But Is It News?

I often wonder: how much of news is actually news, and how much of it is nosiness? A big serving of salacious detail to feed our bawdy curiosity? So long have I pondered this, that this post has been mentally written for a long time. After this morning's appalling journalism practices by Kay Burley on SkyNews, I decided it was time I got around to putting it into words.

In the heartbreaking hunt for a missing 5 year-old, Sky News reporter Kay Burley approached two members of a local search party. Realising these weary volunteers were unaware of the latest developments of the investigation, she revealed to them, live on air, that it had now been escalated to a murder case. It was the verbal equivalent of prodding a maimed animal to hear a yelp. As one of the women broke down sobbing and the other looked distraught, she waited for a moment, then thrust the microphone at them and asked them, “How are you feeling?”

The complaints are coming in thick and fast.

At what point did provoking an emotional response from someone become news? We can already assume neighbours and friends searching for a missing child will be upset to hear that the worst has happened. These are people who want to hold out hope. We've all got some degree of imagination: we don't need to kick people when they're down in order to confirm they're hurting as much as we think they are. Is this news? 

In that vein, I also think of zoomed-in images of Michael Jackson's corpse on a trolley, or Amy Winehouse wheeled out of her home. We've come to expect a fully-rounded novel of a news story. Character profiles, emotional narratives, twists, and gore. But there's news, and then there's nosy detail. It's this idea of "need to know", when we really don't. We've reached the stage where the nightly news is treated like some sort of episode of CSI: Miami – real people, suffering real heartbreak are suddenly characters in a live show, unveiled and revealed before us. We want it all. We are used to having our morbid curiosity quenched.

It's the same curiosity that leads us to believe that what goes on in the private lives of famous people is valid news. Take the recent cases of the semi-naked royals. Prince Harry caught on a camera phone, frolicking around his hotel suite in the buff, on a lads' night out. The Duchess of Cambridge photographed sunbathing topless, on a balcony of a secluded property. These photos are then published by a few sad editors under the disclaimer “It's in the public interest”. No it's not in the public interest. It's in the interest of nosy parkers and perverts. If you cater to them it's not because they need to know, it's because these people are hungry for gossip. We're so curious about other people's lives that we ignore any moral boundaries we might have, and feed off this sort of imagery and information. 

Think about the situation with photos of Kate. A man climbed up on a ladder and used a long range lens to take photos of a woman's breasts on a private, discreet property. If this happened to a non-famous person, that man would have been arrested. Just saying.

I believe it's the same hungry curiosity that drives news reporting such as Burley's emotional baiting this morning. I can imagine news producers calling in for a scoop, saying “find out whatever you can, get a story”. Hell, surely the story of the missing child, a massive search party and a suspect arrested is story enough?

So my question to you is – what is news, and what is just nosiness? I hope we can all wake up to the vast difference, between “need to know”, and “want to know”.

And if you want to know, please ask yourself why.

What Women Deal With

An incident happened a couple of months back which I considered blogging about, but instead decided to let it go. That is, until a friend shared someone else's story with me - one that made me realise this is happening all the time, and that perhaps more of us need to share our stories.

http://unwinona.tumblr.com/post/30861660109/i-debated-whether-or-not-to-share-this-story

This blogger told a tale of regular harassment on LA public transport - hassled for no other reason than because she is female, and alone. At the time of my own incident I shared what had happened on Twitter, and received stories from other women of similar incidents. This public harassment happens regularly, globally, in different settings... but the one constant is that the victim is a female on her own.

It's not a case of a lone female in a dark alley being physically attacked - this is a different kind of assault. It's psychological. It's power play. It works to make a woman feel small, powerless, ashamed.
And for what?

A couple of months back I was walking down the Strand after work, heading to get an eye test. It was a sunny evening and the Strand was packed, but I quickly realised a man was walking a little too closely behind me. There are things which, as a woman, I am always in tune to: I am aware of my personal space, and when it is being breached. The man started muttering things into my ear as we walked, making kissing noises and murmuring "Ooh baby, I like it, keep walking like that", and other, suggestive things. These were said quietly - but so that I could hear them. Being in broad daylight I was feeling particularly bold and thought nothing of spinning around and confronting him. "Excuse me? What did you just say to me?"

Without hesitation or thought he immediately leaned right into my face, and screamed, in a threatening manner, "I wasn't talking to YOU, you ugly bitch! What an ugly bitch! Get out of my face!" Boom. Suddenly he was turning this around, and making it my fault.

The man was shorter, and a little younger, than me, but his body language was aggressive. I looked him up and down, and said "What a disgusting little man", then turned and walked on quickly, inwardly shaken, but trying with all my might to project body language which said I wasn't bothered by such nonsense.

The man, however, followed me down the street, calling for people to take note of me, shouting obscene things about me to everyone else in the street - things of a very sexual nature, peppered with how disgusting and ugly I was. Eventually I stepped into opticians where I was due for my eye test, and the man stood in the doorway, where he shouted, with the full force of his body, "UGLY BITCH!". Then he stormed off down the street. The staff in the shop all looked at me, but nobody asked if I was alright. I smiled wanely, and shrugged, as if I had no idea what that was about. To be honest, I really didn't.

I sat through my eye test in a blur; robotic, trying not to let any of what had just happened get under my skin. None of what this guy said bothered me - he was just using cruel words as a weapon - it was the attack itself that left me shaken. An unpredictable and aggressive person had just made me feel unsafe. Vulnerable in a crowd. It is not a nice feeling. And I did not deserve it. For the next hour or so I kept looking over my shoulder, in case he had waited around to follow me.

It's not fair that this should happen to anyone, to any woman, and yet it clearly happens far too often. I don't regret confronting this guy, but it is sad that my options were to listen to his sexual ideas, or face a verbal attack. Next time you see something like this happening, please don't pretend you don't see it. Men like this need to be brought down, and put back in their place. This is not our fault.

Uncommon Sense

All sorts of good things die out over time. Rainforests... elephants... the art of written correspondence... And, to this endangered species list we can now add one more creature. Increasingly elusive but once so valued, we need to protect this rare vestige of our natural world.

Common sense.

Ah yes, common sense. Native intelligence killed off by our increasing reliance on instruction, legislation, signs, labels, and other people to take responsibility for that which we are responsible for. This is a world where we blame anyone but ourselves when things go wrong. How did we get here?

Perhaps in some ways we've let emotion make us exempt from being responsible. Because bad things happen. Sometimes terrible, tragic things. And when they do, it helps if there is somewhere to point our anger, and on which to focus our grief. These emotions can be so overwhelming that we will naturally look for a way to shift the weight of it.

So we shout at companies and demand more warnings on things. This is despite the fact that you can have all the warnings in the world and bad things will still happen.

The truth is, the more we expect warnings and come to rely on them, the more danger we put ourselves in, because we will simply charge on ahead unless someone dangles a warning under our noses.

Our reliance on warnings is killing us.

Recently a New Zealand mother of eight died after excessive Coca Cola consumption. She would drink up to 10 litres of soft drink day. Her partner said "I never thought about it. It's just a soft-drink, just like drinking water." Her family says that nobody knew the dangers of drinking this much coke because the product didn't come with a warning. Coca Cola doesn't provide a caution label against binge consumption but their bottles do offer a list of ingredients. It's more than just water. "I never thought about it" says it all. 

So would a warning on the bottle really have been the answer, when this is a simple lack of common sense? After all, this woman was also a heavy smoker - a product which comes with a very obvious warning indeed. Warnings do not stop us making poor decisions. The sad thing is, this woman's body had given her warning signs but for some reason a label from a soft drink company is the only one worth listening to.

Being aware of what you are putting into your body – especially in such extraordinary quantities – is the responsibility of every adult individual. We have to stop relying on food companies to tell us what to eat and how to eat it. Chugging back fizzy drink until a company tells us to stop is not the way to go. We have enough intelligence and information at our disposal to be informed about what we eat. We have a choice.

The same goes for the risks we take. For instance, there was a case of a teenage girl who got tipsy at a house party and jumped into the shallow end of the swimming pool at the house. She hit her head and is now, sadly, confined to a wheelchair. A simple case of foolish decisions resulting in a tragic lesson, right?

This young woman didn't seem to think so. Instead she sued the family who owned the pool for not putting up... you guessed it... more warning notices. The young woman lost her case because she was entirely responsible for her own actions. I can appreciate it would have been much easier to point the finger than face the fact that she had caused her own suffering. It's hard to face sometimes, but we are in control of what we do.

With all the finger pointing going on these days, are we really letting other people and organisations run our lives? Are we actually handing over responsibility for the decisions we make to someone else? Why are we not able to stand up and say "I know what I am doing"? Surely it is a liberating thing to own our actions. At the end of the day there should be no one else to blame.

Let's please revive common sense and stop waiting for someone else to tell us how to live.

How Can We Still Be Fighting This?

It seems feminism still has a long way to go. Lately I've seen so many instances of this that my blog seems to be about little else! This is not a feminism blog! But I can't just sit back and pretend we're not still living in an old-fashioned, chauvinist society. (Who can forget the "nice guy" on Twitter who believes that a woman owes sex to her partner even if she doesn't feel like doing it?) Certainly the same old argument about rape continues to rage – how is it that we're still having to clarify the meaning of rape, in this day and age? How are people not getting this?

Right now Indonesia is developing anti-pornography laws, the implementation of which is so misguided. Offensive criteria includes the wearing of short skirts; this means women who wear mini skirts will find themselves in trouble with the law. Why? Because (and I quote):
"There have been a lot of rape cases and other immoral acts recently and this is because women aren't wearing appropriate clothes". Who said this exactly? Indonesia's parliamentary speaker. Seriously. He then went on to say:
"You know what men are like. Provocative clothing will make them do things."

Good grief. Let's read that sentence again:
“You know what men are like. Provocative clothing will make them do things”.
Hang on... who is being cited as the cause of rape here? Who is getting the blame? Who is finding themselves facing restrictions on their rights? Men? Or Women?

When will the world stop defining rape as a natural, uncontrollable response to a woman's attire? What is wrong with these men who cannot help themselves? Why is it always the victim who gets blamed for "causing" rape?

The only person who causes rape is the person doing the raping. It's pretty freakin' straightforward yet I can't believe how many heated discussions I've had with people about this issue; people who certainly agree rape is bad, but think if women dress provocatively, they should expect reactions. I'm not going to argue with that fact per se. Personally I'd never go out in a mini skirt or a barely-there top but if I decided to do so, then yes, I would anticipate some people thinking certain things about me. But lewd thoughts are one thing – lewd actions are quite another. While “provocative clothing” might create a reaction, nobody has the right to force someone to have sex, or to do anything they don't want to do.

Others will argue that sometimes a woman will lead a man on, act like a tease, and then - when they get themselves into a compromising position - decline sex. I'm not going to disagree that this happens. Women have a right to decline. And yes, some women might behave like a big ol' tease and that must be frustrating. But that still does not give anyone the right to force someone to have sex, or to do anything they don't want to do. What is the MATTER with a man that feels a woman owes him something because she's turned him on? You can dislike a girl for leading you on; that's your prerogative. But if you think that's ok for you to force sex out of her, and you do so, then guess what - you're a rapist.

Yes, women have to take responsibility for themselves. As do men. For goodness sake, that's a given for all of us as human beings. But let me make this clear. Women do not have a responsibility to not get raped. The whole idea that women can prevent this from happening is so badly blinkered it's ridiculous. Women don't have control over rape. It is the rapist who has the control. And hell, I know so many men out there who will be appalled to think some of their fellow males are not responsible enough to wait for a woman's consent.

Whatever the circumstances, if you don't have consent, it's rape. It should be plain and simple. It IS plain and simple. So why are women still being targeted as the source of rape, rather than the rapists? Are we still going to be arguing about this ten years from now? Because it seems we've still got a long way to go.  

The Active Woman

Recently, Linda Grant and Dawn Foster collected a staggering number of stories on Twitter, revealing first-hand sexism by women across generations. It seems some of the attitudes bandied about decades ago are still alive and well today. Women still get asked about their relationship status in job interviews, and get harassed on the street. It makes for incredible reading. And it got me thinking about my own experiences with sexism and gender belittling.

I realised that most of mine seemed to revolve around the same topic. Sports retail.

Back in December 2007 my boyfriend at the time was buying me a new pair of hiking boots for Christmas. So, into Snow & Rock we went. The young salesman was like an eager dog running circles around my boyfriend; bursting with chummy trekking tales and stories of bravado. Me, I might as well have been invisible. Nevertheless, I got on with the task at hand: trying boots on. Then, the sales guy squatted, pressed down on the toe of the boots currently still on my feet, and turned to speak to my boyfriend.

“Make sure you check they don't rub at the toe. Women never check these things but mate, don't they love to whine about it!”

I never said anything - except to my boyfriend, after we'd left the store. He was equally taken aback by the sales guy, yet we'd just let it happen. I told myself I would not to let something like that go without comment in future.

Of course, I'd long since forgotten about this when I found myself dealing with similar treatment last year.

I'd signed up to cycle from London to Paris, and on my lunch break went shopping at Evan's cycles. Handbag on my shoulder, I strolled in and inspected various bikes, knowing exactly what I was looking for. Eventually one of the young salesmen huddled over the counter detached himself and strolled over. I told him about my impending cycle challenge.
“Oh I've done that,” he quipped. “It's hard.”
“Yes, I know. It'll be a great experience!”
“No, I mean it's really hard. It's a long way.”
“Yeees... And that's why I need a bike with...”
“My mate and I did pretty well... but you really going to have to train.”

“I know. I am.”
(A casual glance at my attire)
“I'm guessing you'll be in the slow group?”

Needless to say, I didn't buy a bike from Evans. Of course, they didn't know they'd even offended me, because I'd said nothing. It wasn't until I had left the shop and wandered down the street that the reality of the conversation took hold in my brain. He had belittled me. That actually happened. A guy who knew nothing about me other than that I was a woman in heels, looking for a bike. From this he didn't assume I was a cycling champion on my day off... he assumed I was an incapable novice. (I am neither.)

I reckon if I was a man who had come in carrying a helmet and a sports bag full of lycra, and slapped the guy on the back, I'd be walking out with a set of wheels and a thumbs up. And I was annoyed at myself for not calling the guy up on his comment. How would anything ever change?

So I wrote to Evans' head office.
I don’t like being patronized. I don’t like being treated like I’m incapable of cycling with the best of them. I certainly don’t like someone speaking to me like that then think I’m actually going to fork out some money at the end of it. I’m cycling this for the British Red Cross. I’ve done long-distance cycling before. I know the kind of bike I want and I don’t need to be spoken to like that. I would love to see a memo go out to all your stores to remind them that women are cyclists too. Oh, and we also like to shop. So if you want to make a sale, wisen up. And get your hand off it.

Evan's were very apologetic and after initially trying to fob me off with some store vouchers they agree to donate to Red Cross instead. I was satisfied with their response; they knew they'd done wrong. But the experience irked me. I realised this casual sporting sexism was everywhere.

Sure enough, I soon stumbled upon it again when a couple of people recommended I get some of my cycle kit from www.wiggle.co.uk/. To be fair, this seemed like a great site, until I noticed its category options:

Ladies. Ladies is an option. God, there are so many things wrong with that I don't know where to begin. For one, how about “Women”? But then this is really an invalid point. Quite simply, women don't need to be segregated from sports. Obviously males and females have different requirements for items of gear and clothing, but these are two perfectly acceptable options to choose from within each category. Someone might have thought that having a separate tab means women can go straight to all the female sports kit. Great idea. Hang on, though, why not an equally convenient tab for men?

Simple. Because men have all the other tabs.

That's right; men are the primary customer, women only secondary. Whether put there with good intentions or not, the Ladies tab is redundant, and it merely succeeds in leaving women in second place yet again.

Women are athletes. Women are cyclists, runners, swimmers, triathletes, as well as rowers, hikers, climbers, gymnasts, wrestlers and boxers. Why then, is this macho language and sexist attitude still so acceptable in the high street sports arena? We are slowly tackling gender inequality in professional sports (although we still have a long way to go) however, as with everything, change begins closer to home.

I don't wish to get into a rage about this. And I know that not all sporting companies, nor all men (or women, for that matter) are guilty of old-school sexism. But these gender assumptions and stereotypes are rife, and we must not tolerate them anymore. So next time someone makes a sexist remark, call them on it. If, like me, you can't seem to tackle the situation on the spot, then write in. Explain that this language or attitude is archaic and unintelligent. Let them know it won't be tolerated.

At the end of the day, most of us know that women are strong, enthusiastic, powerful sportspeople. Those who don't... they just need a little education. Let's teach them.

     

Am I A Feminist?

I often hear women asked, "So are you a feminist?"

Personally I wouldn't know how to answer that question, mainly because I don't know what the genuine meaning is anymore. It has been blurred to extremes, from the "I will never cook for a man", to "Beyonce can crotch-dance in her hot pants because girls run the world". Say what? I can't make much sense of it anymore. To me, feminism means standing up for our right to be on an equal playing field with, and treated with the same respect as men. Ensuring women have the same opportunities as men, and the same freedom of choice.

 

So am I a feminist? I'm not sure. I know many strong, intelligent women doing good things for our gender who say they would not call themselves feminists. While on the other hand, many of those who consider themselves one often fall into one of two categories:
1) Feminists who hate men; and
2) Feminists who attack women.

I get why men are seen as the enemy. Misogynist language and sexist behaviour is a huge part of the problem, and it needs to be tackled. But don't forget, this doesn't just come from men. We do it to ourselves and we do it to one another. But the man-hating kind of feminists seem hell bent on creating lines to read between, convinced that everything has sexist undertones and I don't see the good this does. We need to tackle the behaviour, not the gender. After all, women are not the lesser sex, but neither are men. If we want men to respect us we need to respect men. Equal playing field, remember? At the end of the day, misandry is just another form of sexism, and how can feminists be taken seriously if they themselves are the very thing they're fighting against?

Then - and this baffles me - there's the type of feminist who attacks women. In particular women who bake cakes or wear dresses or like to leave the house in a full face of make up to go get a pint of milk. So? We should be celebrating the fact that a woman can do whatever the hell she wants with her life. Marry, not marry, procreate, not procreate, start a business, not start a business, bake a cake, or go down the shop and buy one. The woman-bashing feminist wants no bar of domesticity, and seems to believe a woman who gives up her career to play housewife, or spends her days making muffins might as well get down on her knees and let a man walk all over her. Get out of the kitchen, you're holding back our gender! But why should anyone conform one way or the other? This is about freedom of choice, and telling a woman to wear trousers, choose career over children and order a takeaway is not the answer. Let them bake cake.

It's these two angry definitions of feminism which make it hard to decide whether I am a feminist by name. But I do believe in women's rights. I am proud to be from New Zealand, the first country where women were given the right to vote. I believe both men and women have a part to play in holding us back (and it's nothing to do with kitchens). I also don't think enough young women are aware how much choice they now have. I want more female role models who are celebrated for their actions and their words and their talents - not for their appearance. And I don't believe the overtly-sexual nature of women in entertainment makes any sort of statement about girl power, because all it is doing is fueling the concept that women need to be sexually aggressive in order to be considered strong or powerful. That's what I believe.

(And I like to bake, but I don't because I'm terrible at it.)

So don't bother asking me if I'm a feminist, because to answer that I'd have to know your own personal definition of the word. I can tell you that I think women can do more to make themselves heard, and that one doesn't have to act like a man - nor a nubile temptress - to do so. Just use your voice. Your voice.


If that's still not clear, then this video (while centered on America) expresses everything I believe in.


Miss Representation 8 min. Trailer 8/23/11 from Miss Representation on Vimeo.

No Such Thing As Road Tax

Photo by akatori 

Tonight BBC News featured a story about a group of cyclists who were protesting for safer roads. They were calling for 20mph zones to be implemented in London, to slow down traffic and prevent casualties for those on bikes. I have my own thoughts on that - (more in a moment) - but what struck me was the level of bile in the responses coming through to the BBC. All but one viewer had a venomous opinion of cyclists. One person used the term "self righteous cyclists" while another woman complained that cyclists don't pay road tax, and therefore should not even be on the roads. She argued that "the roads are for cars", and only cars should be on them.

Firstly, in regards to the news piece: the idea of slowing down traffic seems to be another case of tackling the symptoms, rather than the root of the problem. The core issue - which few seem to be addressing - is the general attitude of drivers towards cyclists, and in many cases, of cyclists towards drivers. Demanding drivers slow down is only going to exacerbate the problem. I honestly don't think anything will improve unless there is a way to segregate cyclists and drivers with separate paths. In other words, car-free cycle lanes, and bike-free roads. If only this were possible! Instead we must continue to share the road.

As for the anti-cycling BBC viewers and their comments, I have to say one thing.
THERE IS NO ROAD TAX.
Road tax was abolished in 1937. Yes, 1937! Winston Churchill did away with it as he figured that "it will be only a step from this for them to claim in a few years the moral ownership of the roads." It's interesting that despite scrapping the road tax, this is still happening.

These days every taxpayer contributes to the upkeep of public roads. That means cyclists too. Yep, we all pay our share. What drivers pay is actually a vehicle excise duty, which focuses on Co2 emissions. It has nothing to do with roads. Or cyclists. So please stop taking it out on us.

At the end of the day it's important to get the facts right before building a battleground. We all pay for roads, and we all must share them.

Don't believe me? More helpful info here: http://ipayroadtax.com/

Cycling to Paris

I cycled from London to Paris on my wee bicycle this July and have created a separate bike-themed blog HERE which covers all the two-wheeled adventure.

Of course, don't forget to tune back in here for everything else!

Gold Stars For Grown Ups

Life gives you little reminders in funny ways.

Today I got one in a queue.


It is a truth universally acknowledged that people in queues do not want to be queuing. In fact I think it's safe to say that anyone who has ever stood in a queue has not been happy about it. This evening I was in my third queue of the day: after the Underground ticket line, the Post Office, I was now standing zombie-like in the supermarket. I only wanted some milk, and the shortest line had three people in it. As anyone would agree, that was THREE PEOPLE TOO MANY.
As I waited, the checkout lady seemed to operate in slow motion and my mind sunk deeper into a pit of impatience. I watched the checkout staff distract one another with conversation. Why did they have to chat? The man in front of me had a little girl and I watched as she played peekaboo with the checkout lady. I smiled, but in my mind I wondered how long this was going to go on for.

And then AT LAST the man took his change and was turning to leave, when the checkout lady asked the girl, "Have you been good?"

The little girl stopped to consider the question.

"Yes! I-I-I....I got a gold star!"

The checkout lady smiled at her. "Did you now?"

"Yes! I got.... three! Three stars."

The queue stared at the checkout lady, waiting, watching.

The father stared as his daughter wondering what to do.
At the same time the little girl stared at the checkout lady, waiting for a response to what she clearly felt were notable achievements.

And so the checkout lady said, "Goodness! Was that today?"

Proudly, the child replied, "Yes...  But also..."  

And she counted out on her little fingers, staring up at the ceiling as she worked it out.
"Monday.... and then... and then... and yesterday..... and...... and..... TODAY."

"Well!" said the checkout lady, ready to wrap this up but not really knowing how.
The father looked nervously at the growing queue.
But everyone was looking at the little girl, who clearly had more to say on the matter.

"Cos.. cos... we get gold stars..." continued the girl, "but you have to be good!"

And so, the conversation reached its conclusion.
The relieved father led his daughter away, and everyone in the queue was smiling, looking a little dazed. Like they'd all experienced a moment of clarity.
The checkout lady gave me an apologetic smile as she scanned my milk.
"Well hey," I said to her, "One should always be proud of one's achievements."
"Oh yes, " she replied, "A gold star is a big deal at that age."

Then she added to herself, "I'm still waiting for mine!"



You know what?
We don't get gold stars anymore; nor do we give them out. That's because we're adults - we don't really need a sticker to acknowledge when we've done well. Or do we?
Unfortunately (being adults) we're all far too coy to shout about our achievements. That's kind of depressing, don't you think? Given we surely achieve a heck of a lot, being grown ups and all? We're so busy worrying, scowling, getting stressed, getting distracted, welling up with impatience in queues... what about the good stuff? What about that great feeling of accomplishment? The fact we are here! Doing what we do! Making life happen! Why do we forget about that?


Next time you do something you're proud of, freakin' well shout about it! TELL someone!
Even if it is the supermarket checkout lady.


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Feel free to give yourself a gold star and shout about something you did that you're proud of in the comments. Anything at all! SHARE IT!
I'll go first.

The Shaken City

I landed in Wellington, New Zealand, just 6 days after the massive earthquake which rattled Christchurch so violently that the ground literally turned to mulch. I was in the country for a wedding but the timing felt very poignant, and it was a relief to simply be closer to home amid such devastation. The official death toll is at 166, and given the entire country's population is a mere 4 million, that's a significant blow and one which is felt throughout New Zealand.

My second night in New Zealand an earthquake hit Wellington, where I was staying, although I was so wiped out by jet lag I slept right through it. My dad, in the next room, said he felt the whole house rock backwards and forwards. It was not a massive quake, and it caused no damage but it was a reminder that something like this can happen anywhere, any time. Meanwhile, Christchurch was being hit by several aftershocks, which further threatened recovery operations. A third of the city was going to be bulldozed. Whole suburbs were going to have to be demolished, and rebuilt somewhere else. Can you even imagine such a thing? It was hard to mould this information into a fathomable, realistic shape within my consciousness.

There was a video which was being shown around the world the day after the quake, which featured a man being rescued from the rubble, groaning in pain. On that day, that small piece of footage touched something in me and made me cry. After that video went out the rescued man, a Christchurch baker, disappeared and nobody - not even his family - could find him. By the time I reached New Zealand I discovered via the national newspaper that he had been found... and that he had died in hospital from his injuries. It is small portions of the disaster such as this which are somehow easier to digest, and therefore break my heart.

Even those who were fortunate not to have known someone hurt or killed or left homeless by the quake are feeling the strain. As Christchurch's population flees the damage and spreads itself out across the other major cities including Auckland and Wellington, the demand for jobs, flats, and education in these places has skyrocketed. Trying to rent a flat may come down to bidding wars. The country's financial situation is under strain as billions of dollars is required from somewhere to rebuild the country's second biggest city. This year's Rugby World Cup, the international event expected to bring in huge revenue to the country, is now having to relocate its matches as bringing thousands of tourists to Christchurch is not going to be possible.

Of course, what made it so wonderful to be back in New Zealand while all of this was going on was that I got to experience that incredible community spirit that bonds the whole country. The news covered Christchurch above everything else, telling stories of generosity, kindheartedness, loss, sadness and the mind-boggling damage. There were interviews with people who gave suggestions on building makeshift toilets, strangers who were giving out food to families, and TV presenters encouraged support and sent their wishes to the city during every programme. 80% of newspaper coverage was focused on the quake. Every little shop, pub, school or church in every town across New Zealand were hosting fundraising events, offering profits to the city's recovery, or showing their support through positive campaigns.  You could not walk down a street, open a paper, watch TV or listen to the radio without feeling an invisible pair of arms embracing everyone and pulling them close in this time of devastation. I have never felt this anywhere else - I accept this might simply be because New Zealand is my homeland, and perhaps others would say the same community perspective is found in their home country as well. All I know is that New Zealand might as well be one big city, because we're all in it together.

My thoughts also go out to the people in Japan, who I know are dealing with something so incredibly awful on such an enormously bigger scale.... but I will not forget Christchurch, who still need our help and support.

To donate to the Quake Appeal - click this link to the official site.

What A Mug!

I still don't know whether this is one of the most amusing marketing errors I've ever come across, or simply a very, very clever sales idea, but this advertisement by Guangong Enterprises for a Will & Kate Royal Wedding mug has caused me much amusement this week. What's so funny about it? Well, look closely.

[click to go to the website]

A part of me hopes this really is just a glaring oversight, while the cynic in me has begun to wonder whether someone is putting out a product with a difference, in the hope that it will bring them more sales. Mind you, so what if it is? It's very clever - I know I would be far more likely to buy this mug over a more accurate one. Whereas a proper Will & Kate mug causes eye-rolling and reeks of chintz, with this version from Guangdong Enterprise, at least I would have a jolly good chuckle every time I made a cup of tea.

The Big One

I grew up in a little town called Eastbourne, in Wellington - the capital city of New Zealand. As a child I learned all about my country's curious geology and I knew that the country sat on two separate tectonic plates. I knew that there is a major fault line in the earth's crust which runs directly down the centre of New Zealand like an underground spine. I knew that it was this fault line - part of the Pacific Ring of Fire - which created our volcanoes, caused geothermal geysers and boiling mud pools. 

New Zealand's fault line

I also grew up in the knowledge that New Zealand has a propensity for earthquakes. Schools taught us all about them - we would practice drills where we all curled up under our school desks, peering out at our classmates to see if anyone had carelessly left a foot or a leg exposed. As children we were both scared of and excited by the whole idea of a major earthquake. Wellington was supposed to be particularly prone to quakes, and my class was regularly informed that given the position of the city, and with only two main roads heading north, if a big earthquake struck we would likely be trapped. For this reason we learned about stockpiling food and water. We learned that in an earthquake one should brace oneself in a steady door frame or under a sturdy table. The children in my class would watch black and white footage of the major earthquakes, including New Zealand's most renowned one: the Napier earthquake of 1931, which killed 256 people and flattened the city like a pancake. Afterwards, the teacher would flick the video off, stand before the class and tell us solemnly: "The Big One is well overdue." 


Despite the very terrifying notion that we were waiting for a disaster which was running late, it was volcanic eruptions and tsunamis which concerned me the most. The idea of having a wall of ocean or a sea of lava coming at you seemed so hopeless to me, and by comparison an earthquake was less frightening. I knew you couldn't outrun a tsunami - we learned that in school - but if an earthquake struck you could at least get into a doorway. I would have nightmares about trying to outrun rivers of volcanic lava, and when walking along the beach I would mentally plot the best routes into the hills in case I ever happened to see a tsunami rise out of nowhere. 

Eastbourne beach

Besides, I was used to earthquakes. In Wellington there are regularly little tremors, and on a couple of occasions, there were bigger ones which rattled the ornaments in my room and got everyone excitable. Yet the Big One we were warned about never felt like a realistic threat. Then adulthood arrived, and I left Wellington, and then eventually I left New Zealand altogether. In the UK earthquakes are a foreign concept. Apart from those opportunities where I could share my own knowledge with fascinated Brits at dinner parties, earthquakes were no longer something I thought about. The whole threat of the Big One had been archived in the recesses of my mind.


And then in September the Christchurch earthquake happened. The second biggest city in the country (bigger than Wellington), Christchurch suffered widespread damage. The quake surprised everyone in its ferocity, but amazingly, wonderfully, not a single person was killed. It was one of those moments when everyone counted their blessings, and pulled together in what was a truly scary situation. Yet just as everyone was getting over the shock, and focusing on recovering from the damage, today's major earthquake hit. And it looks like the Big One.

Just 3 miles beneath the surface, it was big enough to completely demolish buildings, turn ground into liquid, and create absolute destruction. Of course I say these things because I read the news, but actually, I can't even imagine it in real life. At least 38 people are confirmed dead, but the toll is expected to be a lot more grim as rescuers search through the rubble of the city. Even the beloved Christchurch Cathedral - New Zealand's Notre Dame - was toppled and broken, a rather poignant symbol of how much this city has been hurt. A quake like this is something which not even I, as a New Zealander, can comprehend.

Christchurch Cathedral, before and after

The one shining light through all of this is knowing that New Zealanders are hardy folk, and that kiwis know how to pull together. We are a country that is so far from everyone else that we are used to seeking help from one another. After all, when one part of New Zealand suffers, every New Zealander - across the globe - will grieve. I saw this happen at the time of the Pike River Mine disaster last November, when 29 men lost their lives, their bodies unable to be recovered. I didn't know these people, or their families, and I'd never even been to Greymouth, yet I shed real tears for them. It broke my heart. Other New Zealanders around the world spoke of their own heartbreak. Those are the moments you feel so far from home.

My heart breaks again today for Christchurch, and my thoughts go out to everyone who has been affected. I feel grateful that I am flying home to New Zealand in a few days for a wedding, because right now I want to give my homeland a hug, and to stand on my native soil. 

Kia kaha, Christchurch, we are all here for you. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


More information:

A relief fund is still being set up, but in the meantime the New Zealand Salvation Army
are accepting donations. Click Here To Donate

To share information on those missing or people who have been located, Click Here.

For more information on how to help, or for those who are in Christchurch Click Here.



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A Short Scene From The Underground

It's 6.15pm on the London Underground. The Circle Line.
Two young lads are sitting side by side at the end of a Tube carriage, and having a passionate discussion. The lad wearing the beanie is confidently advising his companion on what he knows about the world. His mate listens, clearly fascinated.

I am sitting across from them. Though I am pretending to read, for the journey home, I am their audience.

Beanie: Like, prostitution for instance. It would be so much safer if it was legal. I mean, if somethin' is happening and you can't stop it, isn't it better to make it safer?
Hoodie:  Yeah.
Beanie: I think drugs should be legal too.
Hoodie: Well...
Beanie: Nah, like hear me out man. Think of heroin addicts, yeah? They die because they take bad heroin. If the government gives it to them, then it's safe. If they're gonna do it, then why not control it?
Hoodie: True.
Beanie: I mean, you know weed? Most of that shit is sprayed with glass. Actually sprayed with actual glass. Like, dust. So when you smoke it, that glass goes into your lungs. 
Hoodie: Shit.
Beanie: Yeah. So they should make it safer, and regulate it, yeah? Like, tell people the dangers, and stuff...
Hoodie: Like smoking?
Beanie: Yeah, like how smoking gives you cancer... so tell 'em what's what and they take the risks on themselves. But controlling it will make it safer. That's what they do in Amsterdam, and they doin' alright.
Hoodie: Hey, does your mate still live in Amsterdam?
Beanie: Nah. He lives in Germany now. 
Hoodie: Yeah? What's he doin' there?
Beanie: He just smokes weed and spins decks and shit.
Hoodie: [laughs] Cool.... so does he like living in Germany?
Beanie: Nah, he says he wants to move.
Hoodie: Why, what's wrong with Germany? [incredulous] There's good food in Germany!
Beanie: He wants to live in America. Better money for beats.
Hoodie: [considers something] Y'know ya can't get done for speeding in Germany. There's no, uh, y'know, speed... Um, no like, speed... Y'know. You can drive however fast you want. I'd like to live in Germany.
Beanie: If I could live anywhere it'd be Japan.
Hoodie: Why Japan? Technology and shit?
Beanie: Nah, it's not that, it's like, they have no crime. It's a really safe place.... I mean, except if you're a woman.
Hoodie: [nodding] Yeah.
Beanie: Statistically, Japan has the lowest crime rate in the civilised world.
Hoodie: Yeah, 'course.
Beanie: Also it would be one place where I wouldn't have to learn a language.
Hoodie: You speak Japan? I mean.... like, Japanese?
Beanie: Nah, but you know, 70% of Japan speaks English.
Hoodie: Wow.
Beanie: And they have no dairy products.
Hoodie: Nah?
Beanie: Nah. And you know, like, how Britain is like, one in ten people have cancer? In Japan it's like, one in ten thousand.
Hoodie: Wow, serious? And that's from no milk?
Beanie: Yeah man, I'm telling you. Like, when you take the milk from the breast, that's it, that's all you need. And like, if you really can't live without it, drink soya milk.
Hoodie: Oh. So is that better?
Beanie: Yeah, soya milk has less fat for one thing. It's more natural. 'Cos see, normal milk is from an animal, and soya milk is like, from the seed of a plant. 
Hoodie: Yeah?
Beanie: Yeah, soya has loads of vitamins and nutrients as well. And it has way less fat.
Hoodie: Like how?
Beanie: Like, if this much milk had eleven grams of fat, the same amount of soya would have, like, two.
Hoodie: Wow. Does it taste the same as milk then?
Beanie: Sort of. It's fruitier. Like.... let me describe this. [thinks] Ok, imagine herbal milk.
Hoodie: Uh, yeah. Yeah.
Beanie: It's like that.

Ignore The Anonymous

Bloggers - how often do you get anonymous and abusive comments posted on your blogs? And to the rest of you - how many times have you read an article or blog post and found a nasty comment posted by "Anon"?

Those kinds of comments, I've learned, are called "trolls". Fitting really.
I read about this on the New York times website, after the article (written by one of their own staff) was shared by Facebook.

It's an excellent piece (which reveals some truly horrendous stories) and it reminded me that I have wanted to write a blog post of my own on this subject, after witnessing these kinds of comments on some of my favourite, highly-respected blogs.

Trolls are easy to spot. As soon as you come across an aggressively rude, no-holds-barred comment, you can almost guarantee it will have been posted under a pseudonym or (imaginatively) "Anon". I'll read the comment, look to the poster name, and that's usually when I'll roll my eyes and think, "Ahhh of course. Loser."

It ticks me off, not because of what has been said, but because of the anonymity of it. The fact that the is person is hiding and taking no responsibility for what they've said.

It harks back to the age-old retort, "If you've got something to say, say it to my face."

It seems that when you can hide behind online anonymity, you can get away with being unsociably rude or just plain mean. There's that tantalizing freedom of being able to manipulate complete strangers, speak your harshest views and hurt people, without repercussions. Basically, you can be an asshole without people thinking you're an asshole in real life. You can have your bitchy cake and eat it too.

It's a shame, because anonymity is helpful in many ways, and it also allows people to share experiences, advice and stories which are helpful or positive, but which they may not have shared without that invisible armour. We need the option to remain anonymous because - to a huge extent - it allows us to protect ourselves... but it also protects the trolls. So "Anon" has now become the pen name for bullies who want to have their say but are too cowardly to admit to it.

The way I see it, if someone has such a strong opinion about something, then why won't they stand by that opinion? If you believe in something so much, why not claim ownership of your words? I'll tell you why - because these people are either cowards who are scared of repercussions, or they actually just don't have confidence in their own opinion.

Either way, it's the same reason: fear. Fear of people disagreeing with them. Fear of backlash. Fear of being disliked. Fear of being found out.

I have had people disagree with my views on this blog, but I'm delighted to say that, to date, everyone who has expressed their views has taken ownership of them, which gives me the opportunity to consider their points in a reasonable way. (I know I don't post often, but readers, I appreciate that!) At the end of the day I would much prefer someone to wholeheartedly disagree with my perspective and open up a debate than to attack my views from behind a pseudonym.

Not that I'd be bothered if they did. The simple truth is, anonymous comments don't deserve any acknowledgement, because they have no foundation. Nothing to support them. They're posted in fear, and there's nobody real there to back them up.

So if you come across a troll comment in future, just laugh and remember those words were posted by some gutless little person at their computer, who doesn't believe the words enough themselves to actually represent them.

And to the real people posting real comments out there, in agreement or otherwise - I salute you.

Thirteen Miles

Running? Moi? Get outta here. Running, as far as I've always been concerned, was something crazy people did - the kind of people who swim outdoors in winter and eat raw eggs. I wasn't one of those people. I've always hated running.

Yet, because I hated running so much, I always wanted to run a half marathon.

I like a challenge.

Look, I'm no athlete, but I believe there's nothing more exciting than discovering how far you can go under your own steam. I once raced up a Munro and then cried when my legs gave out just below the summit. I got to the top though, and when I did, I felt absolutely amazing. It's that feeling which is worth all the pain and the slog.

Then in May this year, I heard that the brilliant Muireann (aka Bangs and a Bun) had signed up for the London Royal Parks half marathon.
"That girl hates running even more than me," I thought. "Cripes, well if she can do this, I have no excuse."

So I signed up right there on the spot, and took a place with the charity Scope, who strive for people with disabilities to fulfill their potential. I like that idea a LOT. That's what life's about, no? Discovering one's potential?

I know that to some people thirteen miles is a cinch. Just like there are countless people who can cover several Munros in a single day. But to me, this was a personal challenge, and frankly, that's the best kind of challenge to undertake. Muireann's amazing efforts and training updates inspired me to work at this, and my Twitter followers egged me on and helped me raise £550 for Scope. I really don't think I would have made it without the incredible encouragement of the online community.

And so, after sixteen weeks of training, the day had arrived.
This is how it went.

______________________________________________________________

I was standing in a crowd of thousands, donning my least attractive ensemble, and wondering what on earth I was doing there. Look at me, pretending to be a runner! Pffft. Yet I was excited, I couldn't deny it, and nervous energy was zinging through my whole body like electricity. Muireann stood next to me, tapping on her phone and showing me some of the supportive messages sent to the both of us via Twitter. I had to laugh. Good grief, people are awesome. I took a deep breathe, briefly wondered what I was in for, and put my earphones in. My goal time was two and a half hours. I had absolutely no idea if that was even realistic. I had never run thirteen miles before. Ever.

Then the crowd slowly began to move and we crossed the ever-looming start line. We were OFF!

Immediately I decided this was awesome. I loved it! The vibe! The energy! The crowds! I could keep this up. I was having fun!!!

(This feeling lasted for approximately 2 miles.)

Muireann quickly moved ahead, spurred on by her amazing running friend Charlie, as I got stuck into a steady rhythm of my own. As the masses passed through the park, a rather stocky photographer raced alongside us, trying to get the attention of one runner in particular. After a lot of running and yelling, he finally got his photo, then stopped and, hands on his knees, struggled to catch his breath. We runners couldn't help but chuckle. No sympathy from us, mate! We have a LONG way to go!

Racing in that rainbow river of people, we passed Big Ben just as it struck 10am on 10/10/2010. I grinned like a lunatic. I took a moment to absorb the fact that I was running in the middle of the road on Westminster Bridge. When would I ever be here again? I made sure to drink in the views on both sides. Oh London, you beautiful wench.

I felt on top of the world.

About 45 minutes in, racing along the Embankment, I felt a stitch coming on and realised I had increased my pace too much. Oops. I already had a pre-ordained tactic for avoiding a debilitating stich, which was to walk for 30-seconds or so to catch my breath. So I did just that.

However, at that precise moment, I found the world's jolliest girl jogging alongside me.
"Come on now, keep running!" she pipped.
Her encouraging smile was brighter than the surface of the sun. I couldn't help but admire her motivation. I smiled back. And wished she would go away.

All the water I drank, coupled with all the nerves meant I took the opportunity for a loo break. It was a pay toilet and there was a poor race attendent handing out 50p coins to each runner. Times like this I wish I was a bloke, and could join the vast numbers marking their territory all over the streets of London. I must have lost a few minutes queuing for the Ladies'. But then, the best thing about the loo stop was the chance to have sit down. (Yep. I said it.)

Back on the route, I felt truly alive, and excitedly waved to the people watching from Embankment bridge.

After mile four my ankles began to ache but I just stopped to rotate them a bit and carried on. I'd have to just ride out the discomfort - it was early in the race and I guessed - correctly - there would be more to come.

I kept up the pace and pushed on... I was feeling good my friend, feeling good. Naturally it was about this point that I was overtaken by a man in a tiger suit. The feeling I was being slightly mocked quickly made way for amusement. Hard not to giggle with so many ridiculous costumes in the fray - including two chaps carrying a giant fish.

I wasn't in a costume, but I did have vest with my name on it. Scope encouraged their runners to write their names on their tops so people could yell out to them as they ran by. I wasn't certain this would actually work, but decided if anything, it's probably helpful to wear a giant name tag, in case I went insane with exhaustion and got lost in a forest somewhere.

Then I heard it. A cry from the sidelines. "GO CLAIRE! YOU CAN DO IT!" I did a double take to discover perfect strangers were egging me on. THAT was brilliant.

I raced past Buckingham Palace, grinning like a maniac and wondering if all of this was really happening.





As time went on the pain in my ankles subsided and moved upwards, to my shins and calf muscles. I stopped, did some stretches and gave them a massage. Come on legs!! Let's work together on this!

It was a while later, as the route took us back through Hyde Park, that I saw one of the most incredible sights. There were people handing out Percy Pigs. I grabbed up a handful and spent the next 10 minutes hoping like hell nobody I knew would recognise me as I gorged on candy like a starving pack animal. My entire being was buzzing with joy (and a pre-emptive sugar high).

Oh Percy Pigs. You glorious sugary gelatinous swines of joy.

A little later, still on a Percy Pig high, I looked around at the crowds, the supporters, the sun sparkling on the Serpentine, and my whole being burst with happiness. (And sugar). I ran past the Scope tent and they all whooped and yelled and cheered my name. "COME ON CLAIRE!" I grinned and waved my arms in the air. YES!! I felt SUPERFANTASTIC! I saw some little children holding out their hands and without a second thought I high fived them all. YEAH! Then, noting their expressions of uncertainty, it dawned on me that perhaps they weren't high-fiving just anyone - that more likely, their mother was just behind me. Realising I may have just high-fived some stranger's kids, I sprinted off at top speed. I overtook swarms of people in an instant. Apparently mortification is an excellent untapped source of energy.

A little while later a kid with a giant foam hand was definitely high-fiving everyone. I knew it was safe. I high-fived that kid with GUSTO.

As the route twisted and turned through Hyde Park, I began to slow. By the ninth mile my right leg started to give up. Running on it really hurt - enough to slow me down significantly. I stopped, stretched a bit, ran on, but was capable of nothing more than a limping stride. I struggled to run ("Sod the pain!") but after each short burst was limping again - I imagined I looked a bit like a wounded animal. Although, there were quite a few wounded animals around me. A lot of people hurting. And at this point I was passing a few people being treated by ambulance staff, including a couple of unconcious runners being given oxygen.

I was still standing - I can do this!

My original plan had been to stick with the pre-established pace I'd trained for - which could keep me running for long periods quite happily - and then speed up and sprint the last mile or two. What I had not anticipated was how much pain my joints would be in. As I stumbled down a tree-lined path past the mile 11 marker, the Royal Albert memorial looming up ahead, I knew my original plan would be thwarted. I was in no position to sprint. Disappointment set in, and I tried once again to go faster, but continued to be slowed by the pain in my leg. I gritted my teeth, and set into a quick-limping hobble, pushing on towards the finish.

I cursed my leg. My stupid leg. Oh leg, why have you forsaken me?!

Suddenly up ahead, the finish line loomed. The crowds of supporters were dense on both sides, and everyone was cheering each runner down their final path to glory. This was it! This was what I came here for! All this work! All this time! One way or another I was going to make it!

I guess I had something of a Cool Runnings moment. Because out of nowhere, I sprinted. Grimacing, I raced my way towards the finish, and I made it, in 2hrs 44mins 14 secs. My whole body hurt, yet crossing the line felt amazing.

(And then I felt like I was going to throw up, and I had to have a sit down).

____________________________________________________________

So. Am I going to go out an run a marathon now?
No. And you can all stop bloody asking. I hate running.

But I might do another half marathon. I'd like to see if I can better my time.... as I say, I do like a challenge....

Idris Elba, Lend Me Your Ear

Dear Mr Elba.

Out of all the classy broads you must come across in your day to day life of absolute coolness, I'm sure you remember Muireann? Your Valentine's Day phone date? She of saucy voice and fabulous hair, of dry wit and sparkling sass? Oh, well I guess you haven't seen her hair, but do stick with me here, Mr Elba, because here is your chance!

Bangsy (as she is known to me, but you can call her "Honeybun") is running a half marathon tomorrow. Impressive, no? That's thirteen miles you understand. THIRTEEN MILES. Almost 22kms!

*pauses for effect*

I realise you run half marathons in your sleep, and you eat criminals for breakfast and all, but this is kind of a big deal for most of us. AND to top it all off, Bangsy inspired ME to run it as well. Thirteen miles. Big deal. Like I said.

Because of Bangsy, I've now raised over £500 for the charity Scope, and on a more personal note, have discovered that running more than a mile will not, as I have always maintained, equal instant death. It's all very exciting, and I owe it all to our gal.

So I ask you, Mr Elba, if you're around Hyde Park could you come down and cheer on Bangsy? (I'm sure she wouldn't turn down a quick sports massage either, but I appreciate you're a busy man.) This is where she'll be. And, tragically, if that's not a possibility and you have some Cool Undercover Business to attend to, then maybe you could at least send a motivational tweet to @BangsandaBun?
(That's "Honeybun" to you).

Sincerely,
Claire.

The Good Shoes

I received a very special gift for my birthday this year. A meaningful one. It was a material gift, yes, but it was what the gift stood for, and where it came from, that meant so much.

I'm hardly going to bore you by discussing my finances, but I will just say that I don't have any disposable income these days. Since going freelance I'm working my butt off to get the rent paid, and that's about it. I've also been hunting for a day job but as yet have not been successful. So when my papa sent me a crisp note in my birthday card, I knew I would treat myself to something.

Unfortunately, I could only get one thing on that big mental shopping list in my head. I mentioned this on Twitter, as a completely throwaway, meaningless comment. I mentioned the shoes I really wanted, but which I would have to forgo in lieu of a new bag. (I'd wanted a new bag for a long time, but then I also don't own many decent pairs of shoes... heck, even the investment of my birthday money required careful consideration!)

Then I got a message from someone on Twitter. Someone I have a great deal of respect for, but whom I had never met in real life. The message I received completely took me by surprise.


This person offered to buy me the shoes.

Naturally my first question was, "But why would you want to do that?"

Their response? They knew about my struggle with the job hunt. They saw my determined optimism. They knew "how much little pick-me-ups can mean and what they can do for morale."

The genuine kindness of this gesture took me aback. I mean, we live in a world of "each for themself". How can someone be this generous?

I wanted to do something in return. Give them something. But they were having none of it. They insisted that the warmth of having done something good for someone else was payment enough. That they were once on the receiving end of a good deed and were now delighted to be able to pass it on.

I have to respect that. It's not hard to be generous but it actually takes a lot of guts. And if it makes that person feel good, then even better. So (partly still in shock) I accepted the offer of the birthday shoes.

Sure enough, the shoes arrived a couple of day later. Despite my stupidly big feet, they fit like a glove. I absolutely love them, but all the more for the kindness that had brought them to me in the first place.



I am not going to name the person who sent them to me, because I don't want them to feel uncomfortable about their generosity going public (plus they might start getting inundated with requests for shoes....). However, I hope they read this, and understand that they have inspired me. I will take the steps in these shoes to make someone else smile.

And you know what? It's not hard to find opportunities to make someone's day. I now keep thinking about all the countless things one can do, and that list really is endless. I intend to pass on the kindness, and I also hope this would be passed on again, until everyone's days are a little brighter.

The great thing about good deeds is that they are contagious. If we all did one little good deed every day, imagine how far they would spread!

So for my birthday this year I was given the gift of shoes, but also the gift of inspiration. A reminder that even the smallest good deeds can mean so much. I won't forget it. Especially when I wear my new favourite shoes.

Runner, Interrupted

When people travel abroad, and change their existential status from "locals" to "tourists", several other fundamental traits change with them. For instance, the ability to dress conspicuously.

In a city at home, people will wear normal clothes, carry a handbag or wallet, and on a rainy day take with them an umbrella or jacket. In a city abroad, the logic of dressing normally is forgotten, and strutting around in rubber shoes, plastic ponchos and carrying a money-belt is all the rage. I do not get this. Umbrellas pack up small. There is no need to walk around like an drowned, crumpled ghost who needs directions. Also, you CAN get comfortable walking shoes which are not fluorescent and made of rubber. They're called trainers.

As for the money-belt... well, lifting your shirt every time you want to buy a sandwich is hardly the epitome of security. The money-belt is the travelling equivalent of a burgler carrying a sack with a dollar sign on it.
Some subtlety, please.

More concerningly, when people travel abroad they immediately lack spacial awareness. You know - the ability to walk amongst other people without bumping into them. This goes out the window the moment somebody steps onto foreign soil, and leads to a constant lemming-esque pinball effect of people in ponchos. I don't feel I am being unfair when I say that tourists will walk in every direction except the one they are facing, and that there is always an appalled look thrown at anyone who tries to pass through a group of tourists who have lined themselves across the entire breadth of the footpath. (Oh, and note to tourists: when taking a photo of someone which requires standing on opposite sides of a busy pedestrian route, please just take the photo. Don't take a second, or a third...) Awareness, please!

However, I have been a traveller for much of my life, and I am willing to be forgiving - heck, even patient - when it comes to dealing with tourists in my (now) home town. It is easy to become cantankerous and unsympathetic, especially in a city like London, where locals operate on warp speed, and exist in their own bubble. Yet no matter how patient one is, the fact is it can be very difficult for tourists and locals to co-exist in the same space. After all, there are (apparently) over 70,000 tourists in London every day.

The source of my personal chagrin, though, is that the majority seem to congregate on my running route.

It wasn't long ago that I was convinced I'd never be a runner. Running was against my religion. I was allergic to running. If I ran, I would immediately die. But I am also someone who likes to discover my limits (and not just of my patience, eh tourists?) so I started to go for the odd jog. It was the best way to exercise for free, and once I got going it was actually OK. I could actually do it. Running didn't cause instant death. Sometimes (sometimes) I even enjoyed my little bursts of running mania. It felt free and liberating to move quickly on my own two feet, the wind in my hair and music in my ears.

So then, inspired by the awesome blogger, and former anti-running ambassador BangsandaBun, I signed up to run the Royal Parks half marathon this October. This meant, of course, that I would now have to get really serious with my running. My schedule requires me to run for anything from 25 to 55 minutes, five days a week. For sixteen weeks. Clearly I was insane to sign up to something like this, but I'm doing it for charity, (and a charity for people who are physically disabled at that, so if I ever whine about my legs hurting I will obviously be struck down by lightning).

The best route for running in my area is along the river, in a circuit which crosses bridges and takes in City Hall, the Tower of London... all the beautiful sights and fresh riverside air. (As fresh as it gets in the city of London). There are no parks nearby, and running into the busy city is a nightmare. The riverside provides a tranquil space to run. It's also perfect in its flexibility of distance - if the run needs to be longer, I further my route for a few extra bridges. Simple. It is almost the perfect runner's route. Almost.

Tourists.

Oh tourists, I don't hold it against you that you want to congregate outside the major attractions of London. I don't. I wish you well, and I wish you the greatest day of your life taking all those photos of Traitor's Gate. But please, please, can you just look where you're going? It's not a big thing, just try to turn your heads in the direction you're walking. Take a quick glance before you suddenly change direction. And please don't give me an angry, shocked look when I am forced to pipe, "Excuse me!" if your family is taking up THE WHOLE FOOTPATH.

All the stopping, starting, dodging and weaving not only destroys any sense of rhythm & flow and makes the run that much more difficult, but I've come close to injuring my knees trying to twist and duck (yes, even duck) to avoid colliding with a directionless tourist. So, sadly, a while ago I gave up on the riverside route, and found another one through the uneven, cobbled backstreets of Wapping, stopping at every corner and driveway to check for cars. It's ok, and it's better than running into the city centre, but it's not ideal.

Needless to say I was ECSTATIC to hear talk of a runner's lane on the south bank. Cancer Research UK were launching "the world’s first urban running lane, an obstruction-free space for runners in the Capital." The lanes would be in place only for today as a pilot scheme, aiming "to give inner-city dwellers the chance to run uninterrupted by pedestrians and cars, just like a cycle lane. If the lane is successful the charity will look to roll it out nationally."

So this afternoon I went to test them out. There were two lanes, outlined clearly in smooth white lines, right in the middle of the Queen's walk, from the HMS Belfast to Tower Bridge. It looked very promising indeed.

However, I immediately noticed one problem.

Tourists.

Despite the lanes being described as "obstruction free", the tourists were dawdling all over these lanes like nobody's business. Which, ok, is fair enough - one can hardly expect everyone to clear the road at all times. The frustrating thing was that when runners came flying down the lanes, almost none of these people moved. They continued to stand around in a state of incomprehension.

Nevertheless, I pushed through the crowds and tripped over strollers, finally getting my groove on along the track, smiling as other runners passed me in the other direction in the second lane. This felt pretty nice!

Unfortunately it wasn't long before I saw a couple ambling towards me, side by side, one in each lane, dragging luggage behind them. Clearly, somewhere along the line, they had got the impression that these were special lanes for people with wheelie-suitcases. As I ran towards them, I gave them my best "Um, you might want to make some space there," look but they simply stared at me blankly. So I had to lurch around them.

The lanes were shorter than I would've liked - only 1km all up - but this was just the pilot scheme after all. Once they ended I continued through the throng of people to the next bridge, turned around, and ran back the way I had come in order to give the lanes one last go. Coming back was more successful. There seemed to be a few more runners on the track this time, and while there were still a few incognizant people strolling up and down like it was their own personal red carpet, most of them quickly moved out of the way. (Perhaps my violently urgent expression scared them off.) I only had to dodge one man, who didn't seem at all perturbed by the speeding people running straight for him and didn't budge an inch. (No awareness! None!)

Overall, though, this was the best run I had ever had along the south bank. It was also the first time I had run continuously along the Queen's Walk riverside path without stopping. In fact, I got such a good rhythm going, I ran faster than usual, and even OVERTOOK ANOTHER RUNNER. A MALE runner. A FIT male runner.

This was real progress, and I loved it.

Olympic and world gold medallist, Christine Ohuruogu tries out the world’s first urban running lane, an obstruction-free space for runners in the Capital

I would love to see London bring in more running paths within the city. Given how many runners there are here it would benefit a lot of people. I know some will think this is a case of runners being demanding elitists, but that's not true. People run for different reasons: for better health, for better fitness, for stress-relief, for a personal goal, or for a charity event - and in my case, all of the above. It is not only difficult to train if you are dodging people and continually stopping, but it's hard on the body. Having a space where one can run without people getting in the way, or without getting in the way of others would be an improvement for everyone.

I say bring on the running lanes! Space for everyone!

Maybe then it will be easier for tourists and locals to co-exist after all.

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NB: If anyone wishes to sponsor me in the Royal Parks half marathon, in aid of Scope, please visit this link!.