We are in a hotel room somewhere in Yorkshire. In two hours time, we’re turning our lives upside down as we take charge of the new addition to our family, an 8 week old Golden Retriever puppy who we have decided to name Montgomery a.k.a Monty.
Monty brings order to our chaos. There is some system and routine to our daily lives but not enough so that we feel constrained or tied. We love our flexibility, the opportunity to decide on the spur of the moment, the toss of a coin, the text or call making a suggestion to meet. We are not the family that books our holiday a year in advance, rather the one that pays exorbitant money to go somewhere decided at the last moment.
This kind of life is not for all. It’s a rollercoaster of thrills and excitement, of seize the day adventure and life stomping. Of living in the moment, being in the present. But it also brings stress and disappointment and expense. It takes being sick for a while to create the awareness that living this way makes me ill and unsettled and to realise it’s time to make a change.
So after a mound of reading and research into how to train and manage what’s going to be a 65lbs animal which doesn’t talk, sheds hair daily with great abandon, which slobbers and slurps, demands food every hour, brings in mud and dirt from every outside excursion and swims at every opportunity, I’m ready. On the basis that I’ve already got a tweenager demonstrating all of these characteristics, adding a dog to the mix hardly seems daunting.
The change Monthy brings is to our behaviour. We can’t just jump on the train or get in the car on a whim. A 4 hour feeding regime combined with the resulting expulsion, regulates our day. Added to which we’re unable to spend hours on social media or in Roscoe’s case his beloved weekend treat, his X box, as the ‘wee’ dog needs our attention, our time and love. Monty dog forces us to think ahead, to structure and plan our time. He makes us form habitual patterns to our lives rather than the chaotic whiff of panic, last minuteness and resulting lateness which has emanated from our four walls these past years.
And I don’t think this is going to be easy. For Craig and I this type of stress has become habitual DNA. For Roscoe, living this way is all he’s really known. But for this bouncy, blonde bundle to turn into a well behaved, obedient animal, we are going to have to grit our teeth and get into a consistent routine.
In return we’re going to have oodles of love and adoration and what I’m sure will be many insights to share on this blog.
You look at the envelope in your hand and the envelope in Beatty’s hand and slowly your pre-frontal cortex starts to kick in; you’ve passed on the wrong information. You’ve given Beatty the wrong envelope. And the western world is watching the resulting chaos in real-time.
The company is still standing by you and then, the client, the AMPAS president, Cheryl Boone Issacs, tells 
Wow! How amazing! So what are you going to do next? How can you take what you’ve learned from working on Tay, and what subsequently happened to her and create something better, even more exciting and more life changing?
These contraptions were how the ladies in the 30’s and 40’s achieved curls and ringlets in their hair. You grasp small sections of hair in the metal grip in the middle, twist it round until you reach your scalp and close the attached metal clasp over so it’s kept firmly in place. You then sleep with a head full of these and in the morning uncurl your hair and look like Mae West or Sophia Loren. At least this is the theory, I found these chunks of metal impossible to sleep in and my best ever result was more Lena Zaveroni than Shirley Temple. 
My grandparents had very little but they scrimped and saved to give us children memorable holidays and loads of love and attention. Much of who I am today came from what I learned from and observed of them.
The illusion of any room to move was also impacted by Nana’s decision to cover her floors in brown and tan flecked carpet so you were never sure where the heavy dark furniture ended and the carpet began. She also liked her heavy tan and taupe settee suite. “It’s easy to clean” she would say, moving one of the several sheepskin rugs and brown blankets off it to give it a daily brush down. “Brown is a practical colour” she would tell me. I would nod my head, mute. I was not expected to proffer any opinion but to silently agree.
follow StopFake.org on Twitter and perhaps even donate. Paying for well researched, corroborated and factual news reports may be one of the ways we can ensure we have a better version of truth in the years ahead. Let’s not be lulled into cosy comradeship ‘BS’ – the Russians are well schooled in this cyber-war. And don’t get confused between this and Trump’s versions of ‘Fake News!’. I believe they both want the same outcomes – to destabilise and discredit news reporting which challenges their actions and ideology. To create fear and mistrust in established organisations, in experts, so that when Putin or Trump are called to account over actions in places like Syria or the Middle East, they can manipulate or shout Fake News! And the electorate, with doubt in their hearts, turn on each other. But there the similarities end. Trump is the amalgam of Billy Graham and Ian Paisley when they were spitting and spewing hell, fire and damnation from the pulpit. Putin is the New Seekers crooning Kumbaya, lulling us into singing and swaying along.
I happen to really like her, she appears to operate from a place of great insight and integrity and is not afraid to call a spade a spade when necessary. She’s been reporting on politics for many years and is widely regarded by her bosses as being “tough, influential, exceptional and hugely knowledgeable about Westminster politics”. James Harding, BBC head of news, made clear they support her completely and while respecting the Trust, they disagreed with this finding. However, it was disappointing that they did not report on this story more widely. Democracy is not a linear process but it flourishes in climates of openness and trust.
Occasionally the weather quietens, allowing us to stop and enjoy the magnificent views of sky and cloud and the old course. It’s Christmas Eve and Roscoe is in full- flow, charm-chat mode with his Aunties, who enjoy his exuberance, allowing Craig and I to walk and talk without having to entertain. On the 9th we cross a style, clamber over the sand dunes and start walking back towards St Andrews town with the East Sands beach to ourselves. It is a perfect start to our Christmas break.
When the Scots last ruled themselves, there were clan wars and bloodshed and alliances were made, and broken as the wind blew. Our natural tendencies are towards socialism which is why so many of the national trade union leaders are from Scotland. It’s a matter of belief that we should have free car parking at hospitals, free public transport for OAPs and free higher education for Scots based children but all of this costs money. I’m struggling to see how we can balance the books if independence from Great Britain was ever on offer again. And without the Auld enemy to unite us, would we not end up turning on each other once more?
Nana had lots of friends through the Brethren church and they visited each other often. Never would she go anywhere without a packet of biscuits or some homemade cake or jam in her hand. It was considered impolite to not have something to offer to supplement the hosts hospitality.
Just as not all Germans are highly individualistic with a preference for direct, honest communication and not everyone in France agrees that their superiors or elders know more, can bend rules or are better than they are.
Thankfully I’m sitting under a open-sided white marquee and the breeze from Lake Victoria is most welcome. We are located on the edge of the “sports field” in front of the manufacturing plant as I’m attending the Uganda Breweries Christmas party. Guests are made up of management and their families, and all staff, first wives and first wives children. Uganda is still fairly polygamous and to make sure we don’t end up with half of Kampala here, HR have been quite strict in managing numbers. Even so, the sea of children outnumber the adults at least 5 to 1.
African children can – emerging from the earth in a smiling burst of humanity. The swell of children are beginning to shout and taunt Father Christmas, they are keen to know what he is planning next. In a fit of madness, or fear, he decides to start throwing the gifts from the mound of sacks piled high on the back of his flat-bed truck. Of course the larger, stronger children can catch and whoop, the smaller ones start to cry. The South African MD who has stood in silent shock, galvanises and begins to try to make his way to help Santa, but he cannot get through the sea of children. Now off script and besieged by a flood of children, the flatbed truck comes to a shuddering halt and in three seconds flat Father Christmas disappears under a tidal mass. It is chaos. Then, almost as soon as it starts, it is over. Father Christmas is lying on the ground, naked apart from his underpants. Red velour suit, gone. Welly boots, gone. Stuffed tummy and cotton beard, gone. Rubber gloves, gone. Presents, all gone.
The car is filthy. The grime from the rear windscreen wiper builds up either side of the blade creating my rear window on a murky world.
On the plus side, it’s very prettily decked in Christmas lights, all twinkling in the dark, cool, night air and it has some of the very best public conveniences of any retail park I’ve ever visited. And I’ve been to a few retail parks in my time!
Quality Cuts, the Belgian butcher serving fresh meat and cheese, European style. Food quality is good in Kampala but in my early days there, choice was limited. And food from the UK was rare. I once called Craig in the office to excitedly tell him I had bought a Frey Bentos pie for tea. This ‘delicacy’ being a rare find. Needless to say, this was a one time purchase.
But I left empty-handed, as I got to the cereal aisle and became so bewildered by the amount of choice, that I stood silently stupefied in front of the garishly coloured, neatly stacked boxes. The entire aisle was cereal – both sides – stacked high. It was just too much contrast from where I had come from.
This necessitates several visits to the Alps so as to improve my fitness and ski-touring and ice axe techniques. I am also keen to understand and train for the threats and signs of avalanche. So we are on the Haute route ski tour, a high Alpine 120km traverse with 6,000m of ascent and descent linking two historic Alpine centres, Chamonix and Zermatt. It’s a structured route travelling Alpine hut to hut with little time for ‘ dilly-dallying’. It’s a hot day and so I take off my fleece before putting my outer gortex layer back on. I’m carrying my rucksack with a week’s worth of provisions, largely a few pairs of clean knickers, a couple of T Shirts, my sleeping bag and mat and a bare minimum of toiletries. I also have another pair of lightweight skis and my crampons and ice axe strapped to my pack.
Tired, I am slowly zig-zagging my way across a mountain face, when I feel a cold wind. The storm comes out of nowhere and very quickly I am confused and disoriented. My companion is a fair distance ahead and as the storm rages, I get angry and common sense flies away. I take my skis off, to walk my way out of the mess, and find myself up to my waist in snow. Defeated, I howl in despair and somehow the wind carries my call. He stops, looks back and retraces his steps. 30 minutes later, exhausted, I have my skis and skins back on. But my legs are no longer playing, they are shaking and struggling with the weight of my pack and with the biting wind and whipping snow. Slowly, laboriously, we make our way to an outcrop of rocks to hide from the wind and regroup.
Thankfully when the storm came down and we did not appear, they came out to search. After some discussion, he lifts my pack and heads off into the storm. This time I find my voice and demand to know where he’s gone but there is no answer. I am being pushed to my feet and ordered to get moving. It’s a tone of voice that does not allow argument and I shuffle a few steps forward and using all my strength turn once more into the wind to zigzag upwards. Then the mountain man is back. There is more discussion and we move on, heads bent.
He guides my every step up to the door of the hut and has obviously warned the team of what to expect. They are on me like locusts, pulling off my wet gear, drying my hair before putting a tinfoil type hat on me. I stand for a moment, like a compliant rag doll, before falling to the floor in an undignified heap. They carry me upstairs to a huge log fire where I am put in a wooden chair almost on the hearth itself. I have a man either side of me rubbing my fingers, another two men have a foot each and they are vigorously working my toes. Someone is behind me making my ear lobes sing. They swap around taking turns as, rhythmically, they bring the blood back to my veins. It happens slowly and then, with a whoosh of almighty pain, it is there, throbbing with every heart beat. I am given hot, sweet tea and they feed me sausages before cleaning my teeth and helping me to bed. I don’t sleep – my fingers are swollen larger than the sausages I have eaten and they hurt so much that I put them in my mouth to stifle my cries. My companion snores in the bunk bed next to mine. The next day there is the roar of the helicopter blades and we find ourselves and our gear being airlifted down the mountain.
Up to this point, I have been fairly quiet about my cancer. I haven’t been deliberately hiding it, I know I need to take the time to get physically better, learn from and work through the changes that it brings and to embrace my new sense of self and identity. I also know that I need to find a new job in the New Year and that finding a new role is likely to be more problematic with a recent cancer diagnosis and recovery story tagging along behind me.
In one morning, I blow the control and management of my personal experiences right out the water. I run starkers, out of the closet with a primal Tah Dah!!
But as I have also agreed to do a l
Surely after the mouth cancer and the removal of half my thyroid, I am done for the year. Surely it is my turn to be well after all the healthy living, breathing techniques, positive mind work, the alternative therapies, vitamins and new knowledge. I convince myself it is nothing, they are being extra careful with me because of my recent cancer adventure.
This is not a cancer to be taken lightly. Its effects are more visible and potentially more debilitating than many others. Removing oral cancer, if it’s caught in time, can leave long-lasting affects on the speech and swallow function, on the function of the jaw and voice box, on neck and shoulder movement and additionally – in my case at least – a significant psychological impact created by extensive scarring to the mouth, neck, arm and stomach and having to learn to speak differently. 
In many cases, mouth cancer survivors have to cope with developing a new self-identity.
We need to take responsibility for our own mouths. Pay attention to ulcers which have not healed within three weeks, red and white patches in the mouth or any unusual lumps or swellings in the mouth, head and neck area. Anything unusual in your mouth, anything that changes and stays changed for more than 3 weeks – go and see your dentist. Specifically tell them you want to discount mouth cancer. Put that thought in their head before they examine you so it’s in their conscious brain.
It doesn’t look serious does it? But it was already a stage 2/3 cancer (I didn’t know this at the time) as it had spread into a lymph node.
