A question of sense

This past week for me has been both challenging and exhilarating, and I've approached my activities with apprehension, albeit with a side order or two of excitement thrown in for good measure!

The majority of us are blessed but most of the time we have no idea just how blessed we are.  I'm one of those people, or I was before last weekend.  We take the most wonderful things for granted and we haven't the faintest clue that were doing it.

The feel of a partner's fingers delightfully lightly brushing over our skin, making us wriggle and giggle.

The scent of the first lawn of summer being cut, bringing with it the promise of sunkissed faces and happy trips out with family and friends.

The first ever taste of our favourite meal, the first of many to come and each time you think it can't get better than this.

The sight of our children, nieces, nephews and grandchildren running towards us with open arms before launching themselves at us for the tightest, squeeziest hugs.

The sound of laughter; big, hearty, infectious laughter that makes you involuntarily join in just because.

These are such precious moments, and there are so many more to be had in the course of just a day.  Can you imagine how many of these moments fill a lifetime?

The moment I learned of a restaurant in London called 'Dans Le Noir?' I wanted to visit, and last week I had the privilege of going with my brother for our birthday. The restaurant is unique (as far as I'm aware, anyway) in that it not only provides employment opportunities for blind people in a profession they may never have had the chance to try otherwise, but a percentage of the profits is donated to blind charities.

So how can blind people be waiters and waitresses?  Well, when you remove all light from the dining area you'll start to understand.  And when I say all light I mean exactly that. Not even a pin prick is visible.  Not one.  The waiting staff are much more than that, too.  They're also our 'eyes' from the second we place our trust in them to the moment we step back into the light after dining.  We're led like a human train to our seats where we fumble our way onto our chairs, and we take the opportunity to feel our way around the table to be sure where everything is before our first course arrives.  Our bottle of water is full and sealed and an empty glass sits beside it; we're expected to help ourselves as best we can, and in this tiny (safely seated) area we begin to slowly find our bearings.

Although we get to choose the type of food we eat we're not allowed to know more until it's placed in front of us and we begin eating.  When the food is there in front of us a careful, methodical investigation of our plates begins, for the most part with our fingers.  It's pitch black and we have knives and forks with which to eat our meal, but how?  Really, how are we supposed to do this if we're not sure what the food is or where it is?  When we first shuffled into the restaurant, I listened.  I was trying to gauge how many people were there and to hopefully figure out the size of the room, and while I listened I could hear the unmistakable sound of knives and forks on crockery, just like any other restaurant.  When it came down to it, however, I relented and placed the knife back on the table.  I ate the rest of my three courses with a fork or spoon and my fingers, because if I hadn't done that I'd still be sat there now,  five days later, chasing cold food around my plate and raising an empty fork to my lips!

It's incredibly easy to laugh and joke our way through a meal such as this.  We're like children again, trying to figure out the mechanics of doing such a simple thing as eat a meal, and failing miserably (at first, anyway), dropping food or worse, not getting any into our mouths at all.  Even something as simple as trying my brother's cocktail was a task.  We talked each other through it and successfully passed the glass back and forth between us without spilling a drop, which at the beginning of the evening was quite an achievement.  Completing the whole meal with only three tiny drops of raspberry juice on my top was a huge achievement.  This restaurant could make a fortune in adult sized bibs!

But regardless of the jokes, the flipping of v's at each other, the little face slaps here and there, it's impossible to ignore the lessons such a restaurant provides.  For a couple of hours we had a tiny taste of what it's like to be blind, but we're lucky because after being guided back into the light at the end of the meal, we get to see it.  Our sight returns and normality resumes; selfies, unguided trips to the bathroom, seeing smiles on the faces around us.  Everything returns to normal and we gradually forget the enormity of losing our sight.  But this was a night out, an experience and to some degree entertainment.  It was a test of our palates and concentration.  It was temporary.

During our evening we sat beside a couple called Lars and Marta, and towards the end of the meal Lars suddenly spoke to us. "Hello neighbours!".  It was his girlfriend's birthday and he wanted to sing Happy Birthday to her, but he didn't want to sing alone.  So he asked whether we would sing too, then maybe other people would join us.  We happily obliged, possibly because it was dark, but more likely because we'd been drinking just a little!  I was disappointed to realise that no one else sang.  I suppose being invisible doesn't change everyone's propensity to step further outside their comfort zone and sing just because it's a nice thing to do for someone else.  But it wasn't until after Lars and Marta left that I realised that had we been sat in a 'normal' restaurant he may never have even spoken to us.  As it was we had a lovely little conversation that was entirely unexpected.  I don't think I'll ever forget that friendly Scandinavian accent suddenly saying, "Hello neighbours!".

We have experiences such as this and in the moment we take the lessons to heart, but it doesn't take long to return to our version of normality.  But then there are further lessons to be learned.

A few days later I sat in a room with people of varying ages, abilities and knowledge, and I once again allowed myself to be re-educated.

Red Dreams is a charity in Hartlepool that was set up to "...support young people between the ages of 11 and 19, and offers mentoring and coaching for Bands, Singers, Songwriters, Actors, Musicians, Artists, Writers, Film Makers, Editors (Film and Sound) and many more."

Red Dreams also tells us that they have "...a very basic ethos of ’Confidence Through Creativity’; however this is underpinned by a number of values, including dedication, respect, focus, determination and support.  Red Dreams not only looks to support young people in their creative endeavours, but also offers to mentor them individually, allowing them to grow in self-esteem, self-confidence and self-belief; always instilling humility within an individual, and always going back to our core values."  You can find them here http://reddreams.org.uk 

Red Dreams had set up workshops that would bring together the deaf and hearing communities in order to produce a singing and signing performance on the third day, interspersed with silent comedy from a wonderful drama group, rapping and signing from some real talent, and songs from the kinds of voices that just make you stop, listen and in some cases ball your eyes out!

For me the two days of workshops were what it was all about, not the performance.  Perhaps it's because I'm so focussed on learning and understanding and the processes that helped us to do that, rather than the end result.

A lovely friend, Colleen, who is also a member of Stockton Town Choir was the person who alerted me to the workshops, and the moment I saw them I knew I wanted to attend and help in whatever tiny way was possible.

Now, I've always been someone who tries to understand and appreciate that everyone has their own struggles, varying abilities and different life experiences, and I try to consider these when I'm spending time with them.  I've known Colleen for around eighteen months and it took a few weeks for me to find out that she's deaf, but once I did, I endeavoured to make sure I wasn't one of the problems she would have to face, or an obstacle in her enjoyment of our time spent together.  I think it's fair to say that I didn't (and don't) always get it right.  I have no doubt that frustrations still creep in when I, and others, forget for a moment or longer that we're not all the same, and that social interaction involves more than talking over each other in order to be heard.

The workshops for Sing & Sign were more than a simple exercise in learning some sign language for the performance.  What Colleen and Simon, a young member of the Red Dreams team who is also deaf, did was teach the group a little of the struggles and frustrations deaf people face every day.  We had very frank discussions that gave us all a much deeper understanding of the lovely people sat in front of us, and I found myself in awe of my friend.

But we didn't just discuss what it means for Colleen and Simon to be deaf, we were given ear plugs and encouraged to take part in a couple of exercises.  One challenged us to do a lip reading version of Chinese whispers, to see what we could actually understand and how we communicated with each other without the benefit of sound.  In another exercise we were asked to try to follow a group discussion, with barriers to our understanding forced upon us purposely to demonstrate a point.  We were encouraged to discuss how we felt when trying to understand what was happening around us, and I think it's fair to say we were surprised at just how alone we suddenly felt within a group discussion.  It could so easily have been a few friends sat in a coffee shop, but the difficulties would remain the same.

Having worn the ear plugs for only a minute or two, I became very aware that I didn't want to speak.  It was a realisation that only came to me afterwards, but when anyone asked me a question I answered with hand gestures. Are you okay was answered with a thumbs up and a smile through tightly sealed lips.  I responded to can you hear anything with a gesture with my fingers to suggest a tiny bit, much like my youngest niece does.  My facial expressions also became more animated, and it was all because I could barely hear anything.  One person in particular could understand so little that she visibly switched off.  She sat staring at her shoes having given up trying to hear any of the conversation.

To say I had my eyes opened is an understatement.  Yes, I've always tried to be considerate when spending time with Colleen.  I've lost count of the number of times I've fought with my natural instinct to sit with my hand at my mouth while talking, which on reflection I suspect is one of my comfort/reassurance habits (I can't hide behind my hair since I had it all cut off!).  I believe that to understand another person's daily challenges, to take them on board and to adjust the way we interact, is to also have a deeper understanding of ourselves and our place in the universe, and that can never be a bad thing.

But of course there was also lots of practical learning, we had songs to learn after all.  I can now sign the alphabet, introduce myself (and with my own sign name, too), I can sign the whole of the song Proud by Heather Small and the chorus of All Of Me by John Legend, and I'm using various resources to learn more.  Why?  Because although I already knew it for a while but didn't have the wherewithal to do something about it before now, I'd love to be able to communicate better with my friend, to have her feel more included in those lonely moments of group outings when so many people are talking that no one can actually be heard, to be able to communicate across a crowded room at a party, and to know her better.  I do admit that it also feeds my need to learn!  I always want to learn.

I've gained so much from my dining experience at Dans Le Noir and the workshops at Red Dreams.  I understand more, think more, and have better self awareness as well as more consideration for others.

I'd like to finish with some things that I will always endeavour to do when in the company of someone who's deaf.  I have no doubt they could offer more suggestions, too.

I will try to keep my face in your eyeline whether I'm speaking or not.  I will keep my fingers away from my mouth unless I'm signing.  I will focus on you when you're speaking, and not keep glancing around the room.  I will touch your arm to get your attention if you're close enough, or wave my hand if you're not, instead of hoping you can hear me say your name.  In those moments when I see the unmistakable fleeting frustration on your face and before you retreat into your own world, I'll include you in the conversation, even if it's only something silly between the two of us.  I'll suggest meeting places without huge, noisy crowds and blaring music.  And I'll encourage you to tell me if I act in a way that makes you feel excluded, or simply not considered.

I know I have a lot to learn. Who doesn't?  But in the last week I've learnt more about others and myself than I could have imagined, and all because of a nice meal and some singing.

1245 Sunflowers

This is a post I didn't intend to write. I felt as though the 1245 Sunflowers event was strangely private despite being a community event.  I can't explain why.

What began as one person's idea to remember each of the 1245 WW1 soldiers from Stockton who didn't return home, guerrilla gardening a sunflower for each man on his own, morphed over time with another person's input into a huge community event that will never be forgotten by all involved and all in attendance.

By now, certainly in and around Teesside, we all know Mike McGrother's grand ideas come to life on scales we never expect (but really should by now!), and in fact they often seem to take on lives of their own. But without the seed of an idea that came from his brother, Kevin, I suspect the sunflowers would never have seen the light of day.  To say it was a seed of an idea almost suggests it's insignificant, tiny, limited.  It wasn't.  I certainly don't intend to play that down. Look at the world around you and consider what magnificent things grow from tiny seeds.  They're the hearts of what stand tall in front of you, but seeds need feeding to become big and strong.

Together, Kevin and Mike, and no doubt countless people behind the scenes whose names we may never know, worked together on this labour of love to create a community event to be proud of.  They brought together pockets of the community to grow sunflowers for each of the fallen soldiers, each with its own name tag.  People in schools, churches and individuals took the idea into their hearts and they became the largest part of the event.  Without the sunflowers being grown, without people researching their soliders' names and learning about their lives and those they left behind, without people cutting down the sunflowers in their prime and bringing them to Stockton Parish Church, the huge heart that became this event would have been lost.

It took about a year to bring this all together.  From long before the launch event held at the then empty Paparazzo, where the fabulous students of Matty's Bistro cooked a wonderful three course meal and the diners were treated to great music from Andy Johnson, a couple of Wildcats and a third (big apologies but his name escapes me) fantastic musician.  Even back then the community pulled together and volunteered their time to make sure the restaurant was up to dining standard.

The scale of this event was explained to us.  As part of Stockton Town Choir we were privileged to be a small part of it and we knew what was to come, on paper at least.  But when I arrived on Saturday 02 August I was stunned.  The scale of the arrangement, of where people would place their sunflowers (and already had) and the care and attention it clearly received momentarily took my breath away.  This was the moment I felt the heart in the event.  This was one moment amongst many to come over the next few days that left me speechless.  The photographs simply don't do it justice.

During the time I spent at Stockton Parish Gardens I was so impressed by the young people who had given their time to help.  They'd spent the previous couple of weeks researching some of the soldiers, visiting some of their graves, learning their stories and trying to understand what happened and what they went through 100 years ago.  By the time the event started on the Saturday I could see how much they cared.  They talked with people who brought sunflowers, learnt the stories they'd learnt themselves, they helped them place their sunflowers, they told the story of Thomas Hughes, they encouraged people to sign a book of remembrance, and throughout they did it willingly with kindness, humour and respect.  This is a generation we can be proud to watch grow, and I know there are people who worked with them over those couple of weeks who are proud to have been with them on their journey.

It was unfortunate that I couldn't attend the Gardens on Monday 04 August.  I know from all accounts, photographs and videos that it was incredibly moving; a fitting tribute to the 1245.  I know the rich, powerful voices of Infant Hercules caused many a tear to be shed.  They were the voices of the men who are no longer with us, and they sang beautifully.  The names of the 1245 being projected onto the side of the church, and each name being read out from 11pm that night from the beginning of the 1245 minute vigil, I know was both humbling and upsetting.  The number of volunteers who gave their time to be part of the vigil, to make sure those sunflowers, our soldiers, wouldn't be alone was so touching.  The letters written to Thomas Hughes by school children across Stockton were heartbreaking.

And still there was another part of the event to come.

Tuesday 05 August saw the final goodbye to our soldiers.  Even more sunflowers had arrived, more tributes to their memories.  We had a cheery and good old fashioned sing song with Daisy, Pack Up Your Troubles and It's a Long Way to Tipperary.  But then Infant Hercules once again sang, along with the lovely voice of Matty Chipchase, and made us cry with beautiful, heartfelt words as we held our candles (and kept relighting candles between each other as the wind unkindly extinguished them, in itself a touching act).  And then came the last post...

I've seen some people comment unkindly about the televised remembrance services and memorials of the 100th anniversary of WW1.  I've seen people suggest they were contrived, that they were done for the sake of appearances as though it's something we should do rather than something we want to do.  Perhaps the distance of those events caused a loss in translation of the importance that so many valued.  Watching on TV, being so far removed, can cause an apathy in some.  Maybe others simply don't believe it should be remembered in such ways.  I'm sure there are many who refused to watch or attend because they just don't believe in war, that it should be remembered in such ways, as though they feel it's celebrated.  Each is entitled to their opinion and I wouldn't think of criticising anyone for it.  But for me this was important, it was as much about bringing together our community and making people understand how important each other is here and now, as it was about giving thanks to those who didn't return from war all those years ago.

On Tuesday, instead of heading off to the pub after the event had finished, I sat on a bench in the Gardens.  Gradually people dispersed and a calmness fell (despite people clearing the ground and tidying up).  I had no specific thoughts as I sat there, I just sat.  I listened.  I watched.  I closed my eyes and felt the breeze on my face. I cried silently both for the lives we all remembered throughout the event, and for a life I remembered and miss every day.  I'm crying now as I write.

The 1245 Sunflowers event was something to be incredibly proud of, and I took away with me a deep respect for what so many people are working towards within Teesside; a community that cares, that works together, that helps and respects each other; a side that many people either can't or don't want to see.

There were pledge cards there throughout the four days.  I pledged one thing and I'm telling you now so you can kick me if at any time I forget...

I pledge to talk less about helping people, and do more to actually help.

Stockton's 1245 were remembered with respect, love and admiration, and I'm so proud to have been involved in even the tiniest of ways.  I'm even more proud of the community that I see growing in front of me and the strength they give to each other.  Stockton has a huge heart and isn't afraid to show it.

I love the North East, me!

This post and the events behind my writing it come at an interesting time; The Guardian has compared the north east of England to Detroit, the article making derogatory remarks about the area and publishing unflattering photographs.  It’s incredibly easy for anyone not living here to take what’s printed in black and white by people who often haven’t been further north than Birmingham, as gospel.  So many folks out there blindly trust the words of reporters.  They often instinctively choose the newspaper they read every day based on the matching political and moral views of the world.  Most won’t even realise why they’ve chosen the newspaper they have.  Some may even just buy it because, “It’s what my parents read every day”.  How many years has my dad been reading the Daily Express?  To my knowledge he doesn’t even pick up another newspaper unless there’s no alternative, and the only times I’ve seen a variety in his home is when people come to stay and they’ve bought them themselves.

 

It’s a sad state of affairs when people around the world (thanks to the internet) are being told that not only is the North East dilapidated, but its residents are personifying this very state.  I keep hearing that we’re sad and depressed, we’ve given up and we don’t care anymore.  Why should we give a toss if no one else does?

 

Having read the article numerous times while trying not to hunt down the reporter and kick him… hard… I find it difficult to comprehend that the North East is viewed as such a bleak, uninspiring, downright depressing area.  I’ll admit that there are areas that are lacking support, that we often appear to be overlooked for funding and that businesses have closed regardless of which town you focus on, but this is not only what the North East is; it’s also people, love, spirit and passion.

 

There are some quotes within the article that made my blood boil and although I want to address a few of them, this blog post isn’t about picking apart the Guardian article piece by piece.  Plenty of other people have done that already and much more eloquently that I ever could.  But there are some points I feel so strongly about that I can’t ignore them.

 

"It is time to stop pretending that there is a bright future for Sunderland."

Or anywhere, I suppose?  Things start to get tough and we give up?  Really?  That’s the attitude that rebuilt Britain after two World Wars?  The day we give up trying to provide a bright future for our town, cities and the generations to come is a day I hope never happens, and my experience is that we fight harder, we work together and we find the solutions.

 

Of Middlesbrough, "To a visitor, the long, straight streets of the town centre seem eerily empty of pedestrians."

Which Middlesbrough did he visit, I wonder?  Each time I go into Middlesbrough Town Centre the streets are packed with shoppers, and no that’s not only on a Saturday.

 

Harry Pearson commented on, amongst many other things, "...the emptiness of the North York Moors"

Emptiness?  Well no it’s not exactly filled with buildings and bustling crowds otherwise it wouldn’t be the moors!  But it is a stunning natural landscape that offers a peaceful break from the stressful working day and I wouldn’t ever want to be without its splendour.

 

Alex Niven "...it seems absurd to think that Middlesbrough does not have a long-term future.”

It seems absurd to me that anyone would think that Middlesbrough is a dying town.  I live here.  It may not be the most beautiful of places to live, but it’s far from being on its knees and it has many redeeming features.  Open your eyes.

 

Tony Trapp "Persuading clever people from the south to come here is quite hard."

Okay, the gloves are off.  Clever people live in the north east, too.  Clever people are not limited to having grown up and educated in the south of England.  Clever people are everywhere, but those clever people don’t always have degrees and tens of thousands of pounds of student debt.  Some do, and those clever people live in the North East too.    But so many clever people are too often overlooked because they don’t have pieces of paper to prove they’re clever.  Because god forbid a clever person has a northern accent and hasn’t dared to attempt to move to London.

 

Alex Niven: "There is this sort of sadness. It feels like a people who've been weakened, who've just been cut loose." And "The north-east has a brash, confident side. There's also often a sense of slumbering potential, that one day a messiah or a revival will come."

I don’t feel sad about the area.  I feel optimistic about its future because I opened my eyes to the people who are working hard to make things better.  Everywhere I look there are dedicated people giving young people new opportunities, helping independent businesses to open and stay open, supporting charities with their valuable time, and there are positive changes in the landscape and business in the area.  The ‘messiahs’ are already here, they just don’t stand at a podium in overpriced suits making promises they can’t keep.  They toil away making as little noise as possible, and before you realise it something good is happening and you’re reminded once again of how wonderful the North East and its residents are.

 

Now… okay, that’s out of the way I’d like to focus more specifically on this sadness and weakening we’re reported to be suffering from, and I’d like to set the record straight in a very specific way.

 

On Monday evening I attended a public meeting to ‘Save the Regent Cinema’ in Redcar.  Having never been to such a meeting I was a little tentative.  I didn’t know the whole story behind its history or even what the most recent developments were.  All I knew for sure was that the person who runs it, Neil, was struggling, and that for the last few years the building itself looked like it was about to be knocked down or washed away with the tide.  He needed some help.

 

There were some misunderstandings to iron out in the beginning, although one particular councillor was adamant he would repeatedly get his point across about not demolishing the cinema, whilst coming across arrogant and inflammatory throughout almost the whole hour.  To me he unfortunately epitomised the clichéd councillor until the very end of the meeting, when he did finally apologise for his manner to some individuals.  I’m at least grateful for the fact that I witnessed one such apology, because it restored some of my faith in councillors still being human.

 

What the meeting did show me was what I already knew; that the residents are passionate about their area.  They care about the heritage and the people who tirelessly work to keep such buildings and facilities open.  There was indeed heated debate at times and it occasionally felt unnecessary, but to the individuals speaking the raised voices were born of a real passion for the building they were trying to save for future generations.  They cared.  If nothing else was obvious at that meeting, I walked away knowing that Redcar has a core of people who want their town to be nurtured and built upon, and looked after with positive direction and a gentle hand.

 

The Regent Cinema stands alone on the seafront, its façade worn and tired but that will change thanks to promises from the council to find ways to help Neil with the maintenance; a more flexible contract, perhaps, but definitely a new canopy.  It was encouraging to hear the councillor admit that the Regent was at the “end of the regeneration line”.  Those precise words.  For someone to finally acknowledge what we already knew, that the cinema had damn near been forgotten amongst the big plans for the seafront, was worth the trip to the meeting in itself.

 

The lovely Regent sits with the gorgeous coastline as its backdrop.  I can look at the cinema today and see its beauty and the memories that lie within it; it doesn’t need a coat of paint for me to see its value and I’m clearly not alone.  Eventually though, I have confidence that when scanning the lovely new seafront with its crisp, new seawalls, big comfy shelters, fountains for playtime and the Beacon, that one day the Regent Cinema will fit.  It will once again look comfortable amongst its new surroundings and stand proud, just as it should.

 

It’s true that a multiplex cinema is being discussed at the site of the Coatham Bowl, and yes this will pose a risk for the Regent’s future, but only if it stands still.  Many possibilities were discussed for the future of the building in the event of a multiplex cinema being built, and people clearly want to find ways to not just keep it, but to make it ‘the place to be’ in Redcar.  I sat listening to the ideas and loved the enthusiasm behind them.  People spoke of its history and importance in their upbringing, and how much the grandchildren like going to see films there.  One lady remembered tap dancing on the stage while it was still a theatre.  Did you know it originally opened as a skating rink?  And apparently Clark Gable even sold kisses there to raise money for the war effort.

 

The Regent holds a special place in many people’s hearts and their eagerness to help Neil keep it running, in whatever guise, was uplifting.  I have no doubt that if nothing else, Neil could walk away that evening knowing that he’s not alone.  He has support, some new friends, and a lot of people passing on their contact details to help in absolutely any way they can to help secure the Regent’s future.

 

My little corner of the North East is loved.  It’s truly loved.  There will always be some people who do it down, who complain that it’s not what it used to be, and these people seem to have an inane ability to ignore all the good things their town has to offer them.  I’m convinced that these same people don’t see the good because they don’t want to see it, but from what I witness day after day they’re in the minority.  And we should remember that these pockets of people who are so sad and disheartened about their lives and the area they live in can be found in every town, city and even village, regardless of their position on a map.

 

Whether I’m sat in a public meeting to help save a beautiful cinema, at Stockton Town Choir singing my heart out, walking along Redcar seafront watching the families playing or just sat on a park bench watching the world go by, I can feel how much the area is loved.  Councils are working harder to improve facilities, grants are being won to restore buildings (The Globe in Stockton being a big one), people are finding ways to help their communities, others are finding inclusive and impressive ways to remember our fallen ancestors, some are opening new, independent businesses in previously abandoned shops, and so much more.

 

And let’s not forget the wider area.  How much do I love being able to jump in the car, drive for ten minutes and be in the North Yorkshire moors or by the stunning coastline?

The North East is beautiful.  Northerners are (mostly!) friendly with a wicked sense of humour.  Yesterday I walked past a complete stranger in the warm sunshine and he boldly and brightly smiled and said, “stunning day!”  When did that last happen in London?  Don’t get me wrong, I love London; it has a huge amount to offer, but my experience is that it’s cold and impersonal.

 

I live in the North East because I love it.  I’ve lived here for all but two of my thirty-nine years.  One day I might decide I’d like to try living elsewhere, but quite honestly I can’t imagine a day when that will happen.

 

I’m surrounded by people who see our area for what it is; warm, beautiful and welcoming.  Yes, it has its struggles like anywhere else but we’re not blind to the big picture.  We are clever people who work hard to improve our environment, our lives and those of the people around us.

 

And regardless of where I stand, our big picture here in Teesside is bloody gorgeous!

 

 

366 Days of Kindness and more

He doesn’t remember it, but on one gloriously sunny day at a barbeque at dad’s, a half-cut uncle nudged me and said, “You’re a bit bloody miserable on Facebook aren’t you?!”  I sat there stunned for a second then began to defend myself.  I didn’t think I was being particularly negative; I was simply putting a few thoughts out there.  Or that’s what I believed at the time.  I read back over a few months of status updates and gradually realised with horror that he was right; I was miserable.  Almost every update was depressing.  That day I vowed to lighten the frig up!  I mean, we all have our problems, right?  We all need support and a friendly ear to listen sometimes but at some point I’d lost the joy in my life and I hadn’t even noticed it happening.

 

That day was a long time ago, probably more than two years, and even now I occasionally kick myself when I post anything that seems like self-obsessed, depressing crap.  I’m a little harsh on myself, I know, and that spans most aspects of my life.  It’s a hard habit to break after so many years.  When I mentioned this to my sister recently she suggested that I’m only human, and we all need support sometimes.  I know that posting a few updates that amount to “I feel sad” isn’t something I should feel obliged to apologise for, and yet the urge still comes over me and I can’t help myself.

 

When I first started this blog in March 2013 it was to try to counteract the increasing negativity and nastiness on the internet and in the world around me.  After my own little revelation and having finally grown accustomed to focussing more on the positive and happy things surrounding me, I grew tired of reading other people’s status updates, tweets and articles that were depressing, angry, cruel, inflammatory, gratuitous and… well just complaining for the sake of it, and too often about things that haven’t happened yet and might not even happen at all.

 

Lately I’ve realised that the blog is beginning to morph into an extended status update, and there are times that I’ve posted about things that have or are happening to me perhaps as a method of working through it.  All too often I don’t realise I feel a certain way about a problem until I write it down, and I’ve written poems, fiction, articles, reviews and streams of consciousness since I was 11 or 12 years old.  For me writing is cathartic; a valuable tool that helps me to gain perspective and find my way through problems when I either feel I don’t have someone to turn to, or don’t feel comfortable discussing whatever the heck is getting me down.

 

It’s true that when I post on the blog about such things that I try to turn it around into something positive, but it doesn’t always work.  Now I think it’s about time this H.A.P.P.Y. blog returned to its roots.  It’s time to look on the bright side again, to look for the good, the positive, the happy and sunny, the silver linings.  It’s also time to create more!

 

Months ago I booked my ticket to go see 366 Days of Kindness and I’d been looking forward to it ever since.  It’s a show about one woman who, after the London riots in 2011 vowed to do one act of kindness every day.  She wanted to make the world a nicer place and by the end of last night’s show I truly believe she has and will continue to do so.

 

Listening to her reasoning behind her decision I realised that we’re not so different.  I’ve harped on about doing random acts of kindness over the last couple of years.  It’s true that I never made the decision to do one thing every day for a stranger, and if I had a hat I’d take it off to Bernadette Russell, the lovely lady who made it her mission to brighten someone’s day every day for a year.  She has more strength and ingenuity than I, and most certainly more money considering how much she’ll have spent over that time purely on her acts of kindness!

 

I’ve never made the decision to specifically make strangers smile rather than family or friend; I only made the decision to try to make people’s lives a little nicer regardless of who they are.  I don’t have a lot of possessions and I like it that way.  I choose not to be surrounded by ‘stuff’ for the sake of it, so grand, expensive gestures just weren’t going to feel right.  I also don’t have a lot of money to burn, so at least half of the things I do for others don’t involve buying things, and when I do spend money it’s not usually much.  Here are some of my examples.

 

·         Yesterday I was in the WRVS shop where I work and I saw the fingers of Fudge on the shelf.  I instantly thought of an ex-colleague and friend who so often bought them for himself at lunchtime, so I decided to buy one and I posted it to his new workplace with a short note just to say hello, I thought of you today and wanted you to enjoy this.

 

·         Again yesterday, not at all planned, at the end of 366 Days of Kindness I wanted to buy Bernadette’s wonderful book for my nieces but didn’t have enough money.  Then I remembered that I had a little chocolate egg in my bag from earlier that day.  It was to be my treat at the end of the evening, but instead I gave it to Bernadette.  Just because.

 

·         On 20 March both this year and last (International Day of Happiness), I wrote letters or cards to family and friends to say how much they’re appreciated and loved.  Sometimes it was only a few words to remind them of their strength and courage, their capacity for spreading joy to others or to simply say, “Thank you for being you”.

 

·         Sometimes when I park the car I put some extra money in the parking meter so the next person can get free parking.

 

·         I randomly leave small treats (usually chocolate, because who doesn’t love chocolate?!) in the staff room at work with a note for someone, anyone, to take it.

 

·         When I’ve finished reading a book I enjoyed but know I’m unlikely to read again, I’ll attach a note asking someone to take it home and enjoy it, then to pass it on to someone else.  I’ll leave the book in a public place; a coffee shop, a changing room or a park bench for a random stranger to find.

 

·         Sometimes I bake cakes and pastries for people.  I’ll take them to work or choir and just leave them on a table for people to help themselves.

 

These are all small gestures aimed at simply making people’s day a little brighter, and they cost very little.  But there’s something else I do that costs nothing.  When I first made the decision it was about a shift in attitude and it took some discipline most of the time, but it became easier and easier until it’s now mostly a natural way to be.  I do still have to pinch myself occasionally as a reminder, usually when I’m having a bad day, but most of the time it’s simple…

 

Regardless of who I’m faced with; who’s serving me at a supermarket till, who’s crossing the road ahead of me, who’s sat at the next table in the coffee shop, who’s passing me in the corridor at work, who’s forgotten to say thank you when I held the door open, who’s taken the last caramel slice, who’s just nipped in and taken my parking space, who’s let the door slam in my face, who’s jumped the queue, who’s driving right up my bumper like they own the road, who’s shouting obscenities from car windows, who’s slamming doors and arguing at 2am while I’m trying to sleep… 1…. breathe… 2…. 3… 4…. breathe…

 

Sigh…

 

All of these people have their own lives and their own problems.  They have illnesses and money worries, they’re lonely or can’t find five minutes peace, they’ve just been dumped, they’ve lost a family member or a pet, they’ve fallen out with family or friends; every person we pass in the street and every person behind closed doors has their own story.  Some stories are more heart-breaking than others, but none will be free from worry and stress.

 

The person who forgot to say thank you when I held the door open might have been thinking their way through a problem at work.  The person who jumped the queue might be running late to catch a bus to go visit their partner or child in hospital.  The person shouting obscenities could be insecure and bullied into it by their ‘friends’.  The person who’s taken my parking space might be so desperate for the toilet that they’re about to make a huge puddle in their car.  The person who’s driving up my bumper like they own the road is a bully regardless of what problems they have, and I will always… ALWAYS… drive slower.  Hey, don’t judge me, we all have our limits!

 

So my decision was to remember that however I feel, the person beside me could feel worse and who am I to add to their irritations and stresses?  This is especially true when I’m at work.  I work in a hospital so the likelihood is that as many as half the people I encounter are patients or visitors, so yes their problems are certainly bigger than mine!  Instead of being grumpy I try to remember to smile, even just the hint of a smile as I walk down the corridor at work, or down to the local shops.  When I say good morning I try not to mumble and I’m as cheerful as possible.  I make the effort to smile at strangers.  I offer my seat to people who look like they need it more than me.  I do this and more not only for them, but for me too.  Being nice to someone whether a stranger or a loved one has its beneficial effects for both parties.  I always feel more positive about myself and my life when I’m more generous in thought and deed towards others.

 

Being nice is infectious.  The person who picked up the book I left behind in the coffee shop might have read it and passed it on, just as I’d hoped.  They might have even done the same with one of their own books.

 

Interestingly and unexpectedly, my life changed the moment my outlook on life and other people changed.

 

When I was posting the miserable Facebook updates I was living with my dad and digging my way out of a lot of debt.  I was unhappy and comfort eating.  I had no confidence and was always the first person to insult me.  I was (happily!) divorced but depressingly dependant on my dad.  I hid myself away in my bedroom with my computer.  I was constantly in pain with my back and increasing health problems.

 

Now I live on my own and have no debt.  I don’t even have a credit card.  I’m happy and eat (mostly) healthily.  I lost more than 6 stone, and although I did put some back on over the last year it’s starting to come off again.  I have a lot more confidence and I’m independent.  I sing in two choirs, I’ve been on TV (on purpose!) and loved the experience, I applied for the Great British Bake Off (unsuccessfully… this time!), I’ve been on stage putting my heart on the line for my dad, I embrace life with enthusiasm and push myself to try things that scare me a little.  I’m still in pain with my back but it’s nothing in comparison to what it was, and through weight loss and increased fitness I’ve significantly improved the symptoms of my other health problems.  I’m happy.

 

This isn’t meant to sound like bragging, I’m only stating facts.  I can recognise that the day I decided to make an effort to see life for the good things, to be nice to other people and see them for just people with their own stories and not label them as ‘bad’, to treat people to kind words, compliments, chocolate treats and books, was the day that I began to turn my own life around.

 

Being kind isn’t difficult.  I actually find that being kind to others is easier than being kind to me, and it’s therapeutic.

 

Sometimes I lose the way a little.  Last night while experiencing (yes, experiencing) 366 Days of Kindness I was reminded full force of all of the above, and it’s given me another little push to do more, be nicer, be more generous in my thoughts and actions and live life with positivity and energy, embrace new experiences and be open to new possibilities and people.

 

Bernadette asks whether we can change the world with kindness.  I say we can, absolutely, even if it’s only one person’s world and only for that day, I truly believe it’s worth trying.

 

Something occurred to me on my way home last night.  If the worst thing people can think to say about me is that I’m nice, I’ll be bloody ecstatic!

 

I hope you can find the time to go to Bernadette’s fab website and visit her on Twitter, I really don’t think you’ll regret it!

 

http://www.366daysofkindness.com

@betterrussell

 

 

The Power Of One

Tonight I had the privilege of going to see One, by Jaye Kearney at Stockton Arc.

Normally for a show like this I try to write something as a little review, but tonight I find myself not at a loss for words, but I simply don't want to do it; I want to keep it for myself and cherish its message.  It feels ever so selfish!

And yet here I sit in my comfy, enveloping armchair in my PJ's, with the TV on in the background (but on silent so I can concentrate on this), the remotes all within reach, a drink beside me and my book to hand.  And I'm writing despite myself.

I have become a creature of habit for the most part, with some unusual comfort-zone-annihilating moments that I will cherish until my last breath, but a creature of habit nonetheless.  I like this.  I like coming home to peace after a long day at work knowing I can sit and read, bake a cake, wrap myself in a duvet and block out the world, watch Sherlock again(!), crochet blankets and Christmas decorations, lounge for two hours in the bath, sing, or any combination of the above without having to think about what anyone else wants or needs.

Being single is a mixed bag of blessings, and desires that often feel entirely out of reach.

I don't like feeling lonely, but being single doesn't mean I hold the monopoly on that.  I felt more lonely while I was married than I ever have since I left ten years ago.  Being single also doesn't mean I sit here and mope the whole time or cry into a vat of gin while trying to shove a kilo of chocolate down my throat in record time (although the chocolate thing may need to be my weekend challenge just for fun!).  I live my life more now than I ever dared to attempt when I was younger.  Perhaps it's down to the inevitable passing of the years, maybe my increased confidence, or even my inability to give a crap what other people think anymore.  Most likely it's a combination of all of the above.

I've had relationships in the last ten years, but it takes such a lot for me to trust people that when I do let someone in he has to be special.  Very special. It took me 38 years to trust myself, but it doesn't feel the same when I hold my own hand or try to hug myself, so I'm learning to let down my guard a little more, then a touch more, just so someone has a fighting chance of breaking through my armour.  It's not that I don't want to let people in.  It's self preservation.

Tonight's show was less a lightbulb moment and more of a reminder of the person I am and the person I want to remain... no, that's no quite right; I want to keep growing, finding new sides to myself I didn't know existed, challenge my inhibitions and learn more and more about myself as I grow older.  Learn about myself in the way a new partner might, perhaps. Be pleasantly surprised with tiny, positive changes and discover that I like things I thought I hated (but not mushrooms, I will always hate mushrooms), and realise one day that I can look in the mirror and not find fault before I leave the house.  Maybe I'll even buy myself an obscenely huge bouquet of flowers just because I love who I am and I deserve to feel special sometimes.

This may all sound like it has nothing to do with the show I enjoyed so much tonight, but it has everything to do with it.  I don't want to sit here and tell you what happened, what made us laugh, what almost made me cry, what made me nod in agreement with the words being spoken.  I would never want to spoil that little but important journey for anyone else going to see it, that's not my style.

One, for me, was a feeling.  It was a reminder to be kind to myself.  It was a nod and smile to everything that has brought me to where I am now in my comfy chair surrounded by my remotes and half finished crochet projects.  It was a poke in the ribs that reminded me I can be me, with no apologies to make to anyone.

One is lovely.  It's sincere and heartwarming.  It's funny and sad. It's delightful.  It's a little gem.  Jaye Kearney treats her audience to an honest performance, and she connects almost immediately and to such a degree that I felt like she was only talking to me.

One is relieved she didn't miss One, because One has given One a good ole kick up the backside and reminded One that she's just fine, thank you very much!

Love is

Yesterday someone I thought couldn't... no, wouldn't... hurt me anymore went and broke my heart again.

Love is...

Well, love has been focussed for a long time on my family.  My dependable, quirky dad, my intelligent and caring brothers and sister, my beautiful, funny nieces, and the in-laws I have the privilege to have in my life.  My love for them is endless, unshakable and ridiculously happy.

When I embarked on Tell Someone Special (see last post) my focus for my thoughts on 'Love Is...' was entirely about my family but especially my dad.  I did this on purpose because I knew that if I focussed on romantic love, that ultimately my time on the project would become tainted with pain and self-doubt, with regrets and sadness.  So with this, at least, I can keep my happy memories close.

As I sit here in the cafe overlooking Stewart Park, I watch the world go by and I hear the happiness in the chatter of countless strangers behind me.  Behind?  Yes.  I chose a table in the corner of the room and here I sit with my back to the world, blocking out those who can reach me.  To sit facing the glass, watching people down below strolling with their families and their dogs is easy.  It's detached and impersonal.  And in this room with my rapidly cooling latte I choose to turn my back on the world.

I do this a lot.  Not specifically here in this cafe, but every day and everywhere.  I have a mask that, like my mum, is always painted on before I leave the house, though I'm sure hers was fuelled by vanity.  Mine is that deep breath you take to stop you falling apart, it's strength to face the world.  Rarely do I talk about my real problems with anyone, they stay buried and I deal with them.  I don't have anyone to unload onto when I come home, and when I was living with dad it felt wrong to burden him.  I've learned over the years how to rely on myself and just keep going.

And then there are moments like this when I put on my mask and I try to face the world.  Blow away the cobwebs.  Regain some perspective.  It's not easy, but it is necessary.

The sun is shining.

I woke up this morning.

I'm (reasonably) healthy.

I have a gorgeous family.

I can keep a roof over my head and food on the table.

I can see the blossom on the trees and I can smell the flowers.

I can hear people's chatter and laughter (even if I don't want to face them).

These things and so much more are my perspective and my sanity.  I pick myself up off the floor, dust myself down and I face the world while trying to smile.  If I smile before I mean it now, perhaps the next time I smile I'm doing it because I'm happy.  Smiles have a habit of making us feel better before we even think about it.

My coffee's cold now but I don't mind.  I can see a little girl pushing her little brother or sister in their pram, a dad feeding the birds with his daughter and dogs joyfully wagging their tales despite being held back by leads.

The sun is indeed shining, and all will be well with the world once again, and soon.

This post is indulgent, I know.  It's not meant to do anything but remind me (and maybe one or two of you reading it) that life is good, precious and full of hope.  We all have moments of heartache and pain.  We all suffer at the hands of another person, and more often at our very own hands.  We are our own worst enemy, but we can also be our own best friend when we allow it to happen.

Yesterday someone I thought wouldn't hurt me anymore went and broke my heart again.

It's ok.  I am more than I show to the world and I am stronger than I let myself believe.  I have no choice but to continue to smile and live, and find happiness wherever I can.

Yesterday someone I thought wouldn't hurt me anymore went and broke my heart again.

He won't do it again.

---

Update 22 April 2014:

This was once a symbol of hope and love.  A single red rosebud that was part of a beautiful bouquet unexpectedly received on Valentines Day a few years ago.  I kept it all this time.  Now purposely destroyed.  Cathartic.  Difficult.  Necessary.

Sometimes the smallest changes have the biggest impact.

X

Tell Someone Special (and whoop for joy!)

Today I feel hungover.  I haven't had alcohol for weeks, and even then I didn't drink much.  My head feels heavy, the sunlight hurts my eyes, and my eyelids haven't fully opened yet and it's after 3pm.  Could this be the comedown from last night's performance?

A few weeks ago I decided to go along to a couple of singing workshops, as a company called Encounter were putting together a show about love at Stockton Arc and they wanted the local community to be involved.  Strictly speaking I'm not very local, having been brought up in Redcar and now living just a couple of miles away in Middlesbrough, but no one stopped me so along I went!

I didn't have the faintest idea what to expect.  I've been a member of Stockton Town Choir for over a year, but that didn't prepare me one tiny bit for what was to come.

The workshops threw me as far out of my comfort zone as I'd ever felt.  I'm used to singing in groups, that's not a problem, but I felt awkward and uncomfortable when being asked for my opinions.  When I did dare to open my mouth to offer them, I felt disregarded, but I'm certain that had more to do with my insecurities and the difficulties of including everyone equally, especially when there were very strong personalities in the group!  The people running the workshops really were nice.  Jen Malarkey and Sam Sommerfield clearly tried to make everyone feel at ease, but they did also have a job to do.  My own insecurities really can't be blamed on other people, and recognising this at the time (because I'm an adult, after all!) I decided as I left the first workshop feeling a little disheartened, that I would give myself a few days and see how I felt.

In the meantime I booked onto the writing workshop for the following week.

My decision was ultimately the right one. I returned to Arc the following Saturday for the second of the two singing workshops, and the energy was poles apart from the previous week.  Maybe the sun was shining and it cheered me up, or perhaps I'd just given myself a talking to about not behaving like a petulant child!  We all do it. Yes, even you!  Maybe it was simply that a brighter room with more people lifted the energy, it's hard to say, but having sung two new songs that had been collectively written (though granted, most of the credit goes to Sam and Jen!), plus a couple of other tunes, I left that lunchtime feeling much lighter and brighter than I had the previous week, and I was looking forward to writing that same afternoon.

Much like the singing workshops I didn't know what I was walking into, but it seemed I wasn't alone.  We were introduced to the lovely Shireen Mula, and we introduced ourselves to each other, then went full force into exploring what love meant to us personally.  Good or bad, exhilarating or painful, every opinion and thought was valid, accepted and often understood.  How, after all, can there be a wrong answer to something that is ultimately undefinable down to just one or two words?  Love is individual, unique, and yet we all understand it without needing explanation.

We used our memories and imaginations.  We talked and we wrote.  We were amused and upset.  We listened and we supported.  Then finally we each wrote a letter.

Each letter, I'm sure, was very different.  One was written to a parent who was long gone, another to themselves, mine to my dad.  Even while I was writing my letter I was unsure whether a memory I recalled and described in some detail was something conjured from my imagination, or perhaps a chimera made up of many different memories rolled into one.  Today I discovered it was real when dad found and brought round the very photograph that captured the memory, and I was so pleased I hadn't imagined the whole thing!

I didn't share a great deal during the workshop; I'm not used to sharing my writing beyond my blogs and I don't volunteer it perhaps for fear of being ridiculed, although I often think it's because I know it's not good enough for anyone else's eyes.  So when the lovely, thought provoking workshop was over I gathered up all my pieces of paper and took them home, never again expecting them to see the light of day.

I booked into the rehearsal week knowing I could only go for the last two days, and I waited.  The anticipation of what would happen, how the show would come together, even the type of show it would be, was almost too much.  I found myself sitting in my comfy chair with pangs of jealousy rising when the daily rehearsal updates came through, just because I knew I couldn't be there and I so badly wanted to be part of the process.

Thursday finally arrived, and once again I strode into Arc with feelings of anticipation and apprehension.  If I'd been out of my comfort zone before, now I couldn't even see where the comfort zone had been at all!  So I found my way to the room that was booked, not very early, maybe only five minutes, but I was still the first to arrive.  I was greeted by an enthusiastic Jen and Shireen, and within just a few minutes I was told I could open the show with the "Love is" part, and if I brought along the letter I wrote in the workshop I could perhaps read that out, too.

I don't know quite what my face said, but inside I was starting to panic.  Start the show?  Read my letter?  Were they nuts?  I'd never done anything like this before and although I was keen to be part of it, I was already starting to worry that I'd let people down and make a fool of myself!  But instead of backing away and running out of the door, I took a deep breath and before I knew it I was saying, "In for a penny..."!

And so my fate was sealed, and by my own doing!  Oh dear.

What followed over the next two days was what I can only call a baptism of fire.  Dances to learn (with special thanks to the gorgeous and talented Patricia Suarez), a script to follow, new people to get to know and trust, sequences to remember, but no singing. Yes, I know.  Me not singing!  It was a blessing in the end, since there was only eight of us on stage I fear my distinctly average voice would have sounded a little wrong coming from a stage in Arc!  In any case, I had enough to try and remember...

Walk to this mic...

Don't forget to remove your party hat...

Project into the audience...

Keep the energy up when you're listening to someone else speak...

Don't forget to remove your party hat...

Swap seats after the Pavanne...

Pick up your script after Wild World...

Hug them like you mean it...

For the love of god, don't forget to remove your party hat!!!

Rehearsals were two long days of going home so exhausted that despite knowing I should be hungry, I just didn't want to eat.  My feet ached, my back was screaming at me and there were muscles pulling in my legs that I forgot existed.  And none of it mattered because despite all that, and despite feeling inadequate and awkward and as though I shouldn't be anywhere near the stage, I had fun and I didn't want it to end.

Then came Saturday, the day of the performance.

I was already aware that community shows tend not to pull in audiences.  Memories of dodgy am drams from the eighties come to mind even now.  I knew that we wouldn't have a large audience, and that most people would be there only because they knew someone in the show, but it didn't matter.  It didn't make the experience any less rewarding and it certainly didn't calm the nerves on the day!

When I arrived and discovered that we'd be working on the show up to the last moment I was a little uneasy.  Why weren't we being left to relax for half an hour beforehand?  Well, apart from the obvious, "Because you need more practice, you numpty!", it was actually a blessing.  I don't know how anyone else felt, but I knew the moment that the audience started to take their seats that it was also time well spent to take our minds off the nerves.  Whether that was intended at all I don't know, but that was certainly the result and I welcomed it with open arms!

I was lucky.  As the audience made their way into the theatre we were already on stage, chatting at a table.  My luck became apparent when I realised that being placed at one end of the table and not facing out to the audience, I couldn't see my dad come in and sit down.  I stopped myself from turning to look because I knew that the moment I did the nerves would rise up and strangle me, and being the first to speak this really wasn't advisable!

And so we began.  We watched Patricia's wonderful movements on stage for a short while, I took a deep breath, stood, walked to the mic, and at the moment I opened my mouth to speak an unexpected calmness filled me.  I spoke my piece and realised I enjoyed it, and for  the rest of my time on stage I had fun.  I relaxed.  I had no idea how, but I did.

But what of the letter to dad?  Well, okay I admit that I had to pause briefly a couple of times to breathe and recompose myself so I didn't turn into a blubbing mess.  It was emotional, of course it was.  It was a show about love and I was reading out a personal letter to my dad.  And he was in the audience.  I was later assured by more than one person that yes, it was clear I felt every word that I was speaking very deeply, but that it didn't come across as uncomfortable or silly, it was simply real.

Phew!

Something unexpected did hit me even while we were on stage.  Nothing I said was scripted by anyone else, all the words were my own, and dotted amongst the heartfelt sentiments were little snippets of humour purposely put there to make people smile as well as cry (and people did cry... for the right reasons!).  What was unexpected?  At the moments when I expected silent smiles, there were laughs.  Not huge belly laughs, but clear as day, genuine laughs nonetheless, and suddenly I realised why people become addicted to being on the stage.  The instant, involuntary feedback you get when you've made someone sigh, laugh or cry with your own words is beautiful.  Unexpected and entirely beautiful.  I know I'll always be grateful for the openness and generosity of the audience who allowed us to tell them our stories, because without those very people the words wouldn't have been heard at all.

So we spoke.  We danced.  We helped each other.  We hugged.  We danced some more.  We cried a little.  We smiled a lot.  And at the very end, having taken our bow and filing off stage, one of us could no longer contain herself and she whooped for joy.  With absolute abandon she punched her fist in the air, shouted,"Yes, we did it!", and giggled.  That will be one of the strongest memories I take from the whole experience, the pure joy that we, a small group of people most of whom had never done anything like this in our lives, had performed a show about love to the people we love, in a town we love.  

I know that some of us won't let that be our last on-stage experience, and I also know that even if we were to go on to do dozens of different shows over the years, nothing will better the feeling of achievement and pride in our first show.  Nothing.

Thank you Jen, Sam, Shireen and Patricia for a fabulous experience, for your support, encouragement, inspiration and tireless work to try and make us just get it right!

The culmination of all the hard work can be found here (http://vimeo.com/93386150). It's a beautiful video montage to a stunning soundtrack! 

Thanks also go to the staff at Stockton Arc.  Every last person from technicians to bar/cafe staff were downright lovely.

Finally, thank you to Adam Parkin for his fabulous photos.

I really do hope Arc brings many more projects like Tell Someone Special to town.  It's just another thing to add to the list of reasons to move to Stockton, this coming from a woman who already feels as though she's been adopted!

Here's to the next project!

Oh, and just in case you're wondering... yes, I remembered to remove my party hat!