Month: Jun 2022

Chink in her armour

It encapsulated her, so tight at times it suffocated rather than protecting her broken shell. No air came in. No air went out. Dying inside her own stronghold, she curled up and let it take hold.

‘A chain is only as strong as its weakest link’…

Her chains have been wrapped, fused and bound for so long it became hard to imagine them falling to the ground. Whether she had control over them was even harder to imagine.

He came like a knight and ‘chinked’ her armour. The light was let in and it breathed new air into the darkness. The self-made prison released her and she fell weak kneed into unfamiliar territory. Over time the pieces of armour fell off completely and she was left to his mercy, without control and darkness.

The light stung her eyes, revealed to their new surroundings they saw him and why he had come. He was there for her. To release her from her chains and demons.

To set her free.

Photo by Dave Watson

Please check out his work on https://www.instagram.com/davewatson_uk/ or at https://davewatson1980.picfair.com

The mental health butterfly

I saw a butterfly fly past me towards the park today. Mr W and I were heading out for our evening run. Recent events have seen me a blubbering mess and frankly such a hideous sight should be locked away behind blinds, windows and panelled doors. But our evening plans to run were calling and I needed something positive to happen. The butterfly was quite large, its colours were so bright I stopped for a moment to watch its flight. 

I usually people-watch while I run, mostly to stop me from running into them, or to make sure they see me coming. There are many times in which I indulge in people-watching. On the beach, in restaurants and in shops to name a few. However, there are only ever a few times in my life that watching has turned to interaction. I remember leaving work one day, years ago, I was lost in thought and consequently a little old lady walked straight into me. No fault of either really, her eyes were on her misguided feet, mine were in the clouds. I apologised profusely, and she said “there are worse things dear” and tottered off.

I wasn’t sure if she meant that having her stocking gathered around her ankle was the worst thing or that an accident on a token sunny afternoon was really such a big deal. How often do we stress about the small stuff until it becomes this spewing volcano in our not so bad lives? I remember a visitor to my office during that time that had lost her husband recently.  She had two children. Both girls. The older one had graduated a few months after they lost him. Having been through University myself I know how much it meant to have my parents around when I graduated. Telling them the results, taking the photos in my cap and gown and simply being able to make them proud. The younger girl in that family faced moments without her dad. It doesn’t bear thinking about. 

Tonight, and most of this week to be fair, I’ve had my fair share of wobbles. Emotionally I’m not where I would like to be. The world feels isolated from me. I couldn’t manage our run. It’s the first time I’ve physically not been able to move. My legs wouldn’t cooperate and my brain couldn’t force them on. Maybe because mentally I’m at a stalemate too. I sat on a bench staring at the trees wondering what the answer was. Mr W sat beside me and I felt so ashamed. To feel so lost and searching for an answer. I’m not unhappy. My life is so blessed in so many beautiful ways. But there are times when I can’t see the good, when I can’t find myself. This week has been one of those times. 

As we left, well hobbled, out of the park, we saw a car with its hazard lights on pull over to the curb. The man jumped out of the car and looked as though he would throw up in the bushes. Seconds later, he was half kneeling half squatting and Mr W went to investigate. An unmarked police car sped by with his lights flashing as I crossed the road to see if I could do anything. I offered the man water and as quick as my banged up legs would take me I rushed home. I returned with fruit, biscuits and water as Mr W kept an eye out. We stayed until the man felt well enough to drive to work and quit for the night to go home and then we carried on our way. Mr W expressed shock that the police hadn’t pulled over to ask if everything was okay. I said they probably didn’t realise what was going on. It made me realise that mental health will never be addressed until we ask for help. If we had waved down the police I would think they would have stopped. If I wave down Mr W, family, friends, they will stop and help me. They just don’t know how. And neither do I. 

It’s only when I stop and think of the people who too are going through a difficult time and what I would do to help them that I realise I’m not so isolated from the world. Because I too have help when I need it. I just need to ask. Naturally there are going to be things in life and people in life that make us cry, push us down and make us question if we are the person we would like to be. Am I a bad person? Is my bad mental health my own fault?

I’ve suffered for so many years with questions. So many questions that make me doubt who I am to myself and to others. Because these questions are never answered I close myself off. Even when the questions are answered I don’t trust them. Why do I fail so hard when it comes to my own mental and physical health? Why can’t my body do what I tell it to?

More questions.

I want to believe one day I’ll break free of my cocoon, where I’ve spent so long growing and adapting, that I too will be able to rise above the questions and avoid bumping into the old ladies. I’ll have the ability to not sweat the small stuff, to view it from a higher perspective and be content just admiring the view. I just need to ask for help. And not feel ashamed for doing so. One day I’ll find my wings. 

Letter to our future baby

I wish you were here.

You just need to be here in my arms. Looking up at me. Me and you. Your dad is next to you. You are just sitting. Living. Breathing in this world where we are. I feel like I know your face. I know your noises. I can feel your touch. I have seen it in my mind a million times. You’re real. There are times I feel I’m starting to lose who I am because who I am doesn’t make sense without you. You are what we hope for everyday. There’s so much love just waiting for you. Love for you from everyone. You have no idea how much you will be loved when you are here. It just seems so hard. So impossible to think of you actually being here. I don’t know how long it will take and I’m scared of it never happening. 

This road, this journey we are on, just feels like it’s never going to start. That it’s never going to end. Such a long road with its twists and turns and u-turns that I’m just not strong enough to take for much longer. I’m not even worried about an announcement or a baby shower. It’s just holding you. I think once I hold you, I’ll never let go. I’d never want to give you up. And never let you down.

I feel like I’ve let your dad down. I feel like I’ve let everyone down. There is so much love for someone I’ve not even met. Someone who isn’t even alive. You are an idea. A wish. To be a mother is something I never ever wanted before and  now that I do it’s all I think about. My life is just one big distraction. 

I feel like I’m failing as a wife. That all the joy is just a mirage. A fake smile. 

I can see you growing up. Walking around this house. I see where your crib would be. Where your toys would lay on the floor. You’d be outside, where you’d run in the sun, playing.

I see you meeting your nan and your grandad for the first time. See Christmases and Birthdays. They all play out in my mind. I see that joy on your dad’s face. Nothing else compares. I wonder if this heartache will end. There’s such a small part of me that thinks it won’t and I’m scared. If our hopes don’t magic you into life what will happen? Wanting you is like no other feeling. Ever. I’m scared of what it means if you don’t become real.

I see your face in my dreams. 

Final frolics in Florence

It is our 3rd wedding anniversary. And Florence is bathing in sunlight and blue skies. The day has started slowly and the smiles on our faces tell us that today, slowly will work best. 

From the Piazza della Repubblica we take the short 3 minute walk to the Piazza del Mercato Nuovo to see the bronze boar of Florence. Il Porcellino stands along the edge of today’s market, tearing my eyes away from the amazing smelling leather bags. I await my turn at the statue. It stands nearly taller than me and its nose is bright and shiny. It is said that should you wish to return to Florence you will find luck in doing so if you give the boar’s nose a good rub. Mr W asks if I want to return, I hesitate wondering if Florence has enough to tempt me back, and then my hand reaches up and grips the metal snout. Rub. Rub. Rub. Yes, I dare say it’s a good guess I’d like to return to this city. There are wonders I think I have missed this time. Even if it means wandering the streets and enjoying the coffee there is something about this city that is speaking to me. Il Porcellino is not alone, he sits amongst leaves and tiny bronze frogs. The details remind me just how beautiful Italy is.  

The footfall at the market is building and it’s time to move on. Our wander takes us across the Ponte Vecchio, a bustling bridge lined with shops. We i-spy the Arno river below, its slow flowing pace sets the precedent for the day, the sun bounces off its surface and makes it glow. 

The hot drinks from this morning’s visit to the Caffe La Terrazza are wearing off, we need more Italian treats and we find them at Gino’s Bakery. Cannoli! The bakery has a serving hatch on the street with a window showcasing the mouthwatering treats for all of the city to see. Pizza slices, paninis encasing the meats and cheeses of the country and arancini with its tasty hidden filling. There are beautifully crisp sfogliatelle dusted with icing sugar, muffins standing tall in their cases, glazed desserts, biscotti dotted with nuts and a coffee machine whirring in the background. And there they are. Sitting in rows upon rows of delicate deliciousness. Straight soldiers of rolled, bubbled pastry filled with sweetened ricotta cheese laying in wait to be picked. There are different colours depending on which topping the cannoli has been dipped into. Each one carries different textures of chopped hazelnuts or pistachios and my favourite, tiny chocolate chips. A bag for our purchases is not needed, the delights are quickly eaten right there on the street with murmurings of mmmmm’s and ahhh’s. 

Our next stop is only a 5 minute walk away and it turns out it’s lunchtime! We’ve managed to have our dessert first. Oops! It is time for my first pizza of the trip. Gustapizza on Via Maggio is a tiny corner restaurant with three tables inside. The tables are very tall wooden barrels with glass tops, my 5’5 body hops up onto the towering stools as Mr W peruses the menu. There are 7 pizza’s total. I often find that the smaller the menu, the better the taste. Let’s see how this place matches up. Mr W orders the Gustapizza, it has cherry tomatoes, buffalo mozzarella, extra virgin olive oil and basil and when it comes it is a sea of red and green. The pizza is enormous and Mr W looks at me wide-eyed. ‘How do I eat all of this?’ he remarks. I’m too busy watching my pizza being made to offer any advice. The kitchen is right next to us, open to spectators and there are three men working as a team to create orders. The first man is stretching out the dough just one metre away. He glances up, smiling knowingly, he is confident in his work, he knows this food makes people happy. Toppings of tomato, mozzarella, spicy salami and basil are thrown together on the dough by the second guy and a wooden paddle whips away my pizza to the flame-ridden oven by a third. A short time later my pizza emerges and is placed in front of me. My mouth gapes open. This pizza is a monster! There is a fourth man wandering around welcoming new patrons, they look at the pizzas on our table and make their minds up. They sit having decided this is the place to eat today. My focus is stolen back by the glistening piping hot cheese in front of me. The meat has curled slightly at the edges and the crust has charred in places, the pizza oven’s heat has kissed the ingredients with its flames. The first bite cannot be believed, but the first slice is out of this world. No pizza back in the Uk can top this. The creamy cheese cuts through the saltiness of the meat and the basil gives it the sweet kick to tie it up in one big Italian bow. It is hands down the best pizza I have ever had the pleasure of eating. All of a sudden I remember I am not alone. I look across at Mr W. He is sitting in wide-eyed silence. His mouth is chewing but his eyes are drinking it all in. I feel a swell of pride that my research has paid off. He looks at me and nodds smacking his lips. It becomes apparent after a while that there is no way we can finish our pizzas. As if knowing thas, the fourth man brings us an empty pizza box. I am glad of the courtesy and also that in an hour from now, we will be able to again tackle the pizza in the open air of the Boboli Gardens. We pay for our pizzas and drinks and head into the ever present Italian sunshine. I remind myself we are lucky to have such beautiful weather in early autumn.

The Boboli Gardens are found inside the entrance of the Pitti Palace, after some confusion over our vouchers at the ticket office we are ushered to the security queue. Before we reach the entrance we are stopped by a scary looking art installation. Huge, lifelike iron statues of wolves are barring our way. The pack of wolves are standing in various places before the palace gates. Terrifying though they look, they are still and such a surprise that it takes a moment to walk on by. Mr W pretends that one has locked its jaws around our prized pizza box and stops for a quick photo montage. With just one handbag and the treasured delicacy in hand we know we’ll be whisked through quickly. There is a small family ahead of us, mum, dad and two small children. They have a big pram jammed with the necessaries for a family day out. Bags, food and coats are stuffed here and there. It takes them a while to move through the security scanner. We are standing in what looks like a grand courtyard surrounded by an arched walkway and I spy toilets up ahead. The absolute joy of the city break is finding a toilet you need not pay for. The two security guards usher us through easily until they ask what’s in the box. I answer with a smile that the box with a pizza drawn onto its lid does indeed hold pizza, he wags his finger ‘No’ and points to a bin. My inner obedient child wants to adhere to this crazy rule, of which there are no posters or guides to explain why food is forbidden, but my happy adult stomach is having a hard time letting go. I ask why, and again am witness to the waggle of the finger and that same finger pointing at the bin. With a deep sigh, I realise there is no way we could wolf the half a pizza that awaits both of us and Mr W drops it into the trash can. We turn away actually quite heartbroken and head on through. 

The day has taken a turn we did not expect, I had looked while planning if a picnic in the Giardino Boboli was possible and there were copious amounts of information suggesting this was the norm for a visit. Did I get something wrong? Were the security guards fishing our boxed deliciousness out of the shallow bin? Ha-ha I joke. Sort of. Mostly. Buggers.

Toilet found and used. We head towards the Anfiteatro di Boboli with its wide open space and Obelisk at its centre. I am yet to shake off the pizza incident. The sky is bluer than blue and here it feels like covid is a million miles away, but something isn’t connecting with us. We continue on through the park until we find the Vasca del Nettuno, the Fountain of Neptune in the Fontana della Signoria. It is pretty. But rather than enjoying the moment we are both wondering why we aren’t. It becomes pretty clear that museums, even open air ones with its impressive statues and Egyptian gifts aren’t quite our thing on this trip. We’ve been steeping ourselves so much into the culture here that we’ve swayed far from the tourist trail and finding our way back to it is hard. I believe if we’d invested in a guidebook we could enjoy the pockets of history in this place. Which only means one thing, a return trip! Oh dear, only if we have to!

We aim to head to the very top of Giardini Boboli to the Palazzina e Bastione del Cavaliere to make an exit and quickly cross over to the Giardini Bardini. But the exit here is closed. We check our handy paper map and find another exit at Forte Belvedere. The walk around the walled garden is in shadow and is pleasant in the afternoon sun. The trees provide the ground with a dappled shade that is both beautiful and refreshing. The next exit is also closed. What is going on?

We skirt the edge of the gardens right down to the security entrance and emerge onto Viale della Meridiana. It is a 10 minute walk in the opposite direction to Villa Bardini, the entrance to Giardino Bardini. To salvage our last afternoon in the city I urge Mr W’s tired feet onwards. The 10 minute walk takes twice as long due to the enormous hill that is the Costa San Giorgio, a back street of Florence that is the quickest yet steepest hill we’ve encountered yet. Again, what is going on? 

We are in a neighbourhood of Florence that is quiet and empty of tourists, it feels like we are trespassing. Upon reaching Giardino Bardini we are greeted with meticulously kept greenery and perfected planting. The gardens themselves are on the side of the hill we have presumably just climbed. They are spread out on different levels, each high above the Arno river and the city laid out below. From here the Duomo is tiny. Wedged between the Pitti Palace and the Piazzale Michelangelo, Giardino Bardini is a revelation. The large open spaces of the Boboli Gardens are long gone and the small intimate gardens here welcome us in their embrace. We find a bench outside La Loggetta di Villa Bardini. A large expanse of gravel leads up to a stone balustrade which gives way to a beautiful view of Florence and the mountains that stand by in a protective stance. We spend a long time sitting, stroking the resident cat and savouring the afternoon sun. Tomorrow we move onto Venice. The time here has flown.  

Forced to follow the daylight and keep on track for our evening plans, we leave the bench behind and wander down the zig-zagging path down through the gardens. There is a long sloped walkway with wisteria hanging from a pergola. At this time of year it is dense and green, the original plan was to come in April and be lucky enough to see a canopy of purple above us. Covid stopped that happening, I remind myself this is just another reason to return to this place. It seems as though we have unfinished business in Florence!

Our walk takes us past lines of hedges, rows of roses and past a vast staircase that ascends the hill to the terrace where we found the bench. This place has transformed our afternoon. It has forced us to slow down. To enjoy the smaller things we usually take for granted. We need to head back to our apartment to freshen up before our anniversary dinner. Our route back takes us over the Ponte Vecchio and the streets are busy in the evening sun. 

A quick shower and outfit change and I rush Mr W out the door. He thinks we are late and we head to the restaurant next to our apartment. This evening is a surprise for him and as he realises where we are he smiles. The secret has been worth it for that smile. His smile is my gift. The Hard Rock Cafe is somewhere we visit on our travels as a cheesy little tradition. Mr W collects the t-shirts and it’s something we’ve done since 2014. It may not be authentic Italian food, but it’s authentic to our relationship, and I love it. 

We are greeted by two proseccos ‘on the house’, they’ve been told it’s our anniversary and we settle in for the night. We order another boozy drink each and share a starter. The music is just to our taste and we are the first customers of the night. We are sat near the large stage, where a drum kit sits and take a moment to look at all the memorabilia on display. Mr W sips his long island iced tea, as I neck my prosecco and move onto my cosmopolitan. Our mains arrive and I can feel the alcohol taking effect. It’s clear very quickly that we are relaxed and in fact drunk. We say no to dessert, find a t-shirt to Mr W’s tastes and head out into the night. The darkness shrouds the city as we wander again to the Duomo, we are drawn to its presence. We have a small dessert from Venchi Cioccolato e Gelato, mesmerised by its flowing wall of chocolate and stagger slightly back to our apartment via Piazza della Repubblica. 

There is music bringing the night to life and restaurants with their tables spilling out onto the streets. I am reminded again how life has changed in the last six months. How covid has ravaged this country and the world. I finish my ice cream and thank my lucky stars, Mr W and hope to return soon. Florence, you have entranced me. For now we head to Venice! 

https://frameworktravel.home.blog/2022/05/06/stories-of-venice-part-one/

https://frameworktravel.home.blog/2022/05/07/stories-of-venice-part-two/

https://frameworktravel.home.blog/2022/05/10/stories-of-venice-part-three/

Hot chocolate in the clouds

The Duomo calls!

We wake early to wander in the deep set shadows of this monolith in central Florence. There are very few people around and we are exceptionally early for its 10am opening. Entrance is free and I anticipate a crowd, but first, we need coffee. 

 A small restaurant is open in the shadows of the Duomo and with outdoor seating we are drawn to it like a moth to a flame. The piazza has that early morning eerie feeling and my excitement is building. In little under an hour we will be walking through the doors of one of the most incredible buildings I have ever seen. The sun is rising higher in the sky as our coffee is brought out in an actual mug! You know the ones I mean, the kind that adorns the souvenir shops shelves and this one has the building in front of me on it. I’m so used to the typical white coffee cups out here I’m taken aback and reminded of my mum who takes her own mugs when travelling because the cups normally supplied are too small! But not this one. Gazing up at the Duomo slowly being unearthed from the shadows, I take a deep glug of coffee. Oh, this is good. The drink. The view. The atmosphere of this place. It’s like I’m sitting at the base of a mountain looking up and every single square metre is different. The light and shadows are dancing around each other. 

It reminds me of my walk around Ayers Rock in Uluru. It started at 4am, something that back in 2013, I could never fathom, the day had not even begun. The hotel and the world outside was still asleep. The coach drove through the silent outback to the dark mass in the distance. We stopped in completely black scenery. The 12km trek began as the inky black night was turning a lighter shade of indigo. The magnificent rock transformed each and every minute that the rising sun moved from the horizon. Black rock became deep browns and blushing reds before the light hit the stone and turned it the same colour as the ground we walked on. The terracotta reds mingled with the ambers and burnt oranges. Ayers Rock, Uluru, had jumped into life before us. 

Out of the shadows before us, the Duomo shines, arriving into the new day. The coffee is the secondary star of the show, and my last gulp of it is drunk lukewarm. Tut tut. From where we are sitting, on the sidelines, we can’t see the front door, so at 9:30am with our bums numb from sitting and staring for so long, we shake off the cobwebs and head around the building. The queue already forming is impressive and we find ourselves a part of it snaking around the North side of the piazza.  

The shadows are long here and I pray that the queue moves fast. 10am comes around and the queue slowly moves ahead, they count people in and out, whether or not this is a covid rule I’m unsure, but for my own anxieties I am glad there won’t be too many people inside. Masks on, it is our turn. I take one more look up at the carved coloured marble marvel and step inside. I am shocked. As decorated as the exterior is, is how simple the interior is found. Walls are creamy white between the tall stone pillars and the floor is respectfully tasteful. The interior of the Dome is painted beautifully and reminds me of the paintings we saw in the Vatican. I’m taken back by its simplicity, but in a way I understand, this is a place of worship, it doesn’t need the bells and whistles, they are outside. 

We leave and head towards more sustenance. Breakfast! The sky is a picture perfect blue and the small clouds of the early morning have travelled away to distant places. The Duomo is bathing in light and the awe of the bigger crowds that have awoken. We wander the streets until we step into the Piazza della Repubblica. Walking past a small podium, we realise it elevates a small metal map of Florence. It is very detailed and I trace our footsteps through the city so far. It is an impressive addition to the square. As the sun shines down I gaze longingly at the carousel. Its horses with their feathered plumes gleam in the morning light and the gilded gold glints. I do love a carousel. I feel the pangs of nervousness in my stomach and forego the experience and head on to something special. 

Coffee with a rooftop view can be found at Caffe La Terrazza, in Rinascente, a Macy’s like department store. Just minutes away from the carousel this is something that I’ve hidden from Mr W most. We head up to level 6 past clothing and homeware and are greeted by two smartly dressed waitresses. Mr W looks at me with confusion flooding his features. We are led up a small set of stairs onto a very small rooftop with a dozen or so chairs. We are alone. Mr W orders a pastry and a coffee. My inner child who moaned at my retreat from the carousel orders a hot chocolate at 10:30am. I love her dearly for that. We sit in the corner closest to the Duomo. Here the rooftops feel so close I could touch them. I am transfixed by the colours of this city. The ever present red roof tile splayed out covering the city buildings and the mountains of green, pink and white marble erupting at its centre. We are a few minutes walk from its walls and yet if I just lean over the wall here, ever so slightly, reaching out my arm, I’m sure I could press my hand against her cool surface. I am hypnotised.  

The clouds have returned, and I am grateful, drinking a hot drink in the sun feels wrong. But, oh, the hot chocolate, it is thick enough to spread on a cracker and it is glorious. The cup is tiny and is that a sigh of relief I hear? This ‘drink’ is amazing but any bigger and it could be mistaken for a fondue and I’d be asking for strawberries. We take in the view and ask each other whether we should order another drink. Surely this is the best view in Florence, how is this place not busy? We don’t want to leave, even though the city itself is still recovering from the lost tourism and the roads aren’t quieter than we are used to in the Uk, up on this roof, we are relaxed and away from the minor hustle and bustle. Up here, it doesn’t feel like a city break, we could be anywhere among the clouds and breathing deep. Not wanting to risk getting too much of a good thing, we leave, and head back into a fully awake city centre. 

Today is definitely a slower paced day. It happens to be our wedding anniversary. What a start! 

Penguins and Cockatoos

With the celebratory weekend behind us, I’ve been reminded that the last Jubilee was in 2012. I have been scratching my head in befuddled bemusement as I simply do not remember how or where I was during the event. I’ll let it go as it was a big year for the UK and I’m sure it got caught up in the melee. We hosted the Olympics and the summer was spent fawning over the many medals Great Britain accumulated. It was also the year I booked my huge 2013 trip to Australia and therefore spent the majority of the year crossing off days on every available calendar, bent over a computer researching and planning and squirrelling money away like Scrooge himself.

It’s as I remember Australia that I am drawn back to two particular memorable high points…

I spent the majority of Day 3 in Melbourne soaked with salt water and smelling of sweat and sun cream. Nice image, I know. The sun beat down unforgivingly and if I paused to notice I’m unaware of it now. With 7 stops on our tour around the Melbourne coast we were witness to our first Australian delights. Most of the ‘delights’ were made more so by my forgetting that they were included in the pre-booked tour; the wildlife centre with a $10 cuddle from a huge 9yr old Koala being one of these. As we scoured the scorched bush for Wallabies we were greeted with a chilled out Kangaroo and it slowly dawned on me what we have got ourselves into. Australia had arrived rather under our feet than we had arrived in it! After all, once a wallaby simply hops out of the bush and grabs your extended hand to have his breakfast, of pellets not human flesh, you rapidly forget yourself and drown in all that is Australia. Additional unexpected experiences came in the form of Woolamai Beach and the typical ‘Ozzie surfer’. I didn’t know whether to run into the surf or help them with their surfboards. OKAY OKAY, I ran into the surf, rather a typical Ozzie than an Essex girl any day. Although this Essex girl did stare… only slightly, but overcome by the ‘small’ waves and I was back on track.

The beauty of this place is how dedicated they are to protect their country and all its inhabitants. Witness to this first and foremost during the penguin parade on Phillip Island; we were told to sit, not stand, and to see but not capture (on camera) the unique little penguins that raced up the beach to their nests. This was all to prevent ‘spooking’ the little waddlers and allowing them to live a semi-normal life. Who else can say that on their rat race home there are hundreds of people watching you? Unfortunately, a lot of our fellow tourists didn’t find the same respect for our lil black and white waddlers and stood up, blocking our view and preventing their homecoming, whenever they could. I’m proud to admit that out of anger for lack of viewing space, but more out of respect for the penguins, I told one ‘serial stander’ to SIT DOWN. I realise now it’s my own compulsive need to be a rule follower that gives me the proverbial balls to approach people in this way. ‘Look mate, the penguins are just trying to get home, so sit down, yeah? There’s a good chap.’ Otherwise, I really don’t say boo to even a goose. After a vast majority of the crowds had seen their first glimpse of the lil guys they upped and left, so we were able to move down to the front and witness the amazing spectacle within about a 5 metre distance. It makes me smile even now to remember the extra time we took to drink it all in. Above us the jewels of the Southern hemisphere sparkled and trailed across the sky and in front of us the waters gave birth to these funky little creatures. And I couldn’t stop smiling.

The smiling continued on the next day, so easily you would think it had been pinned to my cheek bones. Set off by the morning sunlight pouring through the surrounding mountain ash trees in the Dandenong Ranges the cockatoos on my arms were a stark white colour that shone as bright as sunlight on snow.  And we were due to feed them their breakfast.  Our coach driver John was kind enough to mention that holding the large, metal feed tray out, up high and level would prevent their sharp beaks from clipping at their favourite part of the human hand. Seeds, food. Hands, not. But what he neglected to say was just how heavy six or SEVEN of these birds could be! With a thick hooded jumper around my shoulders and my backpack straps also acting as a barrier, their claws clung to me as they squawked and shrieked to get at the seeds. It was hard to focus on anything but them once you saw their plumage and sunlight yellow crests up close. Their eyes were constantly on the lookout for more ‘victims’ entering the feeding area with a silver tray held high and glancing around us, I 

remember my mind taking a snapshot. The sun streaming through the giant trees reaching upwards of 75 metres, the birds, the fresh air and the happiness all flooding the space. 

Australia had welcomed me with sunlight, surf, style and a few small scars from my new white and yellow friends. 

Beautiful/Crazy

There are days when your emotions run so high and low that you can barely find balance. There are days when you wake up and you don’t want to go outside. There are days when you can barely move because you’ve been so busy the day before. There are days when you have things to do and people to see and all you want to do is avoid it all because you don’t want to plaster on a fake smile because all you can do is cry.

Today was one of those days. After a mammoth drive on jubilee Thursday we found ourselves tired and facing another busy couple of days. We had family visiting and spent the morning with them and then ran errands. We then see friends to plan for June 2023. Followed by another rushed evening and preparations for a very special person’s 90th birthday.

The party for my nan was absolutely amazing with lots of memories made with children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I watched as my brothers and their girls sat with my dad and family and I just felt the sadness creep over me. At times so consuming I was breathless. Where was my child in those pictures? I hate it when out of nowhere those feelings arrive. It’s like one minute you cannot be happier and then the next you’re crumbling. How much longer can I keep it together? I know for a large part of it it’s due to how frantic we’ve been and how tired I’ve felt but what they are real emotions and they do come from a very real place of longing. 

I was able to distract myself by tidying up toys and bringing out the birthday cake and orchestrating the family photos but ultimately it’s all a distraction. And I wish I didn’t need that distraction. I don’t want to go through life doing these things they’re a great way of passing the time between feeling happy and feeling sad and wondering what feeling will win. Nevertheless, the look on my nan’s face as she arrived to see us all singing Happy Birthday in one big surprise, giving a little speech and seeing her birthday cake was amazing. One of the best feelings. To build that joy in someone you love so deeply can never be replicated. It’s a one of a kind triumph. 

Today we went to another family party, my cousin’s 30th. I was exhausted today, it was the 4th of 4 days that we’ve been bafflingly busy. And with more than 20 people to catch up with and talk to, it was tiring just thinking of it. So I put on a dress, wrapped up warm and wore really snuggly shoes and told myself to just sit and watch what was going on. It’s the safe option. And then we were thrust into the limelight to play giant Jenga. Why. Why. Why. It was a complete surprise and I didn’t know no how to say no. But honestly it was the best thing because we were up to play first, which meant that this tired gal got it out of the way and could sneak off to chill once more. We lost. Shucks. And then we watched other people play and attention grew and the crowd got silent, the birds sang and nobody dared breathe. You could hear a pin drop. And after the final was played and the winners had won we all sat down and laughed and talked and it didn’t feel like a chore. There was no fake laughter. No fake smiles. And no sitting in the corner. I was me again. No hiding. 

There was only one moment when the newest baby of the group was being talked to and played with, that I noticed what looked like a tear in Mr W eyes. It was then that I started to well up. I wish I could stop his longing and his pain. The best thing about this time of year is you can pass off red eyes as hay fever. After that moment the laughter and jokes were rapid fire and I found myself literally crying with tears of mirth however my body took over and the laughing tears turned to sobbing tears. I don’t know why this happens but buried beneath my jumper I was able to pass off the crying as laughing and carry on. Hiding away. I’m honestly grateful for today. It took me out of my head, I laughed with those I love so very dearly and I’m going to sit down with Mr W to relax.

Being kind to yourself is a daily challenge. There are lots of ups and downs. It’s hard to see the top when you feel so low and you daren’t look down from such highs. I will be reminding myself as much as possible that when you want something so bad it’s a hard hope to leave at home. It travels with you. The beautiful but crazy journey.  

Every cloud…



…has a gap. It’s true. When you are walking, driving, strolling along you may look up and see that those white masses don’t all link together there are gaps that let you see the blue… or grey sky. Have you done the same when you are flying above the clouds? Not in some kind of drug induced stupor; I mean in a plane, of course!

It is a marvel that still holds my eye today. The vast spaces of land in a kind of chess board order of dark and light and it’s the same from a distance.

Once upon a time in Australia I saw the clouds pick and choose where to let the light fall from a boat on the Great Barrier reef.

The day before I had the rainforest stretching out before me and it had patches of luminous green trees that caught the sunlight, fresh and clean. In the darker patches it had an unknown territory that hid many secrets that the eye couldn’t penetrate.

It got me thinking about how we individually view the world. There are many of us that view the light and embrace its warmth, spreading its health and beauty until the shadow cuts it off and creates a wall. There are also many of us that wallow in the dank and dark unknown refusing to move into the light and see what is beyond that boundary. Speaking literally, there are negative people and there are optimistic people. Dark and light.

However, unlike the rainforest, we don’t have to rely on the clouds to choose whether we are in the dark or light part of our lives. We can rise above and choose the right path for us. For in the light there is life and clarity and submersed in the dark are the wallowing shadows.

So whether you are looking up at the clouds or down through them, remember; the light might just be one step away but it’s down to you to move forward or back. Don’t stand still too long, the clouds may shift and make the decision for you.

Take your path.
Take control.
Take the light.

Run free, ha!

On the 18th of April 2021, Mr W and I started the NHS couch to 5k programme.

It’s a three times a week running programme that gradually increases the time and therefore distance you run over the space of 9 weeks.

Week 1 starts with 1 minute runs interspersed with walking to get you going, by Week 9 it aims to have you running for 30 minutes non-stop.

As of July 2021 we have completed the programme. Running for the full thirty minutes without stopping (or collapsing).

We even did it the week we spent ripping out and tiling our living room floor.

I personally have never run, I was great at hand-eye coordination sports in school but running was fucking awful. And I just felt depressed every time I went to p.e. I was that kid, the one who was picked last for sports, short, chubby and easy to ignore.

The NHS programme teaches you about breathing properly when running and that half the battle is the mind over matter challenge you face. All they said at school was ‘GO’.

I can proudly say that we didn’t stop once during the NHS couch to 5k programme, even though you can repeat the podcasts should you not feel ready, and we even laughed and talked to pass the time. Mr W also morphed into my personal cheerleader, so I quite literally couldn’t have done it without him!

Do NOT get me wrong, I cried maybe three times which is the weirdest sensation when you are running. There were many times I shouted at myself to ‘Come on, keep going’ scaring a lot of strangers along the way. We both had cramps, struggled up the stairs the day after and sweat buckets upon buckets but we didn’t give up. In the beginning, Mr W even said that if I wanted to give up I could at Week 3. Three weeks seemed like a long time to give it a chance. And yet neither of us gave up. Something about challenging yourself physically is really addictive. Fuck, did I just say that?

I am extremely unfit, I’m overweight and a bag of overwhelming anxiety and insecurities. However… And I bloody hate saying this as much as I hate reading it… But if I can do this ANYONE can.

We managed to keep running for two weeks after we finished the programme. The guidance on the app which was once very annoying was suddenly missed. The cheesy music we groaned at was yearned for. Why did our music just not work as well?

An injury stopped me from running and after weeks of resting we stopped completely. It was such a shame after 9 weeks of total dedication.

I spoke out on social media about our experience and I said the following:

‘From now on we’ll be running using our own music (thank god) and trying to up the pace and speed. And it’s honestly a part of our lives now. If you had said that to me 9 weeks ago I’d have laughed. And I did say it 9 weeks ago. I said, “Can you imagine us as those people who get up early and run…” And now we do. 7am Sundays and before dinner on Tuesday and Thursdays.

We are THOSE people. And it’s not so bad after all.’

I apologize to the person who said that 11 months ago and vow to do my best to keep at it.

We are currently repeating the programme and started week four today. It’s got my legs pumping hard and as we are exceptionally busy I’m wondering how we are fitting it in. But we are. Because it is important to us. For our health, fertility chances and to turn back time and become those people from 2021. They had direction and faced the challenge head on.

The run today felt so physically draining. We’ve had one of the busiest weeks since before lockdown 2020 and it would have been easy to just cancel the run. But we didn’t. It would have been easy to stop half way through the run and give up. But we didn’t. As I ran today, in pain and numb from the waist down, I reminded myself that the last 4 minutes of running was indeed hard. But 4 minutes in a lifetime is both nothing and yet everything. The time itself is miniscule. The challenge in those four minutes represents so much more.

I do not want to give up on the run. I do not want to give up on myself. I will not give up on our health. And I will never give up on our fertility chances.

PCOS and people around me

When I was 19 and it was first hinted that I had PCOS I knew nothing of the condition. Being put on the pill by a doctor made me think it was going to help. I trusted it was for the best.

It was when we got married that we didn’t want to wait any longer for nature to take its course. Meaning we were off the pill, trying, and taking every bit of advice possible. After a year, still no baby. It was time to go back to the doctor. A new one this time. I collated my history as I knew it, what measures we had taken so far and research I had done myself. Maybe being 10 years older meant I was less naive. Maybe because I wasn’t trying to conceive at 19 I didn’t ask if PCOS would hurt my fertility chances. But I can’t look back and wonder what if. I have to deal with the present.

Help on social media is in abundance. There are several groups I’m a part of on Facebook and Instagram. There is SO much advice, that at times your brain can vibrate with information. It can be really overwhelming. There’s a particular group I had to ‘snooze’ because there was too much conflicting information and it became really difficult to deal with mentally. There are also groups that discuss all types of fertility issues and I found the abundance of problems and discussions hard to sift through. I spent a lot of time reading the stories of women trying to conceive and rather than making me feel seen, it made me feel incredibly sad, would it ever happen for us?

For a big chunk of time, I came away from the group’s, my brain needed the time off and my emotions too. Amongst the search for advice and empathy, there were also pregnancy announcements and it became too hard to see. I’ll come back to this particular difficulty later.

The most wonderful thing about the groups was being amongst people who not only understood but empathised. I stopped feeling like a freak. There were other people like me in the world. Feeling how I felt, feeling failed by their gps and hating their bodies. I felt seen.

One of the beautiful things about the group’s online is the power of anonymity. You can tell people about the symptoms you have without the fear of seeing the ‘look’ of ‘omg’ cross people’s faces. It’s only natural, I’m sure there are lots of things my expressions get me in trouble for without me meaning it to. But online I’m just my profile picture and the words I write. It was lovely.

Since returning to social media for help I have been careful to pick groups that work for me. I’m part of a PCOS only fertility struggle group and I’m also now part of a love yourself group. It’s not based on fertility, but focuses on self love no matter your size. I have a long way to go when loving how I look but it has made me realise that the least important thing about me is my appearance. I’m not my dress size. I’m my dirty cackle. I am my wit. My kindness. My caring nature. My ability to love unconditionally.

The hardest part of my self love journey is accepting that even though my size doesn’t matter when it comes to who I am it does factor in when fitting into the NHS criteria and help with fertility. There are women out in the world who are my size and fall pregnant. They have no issues and go on to have a healthy baby. My PCOS causes my weight gain. And yet when it comes to the NHS that’s the only thing they see. Lose weight and come back. It almost feels like blackmail. I have questioned it in the past. At first I asked them about how they can suggest my weight causes my PCOS when my size 6 friend also has PCOS. They’ve acknowledged the PCOS being the cause of my weight but not altering the fertility criteria to fit in with this view. I could wax lyrical in the ways this affects my opinions, mental and emotional state but I’m sure if you’ve read along so far and on my other PCOS blogs you’ll be fairly tuned in to all of that!

This blog is about how other people approach my PCOS and the medical world is only one frustrating chapter of the story.

When I discuss my worries about my future with fertility I’m often told success stories. One of the more popular stories I’m told, as a ‘miracles happen’ scenario, is the one with the husband and wife who had been trying for years, taking potions, going vegan, avoiding carbs and doing away with caffeine, legs up, tracking on a calendar and having sex at the full moon, until one day they just stopped trying. They felt more relaxed by stopping all the fertility measures and hey presto, pregnant. It’s amazing. Truly. So… ‘just relax’ oh is that all? Oh boy. That’s amazing. But what if my body is in a constant state of inflammation? And what if my mental state is also determined by my body? By stopping all of the fertility measures, or lifestyle changes, this does not help me relax. I have to take more procedures just to relax my body. I wish it were as simple as relaxing. But my body and I know no other way than this.

I’ve also heard the ‘why don’t you get stonkingly drunk and just go for it?’. Well, other than this being hysterical, I’m almost wondering, have Mr W and I been doing ‘it’ wrong? I mean his thingy… well… goes… in… yeah? Am I right? Maybe I need sex manual for dummies. Or a ‘special’ movie night. With a notepad by my side just in case. Or maybe I’m being too timid? Ohhhh I need to vamp it up. Sluts are us!

I have to laugh. I do. And I also have to remember that people just want to help. I’ve noticed the same stories and advice being given as I’ve stopped hiding away. In August 2021, we got some news in the family that a baby was on the way. Usually I’d have my little wobble at home and a few sleepless nights and be okay. This time it was different, it was harder to contain my emotions when asked if I was okay and I just let it all out. How alone I felt, how sickened I was by myself and how few people understood. It was mentioned there were family members around me that didn’t know what to say to me. Unapologetically I said that saying anything was better than saying nothing. Saying nothing gave me the impression they didn’t care or did think I was a freak. Or even worse, that I had brought it on myself. On my head be it! This was where it was brought to my attention that they didn’t ask because they didn’t want to upset me. I understand that. I do. But what’s so wrong with being upset? This is important. Being a mother. A father. A parent. Is life changing. It. Is. Important. So me crying, screaming, shouting, losing it for a minute only proves that point. I’m not dead. My emotions are there for a valid reason. Being upset is valid.

Since then I have been overly open on our journey with our fertility. And I’m starting to feel seen once again. There are still wobbles, I don’t think that will change, especially when my outward appearance is like a billboard for the internal hormone imbalance. I’ll never look like other girls. I’ll never feel pretty like them. It’s a battle everyday. It’s not a battle to win. But live with. Tweak the conditions here and there. And live with it. As I’ve said before, just by altering my outlook and saying I live with this, rather than suffer with this, I’m taking just a small piece of control back.

One thing I touched on earlier is pregnancy announcements.

Seeing them online when you’ve joined an online group for help is hard. The positive pregnancy test pictures and the congratulations. It’s everything I want. I’m now on a new group that asks people not to post pregnancy news because it is triggering for so many people. And I’m glad to be part of it.

It sounds absolutely disgusting, I know. It’s one of the hardest parts of this condition. To live in such hope and fear and despair and be surrounded by pregnancies and come across like I’m not happy for them. I have a large family with a big network of friends. In this year alone there has been one arrival and four announcements, all arriving this year too. When I say that I am overjoyed for these women and families, I wholeheartedly mean it. Who would I be to say they don’t deserve it? Why should I be the only one on the planet that matters? Because I don’t. Everyone has their struggles, their journey and their own stories. But, and it’s an awful but, I’m jealous. I’m so jealous it makes me sick. The news comes in and I share in their delight and then I’m screaming inside. WHY IS IT NOT ME? WHY IS IT NOT US? I WANT MY BABY!

And do you know what happens then? I chastise myself harshly. How dare you feel jealous. They deserve their baby. They are happy. How dare you. Oh hello guilt.

The truth is I am happy for you. I’m so happy you get this amazing gift. That you are happy. That you don’t feel this pain. That your dream is growing and will soon be in your arms. That your baby will have the best mummy and daddy. Because I am a bloody nice person. And I have to remind myself of that fact. I am not a bad person.

Beneath the smile I’m crying. I’m crying because I want our baby in my arms. I want my dream. Our happy ending. Our announcement. Our congratulations. Our happiness. I don’t want to be jealous. It is the worst feeling in the world. Teamed up with guilt it battles you back inside yourself. Back into the silence and the shame of this condition.

Something that has happened since I’ve been opening up recently is how the announcements have changed. The most recent two have approached me first to tell me privately, which has made all the difference. I could crumble in privacy and that has been a beautiful consideration. I wish things were different and I didn’t have to crumble. That this condition wasn’t such a huge part of my life. A huge part of me. I wish people could just tell me and not have to consider my feelings. That I could be told in the same way as everyone else. I wish I were like everyone else. It’s almost another indicator of what is going on. It’s another example of how I am different from other people. Again, I know it’s the very best way of tackling the mess of emotions it draws out, I just wish it wasn’t this way. But I am incredibly grateful to be treated with care and compassion. The hard place in this situation is living with PCOS and feeling hidden away, the rock is people knowing and treating you with compassion, being between the two leaves you with no ignorance. Your condition is never left behind.

And that’s the realisation, living WITH this. It will always be here. So rather than embrace it, I’m learning, adjusting, talking A LOT and taking each day as it comes. Being kind to myself is the new condition I’m introducing. Whether that means telling more and more people about what’s really going on, accepting me for me or just letting the sad days be just what they are. The sadness just means what we are struggling for really really matters.


Photo by Dave Watson

Please check out his work on https://www.instagram.com/davewatson_uk/ or at https://davewatson1980.picfair.com