sing
They can water the flowers
For hours and hours

You see, my granny’s shoes have got magical powers.

I once saw them skip through the vegetable plot
Through the carrots, cabbages, chard and shallots
They dug and they teased and they plucked from the ground
The juiciest, most succulent veg to be found

Then they waltzed to the greenhouse to fertilize seeds
And waved to the worms as they composted weeds
Then straddled the mower and whizzed round the lawn
Dodging the molehills and beeping the horn

But what made them magical? Nobody knew
Until one afternoon, I looked for a clue…
I waited ‘till granny had fallen asleep
Then crept to the cupboard – just for a peep

I kicked off my trainers, threw socks to the floor
Slipped on the shoes and stepped out of the door
But nothing was happening, no magical jig
They just felt like old shoes, four sizes too big

No birds started singing, no brambles were cleared
They just felt like old shoes – but golden and weird
I started to wonder, did I dream this whole thing?
I mean, gardening shoes that make the birds sing…?

Then granny stretched out and lazily yawned
And the realisation suddenly dawned
I’d found out the answer, the penny had dropped
I knew why, when I wore them, the magic just stopped

So I ran back inside, I just couldn’t wait
I wanted to dance and to celebrate
“Wake up granny, wake up – I’ve got wonderful news
It’s YOU that’s magical, not the shoes!”

You Should Call The Undertaker

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Fri, 08 Jul 2016 20:22:05 GMT

Imagine being told that, about your mother?

Well, that happened to me this week and I can tell you, though it was wholly justified, it's fair thrown me.

It all began with a phone call from the nursing home on Sunday night. Mum had had a fall and they were just letting us know: she was alright, a bit confused but nothing to worry about. To put you in the picture, my mum has dementia. Not the all-out don't-know-who-you-are type, but enough not be able to live independently anymore.

I had a bad feeling about that call, but went to work as per on Monday. Half way through the morning, my mobile rang. Mum was very ill and they thought I should come. So I downed tools and legged it across Leeds to the train station, where my sister Lu picked me up at the other end and we floored it to mum. She looked dreadful. But Lu, having been a nurse, believed they'd acted too soon.

The Doctor who came to check mum out was the same one who'd confirmed dad's death less than four months ago. He was wearing the same black suit and sympathetic smile. He was as kind as he could be and put mum at ease, prescribing strong antibiotics and a large dose of 'let's see what the next twenty four hours bring'. But I just wanted him to stop talking, to go away, for this whole scenario not to be real.

I went back to work the next day – another phone call. This time, when I pressed them "Is she dying? Do I need to be there now?" The reply was "I'm telling you she's very bad – we think she could be". I put the phone down and swore a lot in disbelief. The girls rallied, filled in, got me out of the building and on my way.

I've realized there's a look on nurses faces which tells you everything you need to know within two paces. Before I reached mum's room the receptionist, the on-call nurse, the cleaner and the chef had all, with their body language, let me know things were not good at all.

And when I saw mum, she had that same look dad had about twenty four hours before he passed away. It's in the eyes. Sort of cloudy, half opened. The mouth and teeth – dry. Hollow cheeks, sallow almost waxy skin and barely a flinch when you pick up their hand.

I sat there, holding mum's hand – I positioned myself with chairs and cushions so we were both comfortable. I leaned in and told her how much I loved her and stroked her forehead. I'd done this with dad just twelve weeks ago and he squeezed my hand back ever so gently. This time, there was barely a twitch.

I tried not to cry. But I sent my pal Annette a text and the reality of the words broke me. I was silent but my stomach hurt with the effort of keeping it together. It was the sort of cry where you catch your breath and keep shaking your head in disbelief. When the tears feel really fat and you almost don't want to wipe them away because you can't believe their size. When Annette arrived, we went into the corridor and I sobbed properly - noisily and snottily.

The nurses told us one or two days. They suggested, as a courtesy, we call the undertaker. I heard them talking to each other about having a 'golden box' ready. Words like 'fast tracking' were being thrown around. Mum's friends arrived and talked about her giving up now that dad had gone, how they'd always thought she wouldn't be long after him. The nurses said "it happens". She was being talked about in the past tense and I wasn't ready. I'd just, just got used to having one parent.

Did I go home and worry about not being there in the final stages? Or did I drive myself mad by staying and watching mum fade away? I had a husband and children at home and wanted to be with them but I felt torn. And do you know what? I felt guilty that I wasn’t at work! Even though I'd been told categorically not to come back. They're a great bunch at the BBC. Say what you want about license fees and temporary contracts; to me, they've been fantastic throughout my one-parent-dead-another-on-her-way scenario.

But amazingly, mum is still with us. She's rallied. The men and women in white coats say it's a chest infection – which could worsen due to her age. Which makes me think pneumonia. The antibiotics don't seem to be working though. Mum explained to them today "It feels like there's a wall in my lung". They say she's very poorly and have hinted at something else going on. Nobody, apart from my sister, has dared to mention the word tumour.

So it's Friday night and instead of my planned evening on the vino collapso with my old school pals, I'm in my pyjamas, sober, about to turn in. It really is truly exhausting.

All I can think is how much longer has she got? It all sounds so dramatic, I know. If my siblings and friends hadn't been there to witness it, I'd be starting to think I'd exaggerated the whole thing in my head. I'd be giving myself a stern dressing down about creating a drama out of crisis. But no. This has actually happened this week.

So excuse me for sloppy grammar, the odd spelling and dodgy punctuation but I have written this as I felt it - in the hope that by getting it out of my head it might lighten my heart and help me sleep.

I will keep you posted. Night night.

Life Drawing Class: The Wimbledon Special

Sun, 26 Jun 2016 17:52:07 GMT

I've been asked to take my clothes of in someone's lounge for thirty quid - again.

I don't know what possessed me, but I used to be a life drawing model in-between children and jobs. I think I was just was bored and skint. I mean, babies and toddlers – they're alright and all that, but when a friend-of-a-friend was on the hunt for someone to go the full Goya once a week, I thought, why not?

Nothing focuses the mind on diet and pubic maintenance more than knowing a room full of folk will be scrutinizing your every nook and cranny. Those sketching your cesarean scar tend to claim they "really don't mind" what you look like - but you have to worry when they get the rubber out. That would be rubber in the British sense of the word, rather than the American (which I can assure you, would involve me charging a damn sight more than thirty snots for two hours).

Anyway, it turns out I was alright at the old Birth of Venus/Nymphe Des Meeres thing and I ended up with bookings a-plenty. I actually enjoyed the job. Show me a mother who doesn't want two hours of child-free peace and I'll show you her well paid nanny. And the artists were a good bunch in the main - apart from this one bloke who turned up with a reporter's notepad and biro, drew a pair of comedy breasts then buggered off. He didn't even have the decency to stay for half time hobnobs.

There were a handful of minor hazards... Usually, a few straight poses would suffice – slouching on a sofa looking wistful, reclining on a bed appearing, er, asleep. But some groups preferred to capture a bit more movement. The Wimbledon Special springs to mind, where I held a tennis racket above my head for half an hour while simultaneously tossing a ball in the air. Cue much muttering about new balls and strawberries. But at least the tennis scenario kept me awake. If the room was really warm and quiet and I was suitably relaxed, there was potential for one to drift off and let off. I never had bran flakes on a work day.

The venues ranged from a Quaker meeting house to someone's spare room. The Scout hut was OK, but a bit whiffy due to it being straight after Beavers. Once I was tentatively asked if I'd mind doffing off in a garage, if they provided a heater... but I had to draw the line at that.

I occasionally bump into artists in a non-drawing situation now. A regular is the chap who goes to the same film club as me. Try as we might to keep it light about Nordic Noir, I know he knows I know he's picturing me in the buff. Which can be awkward when his wife's there too.

But I must admit, I'm toying with the idea of dusting down the old robe again - since they asked so nicely ("Becks, we're running out of models and nobody else is daft enough - you game?"). But there's a bit more to consider now... Firstly, I've got what some might call a 'proper' job. Secondly, my daughters are now teenagers ("God mum, you're sooo embarrassing"). But mainly, I just can't be fussed with the upkeep anymore. I've strayed into the unkempt and I'm quite happy to remain there. And if I choose to visit the all-you-can-eat-curry buffet, I don't want the worry of being rubbed out again if I go back for thirds.

Euro 2016: Not Enough Jeopardy

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Sun, 19 Jun 2016 18:52:04 GMT

I don't mind Euro 2016, but there's not enough jeopardy for me. Here's my short, five point plan to spice up the beautiful game.

Sinkholes

Dotted throughout the pitch and ready to take a player out at any given moment.

Electric Shock Seating

Someone on your team receives a yellow card, you get quick jolt to the jeans. A red card and we're through to skin. Scarring a possibility in the case of a full-on pitch brawl.

Russian Roulette Ball

Looks like a football, but is it a football? Occasionally, the ball is cunningly swapped for a burstable sphere with fillings such as itching powder, dog poo, a wasps nest.

Streaker as Standard

Preferably someone from an ugly agency. Fans hold up scorecards based on appearance, performance and would you ?

Release the Kittens

During penalties, the advertising boards around the pitch open up and hundreds of little fluffy kittens bumble on in all their cuteness. An impossible scenario for the players. One small lapse in concentration and it's sayonara Snuggles.

Or...
I could just get drunk and go shopping.

My Legal High Lucky Escape

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Mon, 06 Jun 2016 20:25:33 GMT

I took a legal high every day for a week, on live radio.

It was the year 2000 and I was co-presenting The Breakfast Show on Atlantic 252 with a guy called Tony. Those in their forties might remember the longwave station and it's various cheesey straplines. Ours at the time was "Non-Stop Rhythm & Dance". Now, I'd probably change that to "a bit of a din with youths shouting in-between songs".

The idea behind the legal high thing was to test them out on behalf of our listeners. Give them a second hand experience of what it would be like, via me. And it tied in nicely with the release of Afroman's hit single that summer, 'Because I Got High'.

Commercial radio back then tended not to be too fussed about rules & regs. I was actively encouraged to make the headlines – spawning a favourite feature of ours at the time: 'Let's Get Sued'. So when the boss came to me and suggested I sampled (legal) drugs on air, it seemed the natural thing to do. What could possibly go wrong?

We ordered five enticing packets off the internet, with designs varying from psychedelic bug-eyed cartoons to leafy landscapes in calming hues. Oddly enough, there was more info about how mega I'd feel, than any hard facts about ingredients. But hey, we didn't care, it was radio, we were young and wacky, right listeners?

Day one. The stuff that looked a bit herby. Down the hatch at 5am and on with the show. 6am came and went, as did 7am, but by 8ish, I started to feel a bit odd. Nothing major. Just a bit, you know, not right. I was bracing myself for the big high to kick in but sadly that was the best/worst it got. Really, nothing to report. A bit disappointing if I'm honest.

On the second day I went for a capsule wrapped in rainbow foil. This one promised to make everything hilarious and we couldn't wait to be in stitches during the weather forecast. But another false claim. I just felt rank. I was very green around the gills that evening, but reasoned it could have been the fizzy hummus.

We didn't make it to Friday. By Wednesday, mum was on the phone begging me not to do any more drugs. She was concerned I'd do myself some long lasting harm and besides, what would they say at the golf club?

But spurred on by my ego, I powered through until Thursday. More oregano/dust was swilled down at daybreak but by lunchtime I'd called it a draw. The boss was panicking after witnessing me doubled-up (and not with laughter) during the showbiz round up.

I really did feel ropey. The only thing I can liken it to is the eleventh week of morning sickness. That utterly wearying, half-hunger-half-nauseous state which gnaws at your guts and threatens to send you sprinting back for the coil.

How could I have been so stupid? What on earth was I thinking? Cool packaging = I'll be cool. Says 'legal', so it must be safe-ish. I was so lucky to get away with a few sick days then back to broadcasting.

Parents (like me, now) will be very happy about the new UK legislation – basically, a blanket ban on all legal highs. Now I know this isn't going to prevent teenagers doing what they want to do, but it might just make them look elsewhere for their kicks. With my eldest daughter turning sixteen sooner than I would like to admit, I'd rather she did pretty much anything else than drugs.

So if you're reading this over my shoulder Molly, you hereby have my permission to drink yourself dizzy and vomit in a cab, fail (a few) exams, sleep around (a bit, but with nice boys), get dreadlocks (if you must), go vegan (ditto) but please, don't blow your life away because you got high.

End of lecture. You'll thank me one day.*

*Doubt it.

Swexit

beckybond72@outlook.com (Becky Bond) — Fri, 27 May 2016 17:03:34 GMT

Are EU sick of hearing about In or Out? Then join me for a 'Swexit'...

...A swift exit from any more television coverage about the EU.

Is there anything more crashingly boring than a presenteress in a bodycon dress, banging on/explaining what it means to leave or remain? The faux serious face twinned with the knowing nod and lean forward when a politician of any leaning spells it out 'in laymans terms' how likely it is that we will go to war if we don't tick the right box at the end of June.

The general glazing over usually kicks in around about the time of the first graphic. Sooner, if I've made inroads into the something sparkly. I just find myself in a trance, watching their over-fettled eyebrows straining to convey deep understanding of whichever gimp has been trotted out and plonked on the media couch in studio five.

How awful it must be, I fantasize, to get stuck next to someone like that at a media 'do'. How I'd be all smiles, as I dusted off a smoked salmon nibbly bit whilst sipping free vino and casually dropping something shockingly politically incorrect into the rah-rah, yah-yah conversation. Then (the fantasy continues), we only become bff's by the end of the night - as the presenteress weeps on my shoulder, admitting that all along, she just wanted people to think she was clever - and deep down she yearns to have a show like Kirsty Allsop's Christmas Nik Naks.

Almost as annoying as the TV politicos are the people who, having watched all this coma-inducing coverage, feel they have come to a balanced opinion on what should happen to the whole wide world. Acquaintances, whom you can normally get away with a conversation about last night's Breaking Bad/who's husband's the biggest b******/that new gadget for cellulite, suddenly feel compelled to ask me if I'm in or out. To which the answer usually is; 'depends which way they're shaking it about.'

Then there's all the bumf through the letterbox. Straight in the bin with the new pizza-cum-dog grooming parlour pamphlets and thinking-of-selling-your-house nonsense. Well, yes, I'd willingly give my house away in return for one day where nobody but nobody even thinks about the EU. Where the penalty for saying anything that rhymed with Europe (now you're thinking) was to have their genitals lightly roasted on a burning barrel of tar on the edge of the Gorbals circa 1948.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm not going to not vote. No point the suffragettes going to all that hassle for nothing.

You see, I've had this discussion with my friends - who are all reasonably well educated. We have a clutch of degrees between us (OK, mainly from The University of Life or a northern polytechnic). But the point is, though we have varying political opinions, the only thing we want to know regarding the EU is this: which side do we have to be on to get the cheapest deal to Crete this summer?

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