Much love, Sam

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When I was first invited to test CrocodOil my initial reaction was “Is this a crock…?”…closely followed by: “Surely people don’t rub oil from a crocodile into their skin? Their prehistoric-looking hide doesn’t look too supple to me; if it’s so full of goodness why do they look as though they’re in need of slathering on a decent moisturiser themselves, huh?” When you picture a crocodile you’re hardly conjuring up images of baby-smooth skin. “And anyway, aren’t they an endangered species?”

At the mention of Crocs I usually get a mental image of those ugly rubber shoes with the holes – you know, to let your dignity seep out? I shudder at the thought. I’ve been working in the beauty industry for over twenty years, yet I’d never heard of crocodile oil, so I was intrigued…

Actually, crocodile oil has been used for centuries to treat a variety of skin conditions, from eczema to psoriasis, burns to bites, as well as in anti-ageing preparations – although it’s relatively new to the UK market. I find several respected publications running glowing features about it, such as Marie Claire, InStyle and The Telegraph.

Peering into the mirror at my rough forty-something skin and sunken little eyes I’m all too aware that a harsh British winter has left me looking, well, a tad reptilian myself, so, curiosity piqued, I decide to get back in touch with Barbara Bantleman, CEO of Crocodoil, for more information.

I fire my questions at Babs, and she’s quick to reassure me that the crocodiles used in her skin preparations are farmed primarily for their meat, and that the skins are used as a by-product by the fashion and beauty industries in much the same way as cattle. However, the farms CrocodOil work with go one step further and release up to 30% of the baby crocs they rear back into the wild, contributing to the South African Nile crocs they use coming off the endangered list. The crocodiles must be carefully cared for: any damage to skins would render them worthless, so it’s in the interests of the farmers to ensure their wellbeing. Hmm..so far, so fair.

She goes on to explain that the crocodiles are farmed in a natural environment over a large area; there’s no use of hormones or pesticides; no animal testing – and the products themselves are created in a UK laboratory, independently tested and are EU cosmetic licensed.

Free range crocs on the farm in South Africa

Having ticked the animal welfare and ethics boxes, I’m eager to test the product for myself. Crocodile oil contains naturally-occurring terpines which are known antiseptics, oleic acid for cell regeneration and sapogens to soften the skin. It’s rich in omegas 3, 6 and 9: essential fatty acids (EFAs) needed for the body’s functions, with strong anti-inflammatory properties which can’t be produced by the body itself. It also contains linoleic acid, which eases muscle aches and joint pain, as well as antioxidant vitamin A to fight free radicals and helps repair skin.

CrocodOil is 100% pure, with only healing vitamin E and neroli (orange blossom) essential oil added to it, which gives a delicate floral fragrance, as well as being antiseptic and radiance-boosting. The product contains just these three ingredients; no chemicals, no preservatives.

15ml CrocodOil

The product I’m testing is the 15ml pump dispenser which retails from £35. My initial reservations about the morality around using an animal-derived product on my skin are appeased when I do my research. Animal fats are present in so many household items, from face creams to toothpaste, carrier bags, candles, soap, and anything requiring glue. Even the new five pound notes contain animal fat. If you’re using the meat from the animal, there’s no further harm in using the fat, which would otherwise be thrown away. No crocodiles are killed solely for the oil.

The Nile crocodile is a common species, farmed extensively as food in South Africa.  If I eat meat and own leather bags and shoes, then really what’s the difference? I appreciate it may not be for everyone, and I respect your opinion on this one; I’ll leave it you to decide. I slather on a generous layer and take to my social media accounts to share my discovery…

Some friends react in the same way that I initially did: voicing their concerns. Others get in touch to share their successful experiences with similar oils, such as Emu Oil, used by Hollywood stars such as Cate Blanchett, who swears by their rejuvenating and healing properties.

Like most women of my age, I’m keen to look as young on the outside as I still feel on the inside, yet am unwilling to succumb to the stunned-bunny look that often comes with Botox. And besides, I want my pocket money for more important things – like wine…and cake.

The following morning: to my surprise I wake up with the smoothest, softest skin I’ve had in years. I’m gobsmacked. Andy tries it too and is similarly impressed. My dad has always suffered with very dry skin and also found it beneficial. Over the following days my skin certainly appears more radiant and make-up glides on smoothly. The oil is also recommended for hands and nails, ragged cuticles, a scrawny neck, stretchmarks, cracked heels – none of which I have, of course <coughs>.

Needless to say though, if these benefits continue, I’ll certainly be getting some more. If the expression “Dry January” applies more to the state of your skin than your abstinence from alcohol this month, you might want to snap some up too…

NB: I have not been paid for this article and am not affiliated to CrocodOil in any way. I was supplied with the product and asked to write an impartial review. Should you buy it via the Amazon link below I will receive a small commission which goes towards the running costs of my blog. 

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

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I’ve always liked the idea of being an ‘IT Girl.’ That’s IT as in rhymes with fit, not IT as in Information Technology. As a teenager flicking through the glossy pages of Vogue (in the newsagents, before putting it back and buying More magazine), my secret ambition was to be an It Girl (well I didn’t want my grammar school education going to waste, did I?).

I had visions of being an effortlessly chic and stylish siren, wafting in and out of parties, dry martini dangling from one perfectly manicured hand, on a cloud of Chanel number 5. It all sounded so glamorous, such fun – and so easy. You simply loitered casually around the swankiest bar you could find, primped and bouffed to within an inch of your young life, and your Prince Charming would appear in a puff of smoke (well, through clouds of cigarette smoke at least – you could smoke in bars in those days) and sweep you off your stiletto-clad feet…and into a life of elegant luxury.

Only that never happened. The slight flaw in my plan was the fact I lived in Bexley and not Bayswater, and the swankiest bar in town was….The Polo Bar. Where the men were chavvy rather than chivalrous. And not even men, it turned out. They were mostly pimply boy-racers named Dave or Steve, driving pimped-up Escorts and sporting snyde Ralph Lauren polo shirts with the collars turned up. You know the type: more no money than new money. The hours spent getting ready for a night out felt like a waste of make-up as soon as you got to the bar and had a quick scout about, talent-spotting. Jeez, the totty sure was thin on the ground. The fellas I seemed to attract like drunken moths to a flame were more Mr Potato Head than Mr Head of Finance.

I had a go at hanging around the King’s Rd for a while in my late teens, but the cliquey Hooray Henry’s seek out their own, and the Sloane Rangers could sniff out a Cockney (or Mockney, in my case, having been born in Kent) at a thousand paces – even (especially?) if it’s doused liberally in Erith Market knock-off Chanel. Or perhaps it was my Joker-style attempt at a brick red pout that put them off (I was channelling Heath Ledger’s interpretation of The Joker long before he was even a twitch in his dad’s pants).

So my plan backfired.

By my early twenties I began to wish I’d studied IT instead of Latin, as any hopes of living in a penthouse in Knightsbridge with a gaggle of daschunds and an oligarch began to evaporate like my cheap synthetic fragrance. It was looking like I was just going to have to fend for myself. How very modern, I sighed. I still dressed up like a Disney princess on a night out, ever the optimist, but alas I was just a donkey making an ass of myself in a sea of Shreks.

Since I wasn’t interested (or capable, probably) of being a doctor or a vet, and had zero interest in horticulture (I was more interested in hotty-culture), it quickly became apparent that Mr Chandler’s Latin classes would be as much use in my future endeavours as a chocolate fireguard. The other occupation best suited to a Latin speaker is a Latin teacher, and judging by his rhino-hide skin, horn-rimmed glasses and miserable downcast expression, Mr C’s career path wasn’t a line of enquiry I was inspired to pursue.

So it was an endless merry-go-round of beauty and make-up artist jobs for me. Yes, Dear Reader, I’m afraid I ended up working in Harvey Nics instead of shopping there. Ah, the irony! I think I was subconsciously hoping some of the wealth would rub off; that by making up the faces of the It-girls, one day I’d meet a sister-from-a-richer-mister whom I’d instantly bond with; she’d whisk me off to Bond St for shopping and cocktails, before introducing me to her trustafarian brother and heir to the family fortune, Tarquin.

But alas, it was not to be. Oh I met many a Tarquin, for sure, but he usually had a bejewelled Tamara on his arm, looking down her perfect aquiline nose at me with smug condescension. She’d give a visible shudder as I thanked her with my weak vowels (chucking in a bit of gratuitous rhyming slang just to watch her wince), before snatching her bag of pricey products and turning on her Valentino heels to clip-clop off for a (liquid, fizzy) lunch on the 5th floor (because eating in public is sooo vulgar, sweetie).

Fortunately, life on the shop floor doesn’t call for IT skills. There’s no need to be tech-savvy when your day-to-day business involves comparing the merits of various caviar face creams. We specialised in soft skin, not software. By evening we were out clubbing, not poring over computer manuals: I prefer techno to technology. I’m more familiar with fish ‘n’ chips than microchips…and if you mention gigs I picture music concerts. Which is why I come unstuck in the modern world.

I love to write, but when it comes to code and formatting – forget it. You may as well be speaking in Japanese. My eyes glaze over and I zone out. If I’m having trouble sleeping, I whack an Excel tutorial on YouTube and I’m snoring quicker than if I’d swallowed a fistful of Valium. You know you’re a technophobic dinosaur when your two-year-old nephew takes the ipad out of your hands with a sigh, before expertly flipping through the apps to find the one he likes.

My mind boggles when I’m blogging and I have a technical issue. Whenever someone praises my blog, I laugh nervously, terrified they’ll discover I’m a fraud: one-finger tapping it out on an ancient Amstrad. That’s a joke, by the way. I have a beautiful baby named Mac – well, her full name is MacBook – and she’s been keeping me awake all night just like the real thing. I look blankly at her while she makes noises at me, wondering when I’ll learn how to look after properly. These things don’t come with a manual, you know (oh no actually they do – I was confusing her with a real baby for a moment there).

Somehow, amidst the travelling, the partying and the chaotic noise of life, I forgot to tick the achievement box marked “PC literate” on my CV (Curriculum Vitae – see, fluent in Latin). Anyone will tell you I’m the most un-PC person, in all senses of the term. I’m a 40-year-old I.T virgin.

So if anyone fancies popping my Apple cherry, I’m all yours. No gooseberries allowed, just a right pear of sorts. I’ll whip out my Blackberry and let’s get fruity. I’ve got all-you-can-eat data on the Orange network so we can really go bananas. I’m not taking the pith, I’m just a bit of a plum on the ‘puter.

Sorry. I’ll stop.

It would appear my puns are about as good as my IT skills – and my fruitless attempts at becoming an It-Girl.

Sam x

Pssst! If you’re a technophobe like me, you might find the following helpful….

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post The 40 Year Old (I.T) Virgin appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

photo credit

A child is like a tiny seed; a tree at the start of it’s long life. The quality of the soil, the water, the climate – all determine the tree that seed will grow into. It’s the duty of everyone who comes into contact with that little sapling to nurture it and protect it from the elements; to help it grow.

I don’t have a child, but I’ve been one, and so have you, so we’re all qualified to speak about this topic. We all remember the bewildering feeling of being small, defenceless; not yet understanding the world. Everything we encounter as a child is new: in turn awe-inspiring and confusing, fascinating and terrifying, as we look to the grown-ups to guide us and help make sense of it all. To be betrayed by the very adults that are meant to protect us causes lasting, irreversible damage. The bark of that young tree is marked with permanent scars.

The recent revelations of widespread sexual abuse in football have once again brought this difficult topic to the fore, although for victims of abuse it’s never far from their minds. A survey last week revealed that 86% of respondents had either been abused themselves, or knew someone who had. This figure, whilst shocking in itself, is likely to be even higher in reality, as it doesn’t include those who have never breathed a word of their suffering to another soul – of which I’m sure there are many.

So I, alongside many others, was disgusted by the recent ignorant comments made on Twitter by Eric Bristow: a washed-up former darts player who was probably spouting his nonsense from his front room, beer can in hand, whilst watching old reruns of Bullseye.

Eric, the overweight chain-smoking dinosaur who’s been putting the “cock” in Cockney since 1973, implied that the victims were somehow “wimps” for not taking action sooner. I took to my own social media account to let him know exactly what I thought of his careless and damaging remarks, and was horrified to discover that although the majority of my friends and followers firmly agreed with me, there was the odd (very odd!) person who defended him. One particular Bristow-sympathiser was a woman, albeit an “old school” one from a similar era as him, who questioned why anyone would “wait thirty years to speak up.”

Whilst infuriated and incensed by their comments, I’d actually like to thank Eric and his out-of-touch cronies, as their ignorance inspired me to write this piece.

Firstly, they clearly have never experienced any form of bullying, assault or abuse themselves, otherwise they would have some understanding and compassion for the shame, fear and self-loathing that wraps itself around the victim like a bone-crushing boa-constrictor.

Many years ago, when I was of primary-school age, I was sexually assaulted several times by the neighbour of a relative. Despite being appalled, disgusted and terrified on each occasion, I didn’t tell anyone what had happened until much later and soon after that, the man died. I came from a loving family, I knew it was wrong, yet I was told by this person to stay quiet, so I did.

Does that make me a wimp? Of course not. Quite the opposite in fact. It takes a lot of courage to carry around a burden like that, especially as a child. I know several people – strong, amazing people – who have also been sexually assaulted, raped or abused. In most cases, the perpetrator went unpunished.

So I have nothing but the utmost respect for these footballers and others who have been abused – in fact all victims of any crimes – who find the courage and strength to speak out – no matter how long it takes for them to feel able to do so.

Self-confessed selfie-queen Karen Danczuk has also recently been in the spotlight for winning a court case against her brother, who was last week found guilty of repeatedly raping her (along with two other victims) throughout her childhood. Having attempted to bury the trauma for many years, Karen finally spoke out on Thursday during an emotional interview on the daytime television show Loose Women, during which she told of her shattered confidence and efforts to seek approval from others through constant selfies, a habit which had previously seen her ridiculed and written off as arrogant and narcissistic.

Those of you who read my blog regularly will know that I don’t shy away from broaching difficult topics, yet it’s taken me until this post (my 60th article for ‘Life: A Bird’s Eye View‘) and forty years of life on Earth to write anything about this subject – although I’ve started to a few times then hit the ‘delete’ button instead of ‘publish.’

Common effects of abuse include anger issues, low self-esteem, depression, self-harm, law-breaking, substance abuse and promiscuity. This may seem like a tenuous link, but I directly attribute my childlessness to those unfortunate childhood experiences, since the careless behaviour which led to my cervical cancer surgery and subsequent inability to conceive was a direct result of my damaged self-worth caused by those events.

The repercussions were mental, as well as physical. I was afraid of bringing another person into this world, for fear of passing on my flaws; the responsibility for shaping the personality of another human being just too great. Well, I got my wish and never became a mum. (I later changed my stance on this and went on to have multiple failed IVF cycles; it was too late).

Why am I telling you this? Certainly not for sympathy, or to jump on any bandwagon; rather to illustrate the far-reaching effects of sexual abuse, and that it can happen to anyone.

So how can we protect our children from these vile predators?

It is vital to talk to your child. Even if you think they are too young for such a conversation – they are not. The NSPCC Pants campaign and accompanying Pantosaurus Quiz are great tools to assist with this, and the charity recommends introducing them to children as young as four.

Do not make the mistake of thinking that it can’t or won’t happen to your child. Abusers are usually well known to the child: a family member, family “friend” or trusted adult in a position of authority. These are rarely scary strangers in macs; they are the smiling, normal-looking men you’ve known (and trusted) for years.

This has to be a joint effort. It’s up to all of us to protect all children, not just our own. One in five girls under 18 is a victim of sexual abuse, and one in 25 boys. If you suspect something, do something. If a child’s behaviour changes, find out why. The internet presents a whole extra dimension of risk that didn’t exist when my generation was growing up; including very young children being groomed online whilst their parents watch TV downstairs, oblivious. Educate yourself – your children are probably more internet-savvy than you are.

By talking openly about uncomfortable topics such as this, we remove some of the shame, guilt and isolation felt by the innocent victims. Perhaps then, we can prevent some of these incidents happening in the first place – and if they do happen, hopefully victims will feel able to speak out sooner and the perpetrators punished so that they can’t harm anyone else.

We’ve all heard the saying: “from tiny acorns mighty oak trees grow.” Well it’s up to us to nurture those tiny acorns as they grow into trees, warding off silent predators that creep like poison ivy, threatening to wrap their suffocating fronds around delicate branches. A child can only truly reach his or her full potential as an adult if they are allowed to blossom without suffering physical and/or psychological harm.

So please, look around you; be aware. Let’s not blindly trust people with access to our children, no matter who they are or how well (you think) you know them. Sometimes, you can’t see the wood for the trees.

Useful Links:

NSPCC parents’ guide
Samaritans
NAPAC
The Compassion Cure

This article has also appeared in The Huffington Post UK.

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Speaking Out About Sexual Abuse: The Seed Of Change appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

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My last trip to Goa saw me tripping like a hippy at a hilltop rave. Unfortunately, this was not due to imbibing some fantastical mind-bending substance and having a “spiritual awakening” – you know, the kind those faux-Rasta gap yah brats bang on about down the pub on their return…to Kingston (Upon-Thames, not Kingston Town).

Ohhh no.

My hallucinations were due to my having imbibed some…human faeces. Yep, I’d basically eaten shit. Delicious. The holiday ended with me being whisked to hospital where I was quarantined and hooked up to a drip whilst the doctors scratched their heads and frantically tried to fathom whether I’d contracted malaria. Luckily(?), it turned out to be dysentery instead. On the plus side, I was as brown and skinny as a Pepperami within days – so much cheaper than a colonic, daaahling.

So, you may ask, why the hell am I Goa-n back for more? Well, you’re not a proper traveller until you’ve had a parasite eat you from the inside out, so I thought it only fair that Andy experience the delights of India too. I know, I know: I’m all heart (quite literally – that’s about the only internal organ I have left after that darned bug ravaged my guts).

There are various tiers to India, and it’s vital that you ease yourself into it gradually, in stages, like getting into an icy swimming pool. First, you visit Goa, which is basically India Lite: for beginners. Once you’ve built up your immune system you might want to progress to intermediate level: Mumbai. Only when you have guts of steel or a blackbelt in backpacking should you attempt the ninja stage: Delhi.

True to form, I feel as rough as a cat’s tongue within hours of take-off from Heathrow on our Air India flight. Everyone on the aircraft has already consumed two plane meals of curry, and the methane levels are rising to dangerous levels in the cabin. I’m already turning a deep shade of Kermit as passengers shift in their seats, bellies rumbling, releasing a steady stream of toxic gases. We are the only non-Indians on the flight. Our noses twitch like Bisto kids’, and I realise now why the crew confiscated Samsung phones: one spark from a dodgy Galaxy Note in here and we’d all go up in a fireball.

After a 22-hour journey, the first thing I want to do when we finally reach the hotel is shower and clean my teeth. Absent-mindedly, I run my toothbrush under the tap. Big mistake! The water in India is liquid poison: one drop and your insides melt like ice in the sun.

I then accidentally ingest a single molecule of H2O in the shower and frantically run around the bathroom naked to locate a towel, mouth open in a state of panic, like that little girl in Vietnam, the one who’d had Agent Orange dropped on her from a great height. Napalm is less toxic than the water here, let me tell you.

Hungry, we hit the hotel restaurant. As soon as the first mouthful of curry hits my stomach, my guts start churning like a washing machine on spin cycle. It may only cost a few hundred rupees, but it’s guaranteed to give you the poopees. The flavours are like fireworks going off in my mouth, and a nice cold Kingsfisher compliments them beautifully, but I know the true cost will be more than those few rupees. Sure enough, as Andy later snuffles and snores like a contented puppy, my immune system implodes and I’m writhing in agony with a classic case of Delhi belly.

Having spent most of the night sleeping upright on the loo popping Immodium Instants like sweets, my eyes are bulging like an overactive thyroid sufferer when I stagger down to breakfast in the morning, silently questioning my sanity for returning to this godforsaken land.

What do you eat in a country where everything is laced with chilli? I opt for a plain omelette. Unfortunately, an Indian’s idea of an omelette is a hot curry wrapped in a thin veil of egg. Sickos! After what’s left of my already-pounding head has been blown off, we take a taxi to Anjuna. I pray there are no shark attacks at the beach today, as we stroll gingerly along the hot sand, buttocks clenched.

Within seconds, swarms of stallholders descend on us, commenting on our “chicken skin” and attempting to drag us in various directions to “come look at my cheap rubbish” (their actual words, which did make us lol). Like careworn rag dolls, we are resigned to our fate and we stand patiently as I have sarongs draped on me, tacky ankle bracelets hooked on and all manner of tat thrust under my nose. Considering cows are sacred here, they seem to be rather fond of turning them into handbags, I think to myself as I cast a wary eye over their wares.

They ignore our feeble excuses that we have no money, although it is in fact true: the Indian government has withdrawn 500 and 1000 rupee notes overnight in a bid to combat the country’s huge fraud issues. There are mile-long queues snaking from every ATM and the banks are all closed as they are empty. We attempted to swop our cash in pounds for rupees at every exchange bureau we could find, to no avail. Now I know how Mary and Joseph felt when they were constantly told there was no room at the inn. The country is in a state of panic, with tales of people dying in the stampede for money on the front of the papers.

Eventually, we manage to get a stack of old notes when a security guard takes pity on our sorry, sweaty selves and directs us towards a huge Portuguese-style house in town, where a man takes our British cash and swops it out on his porch, no questions asked…

…although we discover later that these denominations are useless in most parts of town. Even the most poverty-stricken turn their noses up. The words “beggars” and “choosers” spring to mind, especially when we attempt to offer wads of notes in restaurants for dinner later and get sent packing, as contemptuously as if we’d tried to pay with shirt buttons.

Having fought through the sellers and onto the beach, we plot up on sunbeds outside Lilliput, a beach bar pumping out house music, order up the drinks and relax (sort of – not our sphincters, obvs). The more we’re hassled to buy jewellery (which will clearly turn whichever body part it’s adorning a deep shade of green), the more we chug back the bevvies in a bid to take the edge off the annoyance factor.

By mid-afternoon, I’m half-cut and laughing along with half-a-dozen sellers – and have so far bought two anklets, had a couple of massages and Andy’s got a hat that we both know he’ll never wear again. That’s when I really let my guard down – and the henna ‘artiste’ strikes…

A beautiful girl with big doe eyes (and impossibly long lashes that handily double up as fans, such are their breeze-creating abilities) hypnotises me somehow and I recline, eyes closed, allowing her to use my pure white carcass as her blank canvas, armed only with a pot of black henna and a toothpick. What could go wrong huh? Well, quite a lot as it happens. When I casually glance down to check on her progress, it looks like a toddler has drawn all over me with black marker. Great.

That night, we decide to go to the Full Moon Party, since it’s the much-hyped ‘supermoon’,  and we’ll take any excuse to party. Only this is not like any full moon party I’ve ever been to (and as a regular visitor to Thailand, I’ve been to plenty): everyone is sitting inches from huge speakers, ear-bleed trance pumping out….eating curry. Yep, no-one is even so much as tapping a foot (except one overweight Russian couple incongruously going nuts at the seashore). I’m not impressed. Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, we’re joined by some nauseatingly loud and annoying Texans, who proceed to wedge themselves between us and shout drunkenly in our ears for the next hour. Joy.

Not content with the relentless harassment we received at the beach, later in the week we go to Anjuna flea market. It’s blisteringly hot and we drink a plastic cup of sugar cane, which is priced more like cocaine, and head into the throng. I attempt to look at the wares without moving my head too much – as soon as I show the slightest interest the stallholder pounces. We’re clearly regarded as cash-cows…and we’ve already seen what happens to the cows.

Andy wants to buy a few packets of herbs, but the seller gets greedy and attempts to relieve him of 2000 rupees (25 quid!) and we fall out with him. The same scenario plays out at various stalls around the market. These guys hustle like New York crack dealers: you’d think they were selling drugs in those little baggies, not garamasala. After several attempts to completely mug us off, we eventually settle on more realistic prices for a few bits of junk, and escape the chaos, exhausted from the heat and haggling. Two large Kingfishers please!

Throughout the week, whenever we visit a tourist attraction, it becomes apparent that we are the tourist attraction. As we snap away at the church or a cow in the road, the locals snap us. The boldest ones grab me, shouting “selfie” in an Indian accent, then taking a selfie of us before I can change my mind, whilst others just take pictures when they think I’m not looking. I don’t mind; I guess they don’t get many 6ft blonde women in these parts. I jokingly put my hand out for money in exchange for the shot, as they do to us.

At Vagator beach, a local attempts to scam Andy using an age-old distraction technique: he gesticulates that he has something in his ear and sticks a toothpick in Andy’s lughole, pulling out what looks like a waxy maggot. Gross. Of course, it hasn’t really come from his ear at all, and the guy is probably about to cunningly relieve Andy of his mobile or wallet. I’ve seen similar tricks whilst backpacking, so quickly shoo him away and we escape with all our belongings intact – although Andy is left feeling slightly queasy.

A trip to the spice plantation is interesting, and we buy some essential oils for various ailments. I wonder how essential they really are, having successfully survived 40 years without these particular oils, although I’m super-impressed when the cinnamon one I buy totally sorts out my neck and shoulder pain when massaged in (caused, no doubt, by the air-con wars Andy and I have most nights, with him insisting on total refrigeration of the room, grrr).

By the end of the week, we’ve had fun, but it’s all been rather a lot of hard work. I do love you India, but it would appear the relationship is a little one-sided. I’ve had enough spicy food to last me a lifetime; even the crisps here are masala flavoured. I’m craving bland British fodder, all flavourless and beige-coloured. Mm-mm-mmmmm.

So that’s it India, my love. I came back for more and you used and abused me once again. You’ve had all the chances I’m willing to give. You win; I’ll never get past beginner level. You’re like a computer game I can’t play; I just don’t have the dexterity.

Stick a fork in me – I’m done.

Which is more than I can say for some of the food here…

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Christmas: A time for folk to spend money (they don’t have) buying gifts (they can’t afford) for relatives (they don’t like) to celebrate the birth of the son of a God (they don’t believe in).  

One day, when I grow up, I’m hoping to be a big-shot author; just as a penniless JKRowling penned her early Harry Potter novels in a steamed-up ‘caff’ in Edinburgh, so I write my blogs travelling to and fro on cattle-class Kent commuter trains. I can often be found daydreaming on lonesome lunchbreaks; tapping out my innermost thoughts in between bites of flattened cheese-and-pickle sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil.

In the meantime, I’m still a humble shopkeeper, and I’d quite like to keep my job, so I’ll tell you some of the biggest retail bugbears, as relayed to me by my mate, Christmas Carol*…..

Once upon a time, there was a fresh-faced young filly named Carol: a bright young shop assistant who smiled and curtsied for curt customers until her cheeks ached and her back was sore. Gradually, through years of wear-and-tear of her weary body as well as her good nature, Carol’s smile grew slightly less wide and the floor-scraping curtsey became more of a gentle dip (her knees were not what they once were; she might not get back up).

Decades of uppity and snippy, short-tempered customers almost broke her spirit, but Carol strengthened her resolve along with her sense of humour, slipped on support tights and vowed not to be broken. And she never has been. There is one time of year, however, when Carol’s unending patience is tested to breaking point. And that time, dear reader, is Christmas….

For fellow retail workers the world over, the mere mention of the C-word is enough to bring them out in a cold sweat, and not just from the sheer effort of unloading mammoth deliveries. As we speak, store staff everywhere are taking a collective deep breath and muttering:

“Ho Ho Ho…
                        …ly shit, it’s that time again…”


So for all those festive freaks who start harping on about their love of all things Yule as soon as they’ve ushered little Tarquin back through the school gates in September, spare a thought for Carol and her cronies as they launch themselves headlong into making sure your Christmas crackers go with a bang.

For no sooner are the children packed off to school after summer in their boxfresh brogues and crisp new uniforms, than Mum’s Army descends on the shops greedily searching for goodies to stuff in Santa’s sack. There’s just something inherently wrong in Christmas shopping whilst still wearing flip-flops and sporting a mahogany suntan that David Dickinson would be envious of.

Thus Carol and her hapless team of elves will be putting up decorations mid-October and steeling themselves for the endless loop of torturously cheery Christmas muzak. These tunes will be streamed into their subconscious minds like parasitic ear-worms by head office via the in-store music system, in an attempt to brainwash them into embracing the festive spirit when it’s still sunny outside.

“These are some of the things,” confided Carol recently through gritted teeth, “that really get my tinsel-trimmed knickers in a twist during the festive season….”

Being the kind-hearted blogger that I am, I offered to pass them on via my site in the hope that Joe (or rather Joanne) Public may read it and take mercy on Satan’s – sorry, Santa’s – little helpers this year:

1. Ratty Customers

There is a direct correlation between blood pressure readings and December days until Christmas. Instead of chocolate-filled advent calendars, a more appropriate calendar filling might be little blister packs of beta-blockers in ever-increasing dosages as the tension builds towards the 25th.

For retail staff, replace beta-blockers with Pro-Plus. Sales of these little white pills go through the roof in December, as we attempt to Superdrug ourselves into Superwoman.

Oh, and don’t forget to redeem a year’s worth of Boots advantage card points purchasing bucketloads of Deep Heat – an essential part of any manual worker’s winter uniform. Alongside thermals, a generous undercoat must be applied like medicinal emulsion prior to slipping into regulation black attire, in order to grease up those aching muscles, ready for another day of unpacking an avalanche of boxes.

Despite needing more limbs than your average octopus, as she juggles serving three customers with answering the phone and simultaneously slipping off a ballet pump to expertly wrap a gift with her toes, Carol will be scowled and tutted at throughout the season of good cheer by countless ratty customers, who are clearly disgruntled that Carol is merely a human being, and not a machine.

Whilst apologising for having blood in her veins rather than rocket fuel, Carol will attempt to solve all your Christmas dilemmas with a smile – even if you have left all your shopping until 4.59pm on Christmas Eve and cannot comprehend why some lines are now out of stock.

She’ll smile sweetly as another customer stunt-rolls Indiana Jones-style under the shutters in a bid to foil her attempts to close the store in order to spend a few precious moments with her own family on Christmas Eve.

“Even more reason to use robots” sniffs Mrs Meddlesome, “they wouldn’t mind working until midnight on Christmas Eve….”

2. Absent-minded Annie

Whilst Carol is burning more calories on the shop floor than Usain Bolt at the Rio Olympics, Fitbit on fire as her average daily footsteps climb into the thousands, there’s always that Christmas temp who gazes forlornly into space whilst all hell is breaking loose around her.

Even the most experienced manager makes the occasional hiring misfire; Carol recalls one seasonal worker whom she nicknamed “Dory” (of Finding Nemo fame), such was her goldfish-like inability to retain any knowledge whatsover. Even after being sacked, Dory forgot that solemn conversation within seconds and still turned up for her next shift. Then it was Carol’s turn to do an award-winning fish impression as she opened and closed her mouth in surprise at seeing her casually bowl in for her cancelled shift. Some people can’t spell initiative, much less use it.

3. Shoplifters and Small Children

You may think it strange to lump these in the same category, but both have the ability to terrorise a shop in equal measure: the former by stuffing valuable merchandise into suspiciously puffy Puffa jackets, the latter by destroying aforementioned merchandise (however unintentionally). Both have the same effect on stock-loss spreadsheets.

The all-seeing Carol, with her chameleon-like 360-degree rotating eyeballs, manages to deftly retrieve the pricey perfumes from the sticky-fingered thief, whilst simultaneously removing the sticky-fingered toddler from mountaineering up a pile of triple-figure gift sets. After decades of Christmases in retail, she has the ninja-fast reflexes of a multi-eyed fruit fly, and a black belt in patience.

I could go on with her list, but I’m sure you get the picture. Carol is eternally grateful for your Christmas custom, but next time you’re huffing and puffing in the queue, if you can see the staff are flat-out, please cut them a little slack. Unless you spot an Absent-Minded Annie or a Dithering Dory of course, in which case you have Carol’s express permission to give them hell.

As the shutters come down on her final Oscar-winning pre-Christmas performance, it’s still not over for careworn Carol. For no sooner has she rung through that final transaction on Christmas Eve, than she and the elves must set about tearing down the decorations and slashing stock prices – even before the shopping centre has emptied and the big man has squeezed himself down a single chimney. Such is the fickle nature of retail.

Come Christmas Day, Carol will collapse, exhausted, onto the sofa with a gallon of prosecco and a plate of pigs-in-blankets and proceed to sleep through most of the celebrations.

Which is just as well as she’ll need all her energy for….

….the SALE.

photo credit

*Carol is her real name…honest.

This article has also appeared in The Huffington Post UK.

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In years gone by, I was one of those miserable killjoys who, when the trick-or-treating “yoof” of the neighbourhood came a-knocking on All Hallows Eve, would flip off all the lights and throw myself on the floor until the coast was clear.

Then I moved from raucous Romford to the serenity of Sevenoaks – aka God’s Waiting Room – and instead of threatening-looking clowns rattling the letterbox in need of a Haribo fix, the spookiest activity I now see on my quiet village street at Halloween is a single skeletal pensioner lit up Scream-style by a neon street light, whilst taking his scrawny Yorkie for an evening stroll.

Although I love my safe and peaceful Kent haven, the sorrowful sight of just the odd lonely old soul shuffling past the house is somehow more affecting than the boisterous Essex dramas I’m used to. It reminds me of the marching of time, the need to embrace every opportunity for fun while I still can; I too may be cutting a frail and lonesome figure in years to come.

Thus I throw myself wholeheartedly into everything I do; any opportunity for fun and frolics must be grabbed with both (increasingly gnarly) hands. So when a friend drew my attention to the Twisted Toys Tea Party, I was all over it. With the event blurb promising immersive theatre by Zebedee Productions, a three-course feast by Nanny Bill’s and general ghoulish toy-themed antics it sounded right up my (dark, deserted) alley. I set about preparing my outfit immediately…

Saturday 29th October soon ticks around (there’s that pesky thing called ‘time’ whizzing by again), and suddenly I find myself strutting down Bromley High St in broad daylight wearing full fancy-dress, complete with gothic toy dolls strung round my neck and towering Victorian-style lace-up stiletto boots, having hurriedly got ready at work in a flurry of false lashes and face-paint; huge clouds of talc and glitter billowing from my office as I set about the serious business of getting into character as a possessed china doll. It seems to have the desired effect as I’m aware of heads turning, my gawping fellow passengers ogling open-mouthed on the train. Job done.

Any self-consciousness felt in Kent soon dissipates as my Disco Devil-themed boyfriend Andy and I reach the anything-goes melting pot that is central London: no-one bats an eyelid here, and we’re soon swallowed up by buzzing throngs of pimped-up party-goers.

Arriving at The Yard, an event space set back behind a gated entrance on Shoreditch’s Worship Lane, we’re suitably impressed by the queuing crowd, who have clearly gone all-out with their costumes: a snake of werewolves, zombies and blood-spattered Barbie dolls is weaving down the street, excited chatter reverberating all around. Instantly I see an old mate in the crowd and we join him, before being ushered inside…

Once over the threshold, we’re greeted by a careworn toy dog, casually lolling in a shed and generally looking creepy. We continue on and the scene is set: childhood toys are strung from the ceiling, props such as bunkbeds, a rocking horse and a big old-fashioned pram hint at what’s to come.

There are two cocktails on offer: a kermit-green gin-based number and a Barbie-pink vodka one. Tom goes for Kermit, Andy and I opt for Barbies and we select some prime seats on the long banquet-style tables at the front…

The show begins: the premise of the story being a young girl’s toys, discarded and left to rot in the attic, become mentally disturbed after years left in isolation in the dark; their once-innocent games now descending into all sorts of bloodthirsty action. Amongst them are a pair of blonde-pigtailed ragdolls, a terrifying teddy, a jack-in-the-box….as well as bitchy Barbies, a rather dashing action man and a lily-livered Ken.

The spectacle kicks off with dancing dolls and a ballerina singing on her podium – only her rendition of “come on Barbie let’s go party” has a haunting, sinister tone as she delivers it with a deep, raspy quality to her voice. It manages to be eerie and humorous at the same time, as she bickers with the jack-in-the-box, hinting at the discord between the toys and the all-out war that’s to follow.

The soundtrack to the high-energy show succeeds in getting the crowd fired up: I particularly enjoy the LED-lit hula-hooping extravaganza played out to the beat of Lee Walker and DJ Deeon’s ‘Freak Like Me.’

Between each act food is served on wooden platters by toy soldiers; pumpkin and cheddar croquettes with chilli jam to start, followed by cola-glazed salt beef and buffalo chicken wings served with steamed greens and mac and cheese. The sharing element makes for a sociable environment, and everyone’s chatting animatedly with their table-buddies as the delicious food is passed around.

The conversation is flowing and the cocktails are slipping down nicely as the show continues. Next up, we meet the Bitchy Barbies – a pair of fabulously camp drag queens and a bestockinged bubble-haired blonde, who cavort around the set to the sounds of Britney Spears’ Toxic, nonchalantly flipping their hair and generally working it. The costumes are suitably glam: the rhinestone-encrusted nude bodysuit is particularly impressive, although I doubt I could wear it quite as well as the lithe young guy who’s inside it…

The show picks up pace as it builds towards the impending toy war, the effeminate Ken doll offset by a fit Dan Bilzerian-esque action man, who vows to lead the battle with the Barbies, toy gun in hand.

Dessert is a marshmallow platter in collaboration with The Marshmallowist, served alongside cookies, chocolate curls and a little oil lamp for diners to toast the caramelised apple and pecan mallows themselves, which is a nice touch.

There’s a sexy scene with a pair of pigtailed ragdolls, one of whom gets left on the lawn and mangled by the mower. Consumed by jealousy of her still-beautiful twin, she sets out to maim her. The scene takes on a sexual twist as they shrug off their petticoats before making up with a lingering, lingerie-clad kiss – entirely gratuitous but it adds a certain extra frisson of excitement to the already-sizzling show.

The performance reaches it’s climax with the battle of the toys versus barbies – a rampaging riot of gory violence (well, as gory and violent as you can get with water pistols), played out to a blaring backdrop of The Prodigy’s ‘Smack My Bitch Up.’

With the crowd whipped up into a frenzy by the theatrical feast, high on sugar from the cocktails and dessert, we burn off some energy with a spot of hands-in-the-air booty-shaking to some classic house anthems spun by the dj, before heading out into the crisp autumn air, broad smiles spread across our painted faces, our desire for a memorable Halloween suitably satiated for another year…

Follow Zebedee productions on Facebook or Twitter to be kept informed of upcoming events.

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Halloween High Jinks At The Twisted Toys Tea Party appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

I’m no stranger to those NHS letters dropping onto my mat; over the years I’ve had more than my fair share of “invitations for cervical screening.” Not the most popular of invites, admittedly; I’d much rather it was a wedding invitation – or at least a birthday party. But cervical screening, or  the ‘smear test‘ as it’s otherwise known, is a necessary procedure. There’s not that much I take seriously in life; I’m a fun-loving kinda gal with a strong sense of humour, but I know that medical investigations are to be ignored at your peril – and I never have.Despite my diligence in attending these appointments I had stage 3 CIN and subsequent treatment around 16 years ago, when I was 24 years old. I went on to develop an infection which saw me later have a partial hysterectomy and 3 failed cycles of IVF. It’s taken time to accept that I will never be a mother. But do I regret attending the screening that diagnosed the pre-cancerous cells in the first place? Of course not. Had I not attended and simply carried on with my life in blissful ignorance, there’s a high likelihood I wouldn’t be here now. I had no symptoms, and the chances are that by the time I did, the cancer would have been fully established and may even have spread to the surrounding organs.I have a filing cabinet stuffed full of correspondence relating to my ongoing treatment: the six-monthly screens and colposcopies…gradually moving to annual check-ups and eventually three-yearly smears. Occasionally I’d have an abnormal result again and need closer monitoring, but I’ve never had to have more cells removed; since my loop cone biopsy, they’ve returned to normal by themselves. As you can imagine, 16 years’ worth of such treatment has resulted in quite a lot of paperwork.

So when my latest invitation arrived a few days ago I knew instantly what it was and tore it open eagerly (which may sound surprising, but no checks for three years has left me feeling anxious – like walking a tightrope between skyscrapers without a safety net).

Since I know the wording of these letters off by heart, I instantly saw the difference. My heart sank. Instead of being told clearly that my cervical screening test is due being (politely but encouragingly) asked to attend and given the telephone number to call, the new version of the letter takes an altogether more casual tone: Your choice. It’s upto you whether or not to have cervical screening.

Wait, what?! No encouragement, no advice? The new letter has also been made completely impersonal with no signatory, no date of last smear or due date (as there was on the bottom of my 2012 letter) – not even a mention of the telephone number you need to call to make your appointment…

 

Over the years I’ve been vocal in my support of the screening. In recent months I have written about my experience on my blog (which got over 6k hits in the first week), had the article published on the front page of Huffington Post UK, and campaigned via social media to encourage women to attend. My campaigning has been picked up by several cervical cancer and gynae charities and women’s health groups.

I recently attended an event organised by The Eve Appeal during Gynae Cancer Awareness Month. It’s common knowledge that attendance rates for screening are in decline, yet not once has anyone mentioned this change in the way women are invited for testing as a possible contributory factor. I had no idea the letter had changed until I received my own a few days ago.

I’m all for freedom of choice, but during my campaigning I’ve discovered that most women know very little about their own bodies, cervical cancer causes and symptoms – or even how important the screening really is. Even some of my own friends – intelligent 40-something mothers who have witnessed my own traumatic experiences first-hand – admitted to me that they were clueless until they read my article. It seems that women are not attending mainly due to fear, ignorance or embarrassment:

Amending the letter in this way to dilute the message and imply that it’s something that you can simply decide to ignore if you like, is at best irresponsible and at worst, negligent. We should be encouraging women to attend more, not less.

I intend to take this further. I need to find out why the wording has been changed at a time when diagnoses are up and attendance down. If the answer is not satisfactory, I will campaign to have the wording amended. The government may be willing to accept these women’s deaths, the hundreds of heartbroken families left in their wake…but I’m not.

And to the 3.7million women in the UK who haven’t attended their smear appointment in the last 5 years: do you really want to be next?

This article has also appeared in The Huffington Post UK.

Please SIGN MY PETITION to get the cervical screening letter amended and support my #AtYourCervix campaign…

The post Cancer Isn’t Soft, So Why Is This New Approach? appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

When you look in the mirror, what do you see?A wrinkle…an imperfect nose…a fresh blemish on your chin? In this age of air-brushed perfection and cleverly-filtered social media, it’s easy to be self-critical; to compare your looks, wealth, success – your life – to that of others.But what if you looked in the mirror and saw a paralysed woman in a wheelchair gazing back at you. Would you still focus on that spot on your chin…or the fact that you can no longer stand up and walk?

Loredana Longo

This is the reality for the 2.5m people around the world living with a Spinal Cord Injury; those who were going about their business when disaster struck. In a split second their lives altered forever. But wait. Does it have to be forever?

Surgeons have managed to get a man with SCI walking again using  stem-cell therapy, but there is still a long way to go. More funding and research are needed if any of these patients are to have a hope of standing on their own two feet again.

One group of women who are only too aware of this predicament are The Cure Girls: a cluster of seven feisty young females from around the world, thrown together by a cruel twist of fate – and united in their determination to overcome it. The girls met online six years ago, and two years later The Cure Girls was born, the brainchild of Italian Loredana.

These were ordinary women just like you and me, whose everyday concerns were once superficial too. Only now they are forced to live extraordinary lives. One day, each girl suffered a tragic accident resulting in a spinal cord injury which instantly changed her life, including my good friend Lorraine (Lolly) Mack, whose story I’ve already written about on my blog and which appeared recently in HuffPostUK.

Suddenly, those little physical imperfections that used to be important just don’t matter as much anymore. Now these girls have bigger concerns to occupy their minds – like finding a cure for the paralysis that dominates their lives, which would mean they could then get back to sweating the small stuff, just as they did when they were able-bodied. These girls would love to look in the mirror and see only a wrinkle or a spot…because that would mean they were cured, their reflections no longer dominated by the hard lines of a metal wheelchair.

Each Cure Girl has found herself sitting in this chair through no fault of her own – tragedy cutting her down in her prime. She’s experienced the full spectrum of human emotions: shock, anger, despair, grief, frustration. Yet there is one emotion they all refuse to feel: defeat. They refuse to just passively accept their circumstances and give up on their dream to walk once more.

These girls have been to the brink, pushed to the very limits of human endurance…and have made the conscious decision to come out fighting. They may be in wheelchairs, but there’s nothing wrong with their voices. And these voices will shout until they are hoarse in order to make themselves heard. They are shouting for awareness, for funding, for research, for a CURE. It may sound like a miracle: to make the paralysed walk again. But surgeons work miracles every day, transplanting hearts, lungs – faces even. Due to the wonders of technology Stephen Hawking can ‘speak’ using a muscle in his cheek.

Taking pride in your appearance is something most of us do instinctively, but it becomes a feat in itself when you cannot move from the neck down. However, don’t be fooled by the girls’ outward glamour. These pictures were taken on a recent photoshoot at The Hospital Club in London, since some of The Cure Girls were in the city for a series of important meetings and to get an update on the research news (the girls donated €70k last year to the cause).

These stunning pictures, shot by photographer Michelle George (make-up by Lauren Kay) illustrate their vitality; their feisty, vibrant characters. These are young women who want – who deserve – a cure. Yet while they enjoy dressing up and wearing make-up like any woman, they refuse to sugar-coat their injuries. The photoshoot is a useful vehicle for highlighting their plight and raising awareness, but they are careful not to gloss over the reality: they are in constant pain.

Whilst attention-grabbing images are vital, it’s important that people understand their daily struggles, otherwise they may not understand the urgency of a need for a cure; instead wrongly assuming that they are coping just fine as they are.

Each girl’s list of everyday ailments is extensive: chronic neuropathic pain to bladder infections, pressure sores to osteoporosis. Unsurprisingly, there are challenges to mental health too, with a high incidence of depression and suicide amongst SCI sufferers – meaning that the girls have also lost many friends along the way. Then of course there are the practical issues: complete loss of independence, the cost of medical equipment; whole teams of round-the-clock carers.

The Cure Girls work every day towards their mission, relentless in their endeavours to raise awareness; tirelessly fundraising through various initiatives such as sponsored FES-bike cycles, the annual Wings For Life World Run – even a skydive in Lorraine’s case. They use blogging, newspaper and magazine articles as well as social media to highlight the cause. They will never give up.

So next time you peer into the mirror at the dark circles under your eyes with a sigh, spare a thought for these girls. They don’t want your pity, they just want to walk again. With our support one day they too will be able to stand up and look in the mirror…

Donate here

BLOG: www.curegirls.wordpress.com

E-MAIL: curegirls@gmail.com

FACEBOOK: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Cure-Girls-On-a-Mission-To-Reverse-Paralysis/153526494802101

TWITTER: CureGirls1

INSTAGRAM: curegirls

Arcangela’s story: “I had a car accident when I was 32 years old. After my spinal cord injury which left me paraplegic it’s forced me to live a life whereby I cannot do a lot of thing that I would be able to if I was walking. I work daily with the Cure Girls and have visited labs here in Italy. I help raise money for Marina’s charity and my Friends help us a lot too.”

Loredana’s story: “I was only 17 years old when I was involved in a car accident with my family which left me paraplegic. I am an active person with an extremely busy life, a graduate, I have a full time job and am politically engaged but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life confined to a wheelchair so I decided to create the Cure Girls blog. I work very hard on a daily basis with the Cure Girls and I spend a lot of time raising awareness and fundraising so that it gets donated directly to research initiatives that focus on curing chronic spinal cord injury.”

Lorraine’s Story: “In 2004 during a night out with friends an incident occurred which transformed my life. Suddenly I was lying on the floor of a nightclub totally paralysed. I knew that something was terribly wrong when all I could do was blink, my friends were telling me to get up but I couldn’t. Paramedics arrived and took me to hospital where I had emergency surgery. After a six hour operation I was told by doctors that my spinal cord was damaged ie compressed. What followed was ten months of rehabilitation in a spinal unit miles away from my home. During this time my family and I decided to fight this situation all the way and do everything we can for me to walk again. Since returning home I still work very hard to maintain my fitness, working with my physio five times per week. I retain my passion for the same things I had pre-injury namely travelling, fashion, music and glamour modelling and have taken part in a skydive, sponsored cycles and Wings For Life alongside my fellow Cure Girls.”

Marina’s story: “At present I’m a student of psychology at the University of Bologna but at time of my injury I was a professional cyclist and had a promising career in Italian cycling. In June, 2010 I had a very serious accident during my cycling training when a car cut me up making me come crashing off my cycle. Since that terrible day my life has changed radically. I was taken to hospital with very serious conditions then went into a coma, I came out of the coma on June the 9th which was my 22nd birthday. Since that day I’ve been paralysed from the waist down and confined to a wheelchair, because of a spinal cord injury. In spite of the many difficulties I face and the obstacles that a paralysed person has to face on a daily basis that doesn’t make me lose the will to fight in order to have my healthy, active life back. During the long period spent in hospitals and rehabilitation centres, which is still going on, I really discovered the pain of human cases that are even more dramatic and awful than mine. It is for this reason that with my family and closest friends I set up the non-profit Marina Romoli Onlus with the aim to support research into therapies able to cure spinal cord injuries, but also helps people under 30 under who have been involved in sports and have been victims of road accidents. We help them financially in order to help them pay the very expensive costs of therapies and rehabilitation. My charity has raised over 200.000€.”

Barbara’s story: “I was 11 in 1987 when a fall from a swing left me paralysed from the shoulders down. I sustained a cervical spinal cord injury at C4-C5. I am totally dependent for all the activities of daily living, I can experience some autonomy in using my power wheelchair just because I guide it pushing a little button with my chin, and when I use my computer with a voice control programme or writing with a stick in my mouth. I support research, making donations to various charities and work everyday with my fellow Cure Girls. I participated in the last two Wings for Life World Run. A cure for me would mean no more fear about my future because just recovering the use of my arms and hands is all I need… after 29 years of tetraplegia I think this is a fair wish.”

Sabrina’s story: “I was 28 years old and so fit and healthy when I sustained a C4/5 spinal cord injury when I fell to the ground whilst doing a simulated air surf on the beach. It’s a kind of like a huge swing. My life completely changed, paralysed from the shoulders down and having to rely on 24 hour care. I went from being a beach loving, surfer girl who loved martial arts, running and was also a really good cook now confined to a wheelchair and fighting for a cure! I work on a daily basis with my Cure Girl sisters as we all have the same passion to become independent and also walk again. I have organised fundraising events in Porto Alegre, Brazil and take part in the Wings for Life World Run along with my sister and lots of my friends & family.I’ve also appeared on TV and newspapers here in Brazil to raise awareness and spread the message that there is an urgency for a cure for paralysis.”

Rebecca’s story: “I was 22 when I had a riding accident during a polo match. I am injured at T12, L1 & L2. For many years I was very lonely. My twin sister had her life and watching her do all the things we were both supposed to be doing was hard.I have had quite a few health problems around bladder and medications. I suffer badly from nerve pain. I am married now and we have a 9 year old son. That was a very difficult time. I work tirelessly to raise awareness along with the girls. Taking part in the wings for life run and have a hand bike push coming up next year, health-permitting.To have a cure would be like being given a miracle. To be able to go on the beach with my son and I’d marry my husband again – but standing up this time.”

The post Reflecting on Paralysis: The Cure Girls appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.