Category Archives: Empowering Women

When Tomorrow Never Comes

NEWI met my friend Mandy on 10th June 2018. We were in a furniture painting class at the local community village hall and she radiated towards me with her infectious smile and abundance of Welsh humour, telling me we were already Facebook friends. We were. At the time I was living in a cottage in the Lowther Hills of Scotland twelve miles from the nearest village and I couldn’t drive. I’d joined the community Facebook page to get to know the locals, adding one or two friends along the way, and to post questions such as whether there was a local driving instructor. At the same time I was married but lonely. The last part I hadn’t yet told a living soul.


Mandy is sixty-two and had been a widow living alone for three years when we met. At first she started encouraging me to get out more, driving twenty-four miles to take me to and from weekly coffee mornings at the village hall she lived across the road from. I hadn’t told her how alone I was or that she was forcing me out of the bubble I’d built around myself so people wouldn’t be able to see how sad my life had become. I didn’t need to.

She and her husband, Dick had been married for thirty-one years and were still as deeply in love as the day they met when he passed away. He was the other piece of her; her support system, her cheerleader, her lover and her best friend. She would tell me that in that chance moment of meeting him, he had reawakened the true side of herself that had been hidden under a blanket of sad and difficult life experiences up until then. He’d woken up her spirit; inspiring and encouraging her to be who she’d always wanted to be. He’d picked her up when she was down, shared joy in her successes, sadness in the failures and spurred her on through it all. Dick devoted his entire life to making Mandy’s tAaMqg4heart feel like she was dancing in sunshine. He made her laugh easily and for longer than anyone she’d ever known. Mandy often shares the funniest stories about the things they got up to together. In a series of very frank anecdotes that begin with, ‘I miss my Dick’, which she allows me to have a guilty, childish giggle about every time she says it – usually aloud and in tiny coffee shops full of people – Mandy has showed me what real love is supposed to be like. And it was her who made me start to realise the many ways I didn’t have it in my own life. In return I’ve tried to make her see that knowing it was possible she herself might be able to have it again in the future. Not exactly the same, I say to her, but something every bit as good because now we both know it’s out there.

‘Heather,’ she tells me all of the time. (And I mean ALL the time). ‘When a man loves you – really loves you – he’ll take a bullet for you.’

I immediately picture myself leaning over the body of a beautiful-but-dead man with a gunshot wound in his chest, saying, ‘Ahh, so that was him!’

What she means, in her quirky, round about way, is that a man in love will do anything to keep you. Dick was the man that would take that bullet for her, and his death left Mandy lost, alone and staring into the gaping hole that was once her life. She no longer felt like she had anyone to keep her – or to save her. And she instinctively knew, even though I was smiling and joking on the outside, I was almost as sad and lonely inside as she’d been after Dick died. She not only became my rescuer, but she began teaching me some of the most important lessons about love that I’d had so far and she had no idea she was doing it. Neither of us has an answer as to how she knew I needed to meet her and hear her stories, but she was there to hold my hand just in time to witness my entire life fall apart in similar ways her own had three years earlier.

Mandy’s late husband, Dick

Neither of us have an answer as to how she got a notion to turn up unannounced at my door at two o’clock one afternoon, the first after my marriage had fallen apart for good. She had never dropped by without telling me she was coming before, and she found me trembling from the stress of it all and alone, having not yet told a soul what had happened. I opened the door in my pyjamas and dressing gown, flung my arms around her and wept.  Magical Mandy somehow knew I needed a friend that day

…and there she was.

She was there again not long afterwards.

Because in the midst of all this, as you’ll see from my previous post, a fortnight before Christmas my 25 year-old son, Ryan, passed away. When the police came to tell me he’d died, they asked a lot of questions the fog in my brain could barely compute, let alone answer. One was whether I could recall the last time I saw him.  ‘No,’ I said, suddenly feeling like the worst mother in the world. I lived in the country and Ryan in the city. We spoke all the time but for geographical reasons, coupled with my inability to drive, I hadn’t got to see him as often as I’d liked of late. Then, in the midst of all the continuing questions a memory came to me in a flash: I’d seen him just six days earlier in Glasgow. The reason was because Mandy had an important appointment in the city and she felt anxious about travelling on trains so I’d offered to go with her. We’d arranged to meet Ryan afterwards. It was the first time Mandy had met him and, as it turned out, the last time either of us saw him. I recalled him in the moment then, smiling and waving goodbye as he left us at the pedestrian crossing outside Pizza Hut in Argyle Street. But what had we said to each other? I suddenly wanted to remember every, tiny detail. I couldn’t recall much in that moment, even the fact of the date – the next day had been my birthday.

20190521_151056_0000When my son died multiple people kindly said, ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’ There were hundreds of messages, all providing the greatest of comfort to me during this most horrific of times. Yet of the people I called the night he died: his father, his brothers and sisters, my family and a few very close friends, only Mandy didn’t say any of the usual things. Mandy, who had my daughter Luci staying with her that night, was able to provide something even more precious that nobody else could give to me. She knew what I needed to hear because 1) she’d been in a similar place herself not too long before, watching the walls of a previous life she’d never see again crumble before her blinking, unbelieving eyes and 2) she was standing beside me on that final day I spent with my son. When someone close dies you want to know if you’d told them all the things they meant to you when that real, live, If Tomorrow Never Comes moment happens. Did he know how much I loved him? Mandy’s gift to me on that darkest night of my life was a minutely detailed reminder of what my son and I spoke of the very last time I saw him alive. She told it to me over and again on the phone, aware that I was engulfed in a cloud of fog and sinking into the abyss without even being there in the room with me. I wasn’t in the room with myself, truth be told. Mandy knew she had to tell me more than once for it to sink in. And after our phone call ended, she texted it to me so  I could read it again and again and again; so that I never lost it. I didn’t: 20190521_124332

On 15th of June Ryan would have turned twenty-six and I won’t lie, nothing inside of me is even remotely looking forward to that day. Yet no matter how huge the loss of him is to me, I know the world does not stop. My son wouldn’t want me to stop living. If anything, losing him has taught me to live and love even harder than ever before, be authentic, genuine, brave, say what I mean – what I feel – to everyone who’s important to me and to make every single day of my life count. You have to let go, trust and be who you are, just as my son was able to do in his short life. After taking a flight to Bristol with Ryan’s ashes for his father to scatter at sea with all the family down there, I kept a small urn back for myself. I have sat with it in my bedroom for five months now, pondering what we might do, Ryan and I, as a special occasion just for us.

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Dancing with Ryan

I spoke to my therapist about it who asked me if I’d considered the idea of doing something creative, taking Ryan along with me as I go. He advised making it something Ryan would thoroughly appreciate and be proud of me for. It would be the perfect tribute to my son – proof that there is life after loss. I’m now ready to reveal what I decided on. It is to journey with Mandy along Scotland’s North Coast 500, sharing the driving as I finally passed my test in March! Woo hoo to that, it’s taken me long enough. As we have magically and inexplicably found each other at a point in our lives when we were both grieving and alone, this seemed the perfect thing for us to do. We plan to wild camp, something we’ve tested in my back garden, giggling like a couple of ten year-olds as we dived into the near collapsing tent we’d tried to put up. And as my son was a drag queen who took to the stage in Glasgow regularly without a care for how anybody felt about that, we plan to dance on every beach we visit along the way, come rain or shine.

I am working on a 61094308_2277382525649264_7218714807568957440_nbook about this time of my life that will include our adventures and journey together through grief and loss. I guess my aim is to spread the word about the power of finding happiness and friendship and how it can save us in the darkest days of our lives. Mandy and I will be living proof of that – providing we survive out there of course. It will be a celebration of my son and Mandy’s husband’s lives. Two women of a certain age, wild camping and driving a 500 mile coast road, one of them having not long passed her driving test. Watch out world…

Dancing With Mandy will be about pride; personal pride, family pride and gay pride, while sharing our worst, most vulnerable experiences out loud. It’s to demonstrate the sheer power of two and of humour. You can find out more here:

Dancing With Mandy.

“Mandy, I think I have to write a book about us and our North Coast 500 road trip.”
“What, like Thelma and Louise?”
“Yeah. Well, sort of.”
“And who will I be in the story?”
“You’ll be you. Mandy.”
Mandy pauses, and a smile that goes all the way to her eyes brightens the room once more. “Well,’ she says finally. ‘I don’t mind being the one that gets ravished in the beginning.”

To be with us on our journey, which begins on 16th July 2019 for ten days, FOLLOW #dancingwithmandy on Instagram


Exercise, Ovaries and the Meaning of Life

The late, great Victoria Wood is one of my all-time comedy heroes. With lines like, ‘Take my knickers off and my ovaries will ‘ave fell out or something,’ I challenge you to watch this genius step aerobics scene without splitting your sides. God, I miss her.

I read an article in Reuters this morning, entitled, When Heart Disease Runs in the Family, Exercise Tied to Lower Risk. I sat on this thought for a little while, wondering whether my youngest daughter would mind being buckled to me while I used the step machine. Concluding that she really, really would, I scrubbed that idea. Yet the truth hit me harder than she did when I suggested it. Heart disease does run in my family. It runs harder then we all have, judging by the look of things.

I’ve been thinking about my own morbidity a lot, which has driven me to exercise. It started, as I’ve written about previously, as I entered perimenopause and began thinking every cough or earache I have means I’m going to die. The solution to the problem has to be to take more exercise, yet I’ve had to alter my approach somewhat. All of a sudden, working out on a step machine while listening to Alicia Keys and belting out, ‘This girl is on fire!’ has become less of an empowering chant and more of a literal experience. So instead of _Totally bonkers... and totally brilliant!giving in to this overwhelming fear of death, which is definitely connected to the fact that when my dad was my age he only had seven years left to live, I’ve begun to try and turn all my new anxieties into something positive. I’ve come to realise there is (sometimes) much to learn from those we’ve lost while figuring out the way to make our own lives fuller and longer.

My father died when he was just fifty four. The ultimate cause was the last in a series of strokes that began as early as when he was in his thirties. A late life onset diabetic, he had to have his leg amputated due to complications and spent his last years in a wheelchair. This after being a young, fit corporal in the Royal Engineers and later, a damn fine architect forced to quit very early in his career due to ill health. Because, as it turned out, my dad was not such a damn fine architect of was his own health and longevity. He smoked like a chimney, was addicted to sugar (he liked to take carnation milk and syrup in his coffee) and was morbidly obese. It still hurts my heart to recall the times I eagerly ran errands to the shop for him each day after my step-mother left for work, because I would get to keep the change. I was sent to fetch what I wasn’t to know were prohibited chocolate bars and sweets for him, things that had been banned from the house and that he was no longer able to get out to collect for himself. Not a big drinker, my dad’s drug of choice was sugar and it, along with the cigarettes, took him from my life when I was fifteen.

My mother was a chain-smoker and died more recently. She was seventy-four and suffered from, among many other things, chronic obstructive airways disease. Something that will stay with me forever is the fact that during her last days in hospital, terrified from her experience in an induced coma in ITU and unaware she was dying, she told my sister and I that she would never touch another cigarette for as long as she lived. She was quite correct. Mum was a diabetic too, and had a lifelong battle with her weight. When my sister and I went to clear out her home after she’d died, we found boxes of Slimfast shakes everywhere. I cried, remembering that mum had been ecstatic at waking from a coma to find she’d lost around forty pounds – a feat that had alluded her, despite her best efforts, for all of her adult life.

_Totally bonkers... and totally brilliant! My parents have taught me more very valuable lessons than they could ever know. It is how they lived that has influenced the way I have. It was their addictions to tobacco and sugar, the resulting chronic illnesses and the realisation that both of them would have had so much more time had they known what I know today. Both of my parents had heart disease too, hence my interest in the Reuters article. I’ve never smoked, and have read everything on insulin resistance, fasting and type 2 diabetes reversal going, my favourite books on the subject being Dr Jason Fung’s The Obesity Code and The 8 Week Blood Sugar Diet by Dr Michael Mosley.  The latter resulted in my easily losing a staggering twenty-seven pounds in two months! My eating habits are far healthier – and more informed – these days than it ever was in my twenties and thirties. I fast three times a week and feel all the better for it. I will never be a slave to sugar again, unless Gerard Butler coats himself in chocolate and gives me a call.

Yet I can’t find, nor understand, the will to engage in punishing exercise. In my younger years I did try hard to join those I considered to be the elite fitness folk, i.e. everyone with a gym membership card that gets used every week, and not just for scraping ice off car windscreens or to remind them of that loan they defaulted on after going for four months then giving up. I went to the gym once, and it resulted in a cardiovascular accident of a different kind: my public humiliation by treadmill, which I wrote about in my article, Who’s Laughing Now. Now news items like the one I read today, coupled with my advancing years, are making me worry all over again about whether I’m doing enough to avoid an early demise.

I confess, I don’t go to the gym anymore and it’s because I’m older. I’ve developed a more laid back perspective on life in general, and that includes anything connected to exercise. From years of listening to people brag about lifting fifty, I find myself pushing fifty and wondering what it was all for. Do I want to run for hours on a treadmill where the scenery never changes? Isn’t breathing in the fresh air of outdoors preferable to the CO2 and sweat of forty other people? Do my personal health objectives have to include letting a fit twenty-two year old monitor my vital statistics? Why did I even ask that last question? (Scrub that and file under life goals – Ed).

The fact is exercise, whilst important, shouldn’t feel like a chore. It’s like everything else _Totally bonkers... and totally brilliant! in life. Time is precious. I want to spend it engaging in what I love, never what I feel forced to endure.

I have two, regular workouts of choice: walking my dogs and freestyle dancing in a sporran.

The first began as something I had to do, but developed along with my deep love of the countryside. Where I live now, out in the Southern Uplands of Scotland, this exercise routine has frequently and unexpectedly launched me closer to Sportswoman of the Year than I ever thought I’d get. I’ve broken the four minute mile while been chased by Galloway cows; I’ve invented and competed in the world’s first solitary version of Tough Mudder in Socks by trudging up boggy hills without realising I’ve left my boots stuck in the mud at the bottom, and I hold the current record for most falls on my backside. I’m less of a fell runner and more of a ‘fell running’ kind of person.

dancing in a sporran
An OAP dancing in a sporran

And never let it be said that I don’t take the advice I write into my own stories. Dancing in a sporran was an activity I invented for a character in my book, I Hate That You Bloody Left Me. Elderly widow, Fleur Brookes, would put her mobile phone inside her husband’s sporran, plug in her earphones and dance away to rap music. Being married to a Scotsman myself, this has been my favoured method of keeping fit ever since. The beauty of it is being able to harp back to the days where I liked to dance about my bedroom, behind closed doors, pretending I was Suzy Quattro. I’ve been down to Devil Gate Drive a lot in secret recently, and no one knew until today. I do this mostly in the afternoons as I started walking first thing in the morning, after reading that working out early could mean you get more sunlight, a key to setting your body’s circadian rhythm. It’s been reported that people who bask in early sunlight tend to be thinner. This could be true. I live in Scotland, where basking in early sunlight results in your double chin being eaten by ten thousand midges.
Anyhow, I’m still alive and so are you as you’re here reading this. So between us we must be doing something right. My work in progress has a leading character who works out by letting a neighbour’s dog chase her up the street. There’s an idea I won’t be adopting in the near future, given that my nearest neighbour breeds and sells Boerboels, which aren’t Christmas tree decorations, as I first thought.
Have a lovely, healthful week.

_Totally bonkers... and totally brilliant!

To Every Woman and her Daughters.

I’ve felt so empowered after reading the experiences of sexual harassment from women all over the globe, and the exceptional tweet seen here from @annevclark since the Harvey Weinstein story broke, that I’ve finally decided to recount one of my own. It’s something I’ve never fully been able to explain or tell people about and my decision to put this here is because of the thought that it might help any woman, anywhere, as all the tales I’ve seen bravely shared online have helped me do this today. I hadn’t told a soul this until this morning. Not a soul. Today I’m ready to change that.

At forty-six years of age I’m learning to drive. Not an odd event in itself; my instructor tells me he recently taught a woman who went on to pass her test at the grand age of seventy. Yet while I don’t know this particular lady’s reason for learning so late in her life, I know that a particular incident sparked the fear and anxiety that has prevented me from fully committing myself to do this until now. Since I was first gifted a series of driving lessons from my mum and abruptly stopped them, over thirty years ago now, I’ve been terrified of the driving test itself. Nobody ever knew why, not even me. Not really. I remember my mother asking why on earth I had stopped taking the lessons and that I made some lame excuse that I can’t even recall today. For years since those early lessons my friends and family have expressed their disbelief at my never learning to drive, even though it has held me back over the years, both personally and professionally.

Only now am I ready to reveal the real reason I stopped those lessons: My driving instructor, a man I was left alone in a car with for an hour a day, once a week for around twenty or more weeks, was sexually harassing me. It began with small innuendos and probing questions. What did my boyfriend and I get up to? What made me decide to wear that V-necked top today, was it because I knew I would be seeing him? Had I missed him since last week?

I was seventeen.

There were moments when he behaved in ways I couldn’t quite understand my uncomfortableness about, like the time he asked, in what seemed to me to be with angry, almost possessive undertones, if I knew a man I’d waved to as I let him cross the road at a local pedestrian crossing. Then there were the days his lewd behaviour was more obvious, as he held his hand over mine on the gear stick, instructing me to ‘caress it as though it was a man.’ All of this was done with a smile and a wink, like it was a joke – a bit of banter between us. And I confess that I laughed along, never really being certain about my natural, internal reactions to the behaviour: the fact that I felt physically sick when he made some exaggerated, unrequired lean over me to point to something on my side of the car and that I frequently tried to stifle my recoils at his smiling pats on my knee. It was just a bit of fun, why were all of my instincts telling me he was a sick, perverted crank?

When the time to do a mock test arrived I had become so anxious by his continued inappropriateness, something I safely labelled ‘bizarre behaviour’ in my seventeen-year-old head, that I fluffed it all and I remember quite clearly the way he shouted at me during and after it. He knew I was capable of doing all of the driving manoeuvres we’d gone over in the past twenty or so weeks, why was I ‘ballsing it all up’? I never took another lesson with him afterwards and from that day to this, I’ve never sat a full, practical driving test. I’ve had lessons over the years since but always quit them quite early in, a deep terror of the driving test being the given excuse to everyone I know. It was the one I told myself too.

Until today…

Quite honestly I don’t know if this man’s behaviour has been lurking deep inside my unconscious mind when it comes to the anxiety I’ve had over taking a simple driving test ever since it all happened – nearly thirty years ago now. But it has always seemed to me (secretly) to be entirely possible. I’ve recounted the story of this man to family and friends, often with a wry smile and a comment on what a dirty bugger he was, but I’ve always felt unable to admit that it caused me so much angst. It seemed silly. In a way, I suppose I have colluded with the idea of the humour of the situation, the way society as a whole has treated the ‘pestering’ of women. Now for the first time in my life I’m ready to openly accept that this was easier than admitting that it frightened and has even continued to hurt me.

Like most women, I have many other far worse stories of times when I’ve felt or been physically threatened and abused by men in my lifetime. There are differences in the ways that I’ve shared some of these events though, and I realise now that it’s because there are those I’ve been able to speak of feeling justified in my horror and revulsion and others I’ve supressed through guilt, confusion and embarrassment. The most common questions I’ve had for myself when going over these things in my mind: Was it my fault? Am I/was I overreacting? Did I bring this behaviour upon myself? Today, after reading the countless stories from other women online I know the answer to all of the above is no, no, NO.

Just the other day I recounted a cautionary tale to my teenage daughter, who is about to take her first train journey alone. It was of a time when I was fifteen and travelling home from school on the top deck of a public service bus and a man got on and sat right beside me, even though there were countless other double empty seats. This stranger didn’t make any inappropriate comments or touch me, he just started chatting right away as though he knew me (he didn’t) and I instinctively felt uncomfortable. I couldn’t explain this to anyone, all I knew was he had invaded my personal space without the need to. After enduring a few minutes of this and even returning polite conversation, I pretended it was my stop and went downstairs to get away from him, only to be chastised by the driver for standing on the crowded lower deck while there were so many seats upstairs. He told me to go back up or get off the bus. Embarrassed at being called out in front of so many people, frightened to go back to where the man was waiting and ashamed to admit the reason I’d come downstairs when he hadn’t actually done anything that I could say was untoward, I got off and walked home. It was winter, and a thirty minute journey in the dark alone. I felt at the time that there was a good chance I’d put myself in more danger choosing to take that walk than going back upstairs on the bus, so when I got home I didn’t even tell anyone what had happened because I felt stupid. But had I been?

I used this example to show my teenage daughter that it is never okay for someone to make you feel uncomfortable and that it is ALWAYS okay to ignore, walk away and tell a nearby person you feel safer with that, even for reasons you cannot explain, you need to get away from that first person or persons. My ideal world would be a place where all women could feel safe to do this without further questioning from anybody, because the first, most important weapon we have in our self-preservation arsenal is our instincts. I often wonder how many terrible crimes against women and girls would not have happened had she felt empowered to react on those instincts, move away and tell somebody as the dangerous situation began to unfold.

This was two years prior to the driving instructor incident. Both were moments when I felt uncomfortable, yet the second – the one I removed myself from – was one where nobody was touching or inappropriately commenting to me while making light of it. It is interesting to me that I reacted to the first far quicker than the second. I took over twenty weeks of driving lessons. All I can surmise is that there was nothing confusing thrown in to cast doubt in my mind that something bad was unfolding the first time. The driving instructor, whilst being more direct in his advances, cleverly acted in a ‘this is acceptable’ way with his jokes, double-entendres and feigned-affectionate touches which made me question my own first instincts. In other words, I was successfully manipulated the second time. I won’t let that happen to my daughters today.

I once walked through a lonely alley, both arms laden with shopping, feeling certain I was being pursued by the man walking behind me. I stopped, put down my bags and turned around to look him in the eye as he approached me. He seemed to visually pause and shrink away, looking uncertain. Then he asked me the time. I told him I didn’t know, holding him in a steely stare. He looked at the ground and scurried away. This is the way we ALL need to deal with the predatory harassment of women – accept that it is happening and finally begin to face this monstrous thing head on. Stop pretending we don’t know it’s there.

Over the years I’ve recounted my tale on the bus to those I hoped might learn something from it, remarking almost apologetically that my reaction may be perceived as an overreaction but stressing that, for reasons I could not explain, I had felt unsafe and that was key. I remember that feeling well, have felt it many times since and am aware that ‘gut feeling’ was all that was needed to take myself out of a potentially dangerous situation. Only now as an adult, mother and grandmother can I say with confidence that it was the RIGHT thing for me to do. That day I was wearing a school uniform. There could be no mistaking the fact that I was a child travelling alone, and a grown, strange man made an uninvited approach and invaded my space for dubious reasons. This is often the first, subtle step on the road to grooming a child. Let’s tell all of our children that it’s okay to move away. It may save their lives.

I want to say thank you to all the women who have shared similar experiences online, which is where many of us get most of our information in this modern age. You have reached us. You have been heard. It directly led me to share mine here and I sincerely hope my story helps someone. We have to keep talking and sharing.

A few months ago I passed my driver theory test and my second driving lesson, with a wonderful, patient and kind instructor, is next Monday. Wish me luck!

A final thought for you – if you have Twitter, this really should be shared. #time4change