Just done a spell check on something I am writing to discover Birkenstocks comes up as laughing stock. To be fair it should've been Crocs - the devils shoes.

Also cringingly (which I'm not sure is really a 'word') came up as carol singer

Aint that a kick in the head?

Calling all submissions

I have been submiting a lot lately; pieces for publication in literary magazines, climbing websites, sample blogs for freelance work and even after a big deep breath the first three chapters of my book to a publishers.

I have totted up the my total submissions and my success rate is not looking good. But the Norwegian pointed out to me, quite rightly, that when I was a fundraiser I knew that I had to submit between 8 and 10 applications to get one success. So why should I expect any less with my writing. I submit and I wait. It is this waiting, this franticing checking of emails that is killing me, the occassional yes's I've had are far outweighed by the great yawning nothing, far worse than the odd considerate, 'Thanks, but no, it is not quite right for us' reply.

It is interesting to note that submit means, 'to allow yield to the authority or will of another,' as well as to put forward an opinion, piece of writing or application. Submitting doesn't suit me. I am assertive, not submissive. I don't want to 'submit' my work, walking backward out of the room, averting my eyes.

Perhaps I need to turn around the way I look at these things. Count the number of times I tap someone on the shoulder and say, 'Oi, what about this for your magazine or what about that for your website?' as a measure of success, or at least the hard work I'm putting in, rather than being bowed under the weight of the empty inbox.

Or perhaps should I call my submissions something else?

'Dear Ms Whiskers, Editor of Cats Monthly magazine. Here is my assertion... No that's not right. Unbearabilty pretencious.

What about, here is my presentation 'Ginger cats make better pets' But no again, that makes it sound like something in powerpoint littered with clip art and pie charts.

Would anyone like to submit any other suggestions?

Educating Sita

'Hello, 4K. My name's Catherine. You know Lynne – she was here this morning and that,' she says pointing to me,' is Jenny.'

'Good afternoon, Catherine, good afternoon Lynne,' they sing song. One tall boy, with a gold stud in one ear turns and peels a paper football off the wall next to him. The, 'Good afternoon Jenny,' is more ragged as thirty heads swivel around. Some smile. Some just stare. We are in Tyssen school in Hackney. I'm working with environmental project ecoACTIVE www.ecoactive.org.uk and I've come to observe a session in action.

'So, what were you looking at this morning?' asks Catherine. Classic teaching technique. Recap, recap, recap. I few hands go up.

'What were you looking at with Lynne on that table?' A few more hands go up.

'Oh, oh,' says one little girl, Sita, is jabbing her arm at the ceiling, lifting up off the red carpet. I can see her shiny patent shoes.

'Yes?' Catherine says to a smiling boy sitting near the front.

'A radio. It had a handle and you had to turn it.'

'Oh really? So you had to power it yourselves. Interesting. Anything else?'

'A fan. It was a fan and we blew on it,' says another.

'And what did the fan do?'

The patent shoe girl is practically levitating. Oh, oh, oh.

'Yes?' says Catherine to the boy who'd peeled the football off the wall who has just put his hand up.

'My aunty is called Jenny.'

There is a moment of silence in the class. One of the reasons my attempt at a teaching career failed is that I never mastered the ability of laughter suppression. He has a serene calm face. About a foot taller than the other children I understand a missing piece of ecoACTIVE equipment had been found in his pocket at lunch time. Someone had put it there.

'Is that the answer? No I don't think so. It was a wind turbine. A mini wind turbine.'

Catherine talks about electricity, where it comes from, how it is made and how it gets into our schools and homes.

'So how does it get into our homes? Does it just walk along? Do you ever see electricity strolling along the road?'

'No,' the group cries.

The patent shoe girl is still jabbing and pointing at the ceiling. Finally Catherine turns to her.

'Yes?'

She freezes, then looks up the traitor arm. She probably did have an answer when she first put up her hand. But not now.

'How does electricity get into our schools?' Catherine gently reminds.

'Umm... strings?'

'What like this?' Catherine points to a string of paintings pegs across a corner of the roo

'No,' the class cry in glee, incredulous. Strings indeed.

'Wire. Wire, isn't it miss?'

Yes. Indeed it is Wire.

Footballers Whys?

I recently went to watch Arsenal vs. Blackburn Rovers at the new Emirates Stadium. It was fantastic, magnificent and awakened my dormant Gooner.

It did leave me with some searching questions.

Why were the Arsenal fans taunting Bentley, much more than the other Blackburn players? He's been praised for his performance playing for the England squad? I don't get it.

Why don't they swap shirts at the end any more?

Why do the fans who love Arsenal, really have a go when they make the slightest mistake? Do they really think they could do any better?

Why do we hate Chelsea (...oh we hate Chelsea – we are the ... etc.)

I have a new chant – sing to theme song from the Adams Family

'Adebayo (clap clap)

Adebayo (clap clap)

Adebayo Adebayo Adebayo (clap clap)'

How do I get it into the mouths (and hearts)of my fellow fans?

If I read Fever Pitch would it answer these questions?

Is it anything like About a Boy?

Answers gratefully received

sensitive type

The tips of my fingers really hurt. Especially when I type or use the mouse pad. My hemp hand protector only provides temporary relief.

This is bad. I need to type a lot this week.

I am wondering what is going on. Have I worn away my finger prints through over typing? Is this tingling the ridges and whorls re establishing themselves? Perhaps I have developed an allergy to my lap top?

Eek what is to become of me?

The only option is to sit on the sofa and watch old Jeeves and Wooster episodes.

You never forget your first dime

I recently discovered that 'to dime' has another meaning in the Scandinavian world.

The Norwegian tells me that in the eighties when the Dime Bar's ad came out, cinemas would be filled with tittering teenagers and mystified parents.

'But Sven, it is just a chocolate bar...'

It means - how can I put this - bum sex.

Watch the ad again..

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=83n3X0S_lFE&feature=related

ginger pigeon

I saw a ginger pigeon yesterday.

Shining bronze and copper among all his concrete brothers.

He was looking fine; healthy, smooth feathers and bright eyes, a stark contract to his bedraggled, grey, knobble-footed brothers.

I wondered if he gets teased by all of the other pigeons?

'Oi, ginger wings.'

A pigeon only a mother could love?

No. He was too plump and prosperous. I think he is some kind of pigeon king, who gets to sit on Nelson's tricorne hat - the premier pigeon spot in the city.

I'm not the only one it seems to have spotted my auburn plumed friend
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=7554831828861553672

silent night

I found a ten pound note a few days ago. Folded in three, lying on the frosty grass in Clissold Park. How lucky! I thought.

But not for the person who lost it. It had the air of a tenner previously owned by someone who gets money from the cash machine £10 at a time. Not lucky indeed.

Yesterday I was shopping on Oxford St with my mum.

We are hunting down Christmas cake decorations and Wellington boots. Outside selfridges she buys a Big Issue.

'Oh Thank God. I've had bad morning. No one is buying nothing,' says the guy, stamping his feet and rubbing his hands.

'Well you have a better afternoon, I hope,' say my mum.

'Merry Christmas.'

'Merry Christmas.'

Inside we have no luck with the Christmas decorations. It is boiling and I think about taking off my coat. I put my hand in my pocket and my fingers brush against the £10 still folded in three.

Outside again I walk up to the Big Issue seller.

'I found this on the floor a few days ago,' I say. He looks at the note and at me. A burst of winter sun lights his face. 'I wanted to pass the good luck onto someone else, so here you go.'

'Oh. Thank you. Really,' his forehead is wrinkled and he looks at me. On the floor?

I'm embarassed - money is such a strange thing. I touch his arm.

'Here,' he says handing me a Big Issue still looking confused.

Now ten pounds is quite a lot to just give to somebody. But if you're living on the street or in a hostel it doesn't go far - two or three cheap meals.

So should you give money to homeless people? I haven't for many years choosing instead to buy the Big Issue and support homeless charities. Well they'll just spent it on drink and drugs right?
It's Christmas and I'm planning to spend some of my hard earned money beer and wine – why shouldn't he? As far as I'm concerned it is his money and he can do what he wants with it. In fact it feels like it never was my money.

If you feel like helping homeless people this year, Hackney Winter Night Shelter opens on 1 January and runs to 31st March. This period is usually the coldest of the year.

A tenner could mean a lot to them too.

http://www.hwns.org.uk/

Merry Christmas and here's to 2008!

'Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.'

Dalai Lama

The parakeets, frozen ducks and a coot.

Hackney, my home town, is known for it's mix of cultures - melting pot some might say. Home for many of London's first, second, third and onwards generation of immigrants; Turkish, Somali, Jamaican, Nigerian, Sri-Lankan. And these are just the people on my estate.

But even I was surprised to see a group, from sunnier climes, outside my kitchen window. First I saw one; small, noisy, green, be-winged and being chased by a magpie. Then I saw another and then four more. A flock of parkeets - over here, taking our nest boxes, filling up our bird baths, eating our peanuts. And no one is doing a thing about it.

Then I went for my afternoon walk in Clissold Park and saw some more. Here is a picture to prove it. Clearly showing a Parakeet. Clearly.

How do they survive here in this cold? http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/magazine/6478911.stm tells me they are actually from the foothills of the Himalaya - so they can cope with a bit of icy chill. Hhhmm Himalaya or Hackney. I know where I'd rather be.

The ponds in the park were freezing over. The sun was setting behind the ducks and coots slithering around on the uneven ice. It wasn't the Hindu Kush but it was cold and beautiful.

well I'll be dogone

So I wait on the platform. By some miraculous chance, the train that pulls up is not too crowded and I even see – the holy grail of the rush hour traveller - AN EMPTY SEAT. I imagine the gods of the underground – a spiteful, immature bunch - have their attention elsewhere, the circle line perhaps.

When I get on the train I see why the seat is empty. A dog of giant proportions is lying in front of it and no one seems prepared to move him. I stare at the dog. It is stunning – thick fur, large round head at least as big as mine; body over a meter long. But the startling thing about him is his fur. He is stripped like a tiger with colours of biscuit, caramel and sesame.

His owner, a young black woman has hold of the lead – a large metal chain. She has long black dreds and looks like she hasn't slept in a week. They could have stepped out of the pages of a Philip Pullman book. Everyone else on the tube is staring at the dog. Most of the carriage is smiling – it has bewitched us.

We are a nation of animal lovers; the RSPCA formed 60 years before the NSPCC after all. And I am ashamed to realise that if she was blocking the seat with anything else - shopping, crutches, even a child - I would be seething with inner commuter hatred. The creature shifts and gets to his feet freeing access to the seat. I sidle around his enormous head and sit down.

'You have a very beautiful dog,' I say. Normal rules of the tube don't seem to apply when you are sitting next to a tigerdog.

'Thanks,' she smiles at me, 'he's not happy with all these people though.' The dog tries to chew the edge of my coat and she pulls him away.

'What sort of dog is he?' I ask.

'A mix - huskie and Japanese Kishu Inu.'

He turns around and sits down. On my feet. It is the best tube journey I have ever had.

This is the funny thing about London - one minute you'll be poked in the eye with an umbrella goboon and then next a tiger dog will be sitting on your feet. Whatever else it is, it certainly ain't boring.

you can stand under my umbrella

Yesterday someone hit me in the head with their umbrella. I was walking fast, in an eastwardly direction along Oxford St, and she was walking, again fast, westward bound. Somehow she managed to get me in the temple with one of the plastic goboons at the end of a spoke.

‘What the…. Jesus,’ I said rubbing my forehead.

She said nothing and continued striding along the road. The tilt of her head evoked Boadicea on her blade-bedecked chariot. I imagined her chuckling and then one day removing the plastic covering and sharpening the spoke.

I find the average commuter in London town is a barely contained mass of seething resentment. I must admit there are days when I feel not dissimilar to this.

It doesn’t take much to turn up the heat of this inner rage – and almost getting stabbed in the eye is a bit more than not much.

It was not a good moment then to join the rush of commuters pouring down the steps into the hell that is the northbound platform of the Victoria line at 5.45pm on a Tuesday.

More later…

advanced littering

Firework night is over – thank god. Like Christmas, the bangs and sparkles seem to start earlier and earlier every year. I like fireworks - in theory. Ohh Ahh Lovely. In the same way that I think veal tastes nice, but when you start thinking about it, our bizarre celebration of a failed terrorist attack leaves a nasty taste in the mouth.

The Norwegian calls fireworks displays 'advanced littering' and you can see his point. Today we need to think about the resources we use and the impact that this use has on our environment. From that point of view fireworks have little to redeem themselves.

And there aren't many other activities that lead to widespread, burning and maiming of children on a yearly basis. If fireworks were invented now, they'd be banned in a flash of a rockets tail.
To ban fireworks night, then, seems the only option.

We are also considering banning Christmas. Wrapping paper - what a waste.

Bah humbug.

thinking outside the box

Yesterday the blessed council replaced our stolen recycling bin. Why someone would steal one when they are so readily available is beyond me. I mean it only took us five emails and two months to get ours replaced. (deep breaths, calm, calm)

So I woke from my stuffed nose slumbers to find a bewildered Irish fellow on my doorstep waving a green plastic box at me. Better him than the prostitutes who had been there the previous night scattering Pringles and fag buts all over the steps.

'Oh, love, sorry to wake you. You've ordered this, love? Is that right, love?' he says staring at the glass window above the door.

'Oh yes, someone stole ours. Brilliant thanks for bringing it...'

He looks at the box in his hands.

'It's just that I can't give you this, love, as it's someone else's.' He shows me the number seven clearly written in Tipex on side of the box. He had taken someone else's box to replace ours – my mind literally boggles. Does he provide continuous employment for himself in this way?

'Love, I'll be back in a minute. Sorry to wake you, love.'

'No probs.'

So five minutes later he reappears with a new box.

'Love, here you go, love.' He gazes up at the ceiling.

'Thanks' I say and close the door.

Then I become a fraction more awake and realise I'm wearing a t-shirt and my fairly short (a la James Bond in the seventies) dressing gown. I imagine him going down the stairs crunching through the sour cream and chive crisps mumbling, 'love... love.... love.'

rock the boat and stone the crows

This week I've been pondering what makes a stone a stone, a rock a rock and a boulder a boulder. Or to put it another way, when does a stone become a rock? My first thoughts - size does matter. To my mind a stone is apple sized and smaller. A rock is bigger than an apple but smaller than pumpkin. Lets say a large pumpkin. And a boulder bigger than a pumpkin. But what does the dictionary say?

A stone n. is a piece of earthy or mineral matter, especially smaller than a boulder; a paving block; a gem; the central hard portion of a fruit; a unit of weight equal to 14lbs. It is also - according to the dear dictionary - a rock.

On the other hand, a rock n. is a large mass of stone or stony material; a boulder; a gem; a firm or solid foundation; a cylindrical stick of coloured and flavoured sweet.

So hold on, a rock is a mass of stone AND a boulder?

A boulder n. is a large mass of stone or rock; a climbing route small enough to tackle without ropes; a town in Colorado. (Strictly speaking Boulder not a boulder for that last one)

So according to the dictionary, a stone is smaller than a boulder and is also a rock. A rock is a boulder or a mass of stone. Whereas a boulder is a large mass of stone or rock.

Hello confusion my old friend.

The closer we look, the deeper down the rabbit hole we go as stone and rock are verbs as well as nouns. To rock means to move rhythmically back and forth (He rocked the baby to sleep) and to disturb or upset (the revelations about the will rocked the whole family) How can one word have two almost contradictory meanings?

The conclusion I make from all this confusion is that words - like rocks - are weighty. They can mean a multitude of things depending on where they are hefted or placed.

But you knew that already - right?

P.S. And on the rocks means both likely to fail AND served on ice.

mutton dressed as spam

I know it wasn't my special day or anything, but I was one of the bridesmaids and so I thought, well I better make an effort. I normally feel like a little girl dressed up at weddings, never quite able to get it right, as if I'm wearing someone else's grown-up dress.

I would describe my style as sporty-tramp. I imagine when people meet me they are never sure if I am going to try and sell them a Big Issue or invite them to a game of badminton. This suits me fine most of the time but I wanted to feel more comfortable at this wedding especially as the bride had said – wear what you want.

So I bought a dress I knew for sure I looked good in and as this was an autumn wedding in one of the wettest and coldest years since we have started fretting about climate change, a dress I knew I would be warm in. It is a close fitting black jumper dress with a little belt to tie around the waist. I ummed and ahhhed over the shoes - either boots or little black heels. I settled on boots for warmth reasons. I thought I looked smart, warm and cute.

Unfortunately on the day of the wedding I realised I'd made yet another fashion mistake and would be uncomfortable but for completely different reasons. All the other bridesmaid put on silky flowing dresses in blue and green and pink. Lovely dresses that swung and skimmed below the knee. I had a vision of myself in my dress. My short black dress with what were essentially fuck-me boots.

Imagine an old rich fella who falls in love with a much younger woman, much to the dismay of his family. They marry and after a few months of blissful happiness, he dies. What I was planning to wear was what that woman would wear to the funeral. In Ape Pro Pre At.

I left putting my dress on till the last minute saying to myself – it doesn't really matter what you wear no one is going to look at you. But when i immerge clad in black from top to toe, look at me they did.

'Its a bit dark isn't it?' I said lamely. Yes, but you look very sophisticated, said one kind friend. You look great, said another, but I have another dress with me, said another less kind friend. It is a bit short said the-nail-in-the-coffin friend. Ah well, I thought, just got to go with it now. And luckily we all did look completely different and, I think, wonderful in different ways.

As we were waiting outside the hall with the bride, the mother of one of my friends said, oh why are you not wearing a silky dress like everyone else? I hid behind my flowers. Unfortunately I'm about three inches taller than the other bridesmaids.

Luckily the wine was flowing and I spotted another girl in a black sophisticated dress and other guess in a belly dancing outfit. The wedding was a fairly eccentric – one of the songs was Food Glorious Food. So I relaxed and enjoyed my champers.

The bride hugged me later on the dance floor saying how happy she was. She thought it was the happiest day of her life. I don't think she would have noticed if I had been wearing a bin liner.

And that after all is what matters.

War - huh - what is it good for?

On Sunday, after the fantastic Free-wheel event, K and I went to the Imperial War Museum to do a treasure hunt test (don't ask).

I've never been to the IWM before - looking at a load of gun, tanks, shells etc. doesn't appeal. And why Imperial anyway? There were lots of visitors, mainly men taking extremely careful photographs of plane propellers.

There was one couple who stuck in my mind. A young man with short dark hair, standing with arms behind his back, legs planted firmly wide apart in the 'I've had military training' position. He was wearing camouflage trousers. It takes a certain person to wear any item of camouflage to a war museum. A certain person who wants to make a certain statement.

He was staring intently at an information board as I raced passed trying to find the name of one of the planes hanging from the ceiling (Big Beautiful Doll if you want to know). He gave the impression that he had given each and every item in the museum the same single minded level of attention. His girlfriend was sitting in a huddle on a bench behind him. A dejected sort of thing, shoulders all in a bunch - a bored slightly desperate expression on her face.

War is wrong, of that I have no doubt, but life is never clear cut. Museums like this serve a valuable purpose, even though I might try and turn away from the brutal side of human nature and violent way humans have of brushing up against each other. It's how the world is I suppose.

We ended the visit in the Tibetan Peace Garden which was how I wish the world was.

One, Two, Three.....

I'm reading a book about Chile called Travels in a Thin Country by Sara Wheeler. No particular reason, I'm not planning a trip to Chile, I haven't heard great things about Wheeler's travel writing. No, it has just been sitting on my bookshelf for 10 years, half read and abandoned. So I am finishing it now.

Wheeler talks about a group of native Indians who are now extinct, wiped out by the actions of brutal and careless Europeans. So far, so depressingly familiar.

They had an extremely rich language, including a word for the feeling you get when you bite into something soft and your teeth hit something hard. I tried to make up a word in English for that feeling of biting into a oyster to find a pearl or a chomping down on a hamburger to find a thumb nail clipping. Squigdack? Murminct? Any other suggestions?

But given this richness, they had no words for numbers above three. I have three numbers to watch today, a meeting at 11 in Leicester Sq for a possible bit of freelance writing, an appointment at 3 in Blackfriars to register with an agency who have a part time job I'm interested in and finally dinner at 7 in Southwark with a friend. Phew.

I tried to imagine living a life with no numbers, no money, no debt, no appointments to be made or kept, no worrying about the big three oh, four oh, or any other oh. But I gave up because I didn't want to be late for my meeting.

A can poo attitude

It's me. I'm back. Sorry for the break in communications. The summer has blinked by, MA done and dusted, my year in Cornwall is over and I'm back in London.

Yesterday I went for a walk to the shops, smiling at the bustle and hustle of people. The sun was shinning and I thought, maybe, just maybe it wont be so bad being back. As long as I make sure we get out of London, slicing the weekend off the week - pulling the days out of London and pushing them in the sand in Llangenth or Woolacombe?

On the way back I saw a Tennants Extra can glinting in the sunlight on the pavement. Not to strange a sight in the litter strewn streets of London. What did make it stand out was that there was a small cat poo drapped over it. Was the cat bored? Did it wish to set itself an extra challenge that day? Was it trying to make a comment on the contents of the can, a kind of catty review?

Maybe it just had a can poo attitude.

Mudslide

It's been a beautiful day here in Cornwall but to say today has gone well would be a fucking lie.

On the first day of sunshine in ages I figure I'll go for a bracing sea cliff walk and a dip in the sea before starting work. I should have known something was not right when I step in some dog shit.

I knew that I had stepped in dog shit as I'm wearing flip flops and some flicks up onto my wrist. Nice.

The path is really muddy and I start regreting my optimistic flip flops. Coming back down the hill, I stop just before the really muddy bit and spot a path up the side of the bank around some behind some tree trunks. Ah! I think. How clever I am to spot this path.

Negiotating this steep brown track, I slip - right on my arse. Thump. I walk the rest of the way back with a big brown mud patch on my arse smelling slightly of dog shit.

Back on Gylly beach I take of my muddy trousers and I realise - shit - my pockets are empty - I've lost my phone.

I plan to jump in the sea to cool off – dash back to the house, drive back to Swanpool; the nearest point where the road meets the coast path and have a look. It is bound to be on the floor near where I fell.

I strip down to my new bikini. New and free with Elle. One size fits all they said. One size reveals all they should have said. I dive into the sea in the 'Itfreezingletsgetthisoverwith' manouver. The bikini bottoms peel of and roll up down my thighs and my bikini top peels off and twists over. So I have to stay a moment longer in the bracing sea to re-organise myself.

But after I got out the sea, home, into new clothes, into the car, back to Swanpool and back along the path, it was nowhere to be seen.

The good news is that my contract was due for renewal on the 26th – so I don't have to pay a months rental for a phone I don't have. The bad news is that the insurance I'd been paying every month for the last year, that I had just cancelled cos I was just about to get a new phone ran out yesterday.

So, even though the rest of the day improved somewhat, think it is safe to say - fucking lie.

Climacophobia

A couple of Fridays ago, I fell down a flight of stairs outside 5 Degrees West - a pub in Falmouth. I bent back my thumb nail and bruised my knees and shins pretty badly. Sufficient time has passed that I can now think about it without a shudder. My bruised have almost healed and I think I have managed to halt the tide of irrational thoughts that were washing around my brain.
I remember talking to my friend at the top of the stairs, and then next thing being at the bottom of the stairs on my hands and knees. In the doggy position to be precise. Like I was waiting to be fucked by the stairs.

I was fine at first - adrenalin - but after a few minutes my legs started to really hurt, but that was not all.

I have a phobia of falling down stairs - Climacophobia as it is known. It is not your usual phobia of snakes, heights or spiders, but there it is. As the pain increased I started feeling really scared. I ended up at home in drunken tears wailing at my boyfriend. 'See I told you. I was right to be scared of stairs, THEY ARE OUT TO GET ME.'

Realising that I was being completely irrational did not stop the feelings. I could feel my sanity bend; my rational self, literally losing some of its grip on my mind.

Due to my sisters illness I have been around a lot of crazy people. Not just 'We drunk a whole bottle of sambuca' crazy, but 'God told me to jump on the bonnet of that car rip off the satan's eyebrows (aka windscreen wipers) ' crazy.

This has had its effects, some good, some not so good. I do fear having a breakdown, but it also means that I know mental illness is just an illness and one that people can recover from. It has taken me quite a few years to get my fear of a breakdown into perspective and the way I look at it now is that it could happen to me, but I don't think it is likely to.

It also means that I look after my mental health as seriously as I look after my physical health. If I have been working too hard and not sleeping and start getting a sore throat – I will take action – early nights, lemon & honey and heaps of fruit & veg.

If I start thinking stairs are REALLY out to get me, I take action. And in this case the action was to come straight home – spend time with Kai, relaxing, reading, sleeping and funnily enough lots of fruit and veg.

There is a big stigma around mental illness and I think this stigma has a lot to do with fear. People fear those with serious mental illness as they can be scary, irrational, violent, and extremely sad. But I think the fear also comes from a horror of ever being like that themselves.

But one thing I know is I've got to get over my fear of stairs – they aren't really out to get me.