Let me start this jolly list-post with a casual but firm reminder that lockdown isn’t old news. In my honest opinion, it should still be in effect because we have a lot still to fear… but then at the same time, it’s my birthday this weekend coming and I want to have all my friends with me for it. Tough time for my principles, to be quite honest with you. I appreciate your concern for me. 

Photo: Erin Veness (safe distance etc., etc)

Anyway, I was told by my beloved NHS that I needed to shield on the 23^rd of March, etc., etc., I’m sure you’re sick of hearing about this by now, aren’t you? Well, for those of you who don’t know, I was told I didn’t need to shield so strictly any more, initially by my brilliant endocrinologist, who I spoke to over the phone, on the 13^th of May. This was then reinforced by my sassy, caring and no-nonsense GP a couple of hours later, in a phone call that interrupted my 6pm virtual yoga class. He told me I could, in his words, ‘be normal’. I was blown away by the fact that suddenly I was… not actually free, but definitely a lot freer. I went for a seafront walk the next day with my mama, at a safe distance, in the late afternoon. What a moment that was. I can’t lie to you, my readers, after getting a slightly reluctant ‘alright, but maximum PPE and only at anti social times’ OK from another one of my GPs (I need a team of them, I’m very high maintenance y’know), I’d been sneaking out at 7am the odd morning to have a quick walk by myself towards the end of the shielding period. It was vital for my mental health, after all those weeks cooped up in my teeny flat. Rest assured, I’d only dare to take 30-45 mins, and only walk around my block or along to the ‘quiet end’ of the seafront, with clingy gloves and a face mask on. I’d then jump straight in the shower when I got home, and throw all my clothes in the laundry bin. It wasn’t the best practical experience, but it helped my mind enormously. I did feel ashamed, though. That I couldn’t be strong enough to stick to my guns and put up with being indoors and having my step count rarely surpass 500 each day.

So as you can imagine, being able to walk around in full public view, with someone else, was just incredible. That had been one of my little goals... Oh, I’m glad you asked! I came to appreciate setting myself teeny little goals each day in lockdown. I’d tear off a scrap of paper from my notebook and write a short list of tasks/treats I wanted to do, at some point in the 24 hours stretching out endlessly ahead of me. I was very wary of the societal pressure to be ‘productive’ during lockdown; dozens of people I knew were committing to learning a new language, knitting blankets, sewing face masks, setting up an Etsy shop, writing novels (oops, I totally did that one), doing online cooking courses, bingeing whole series on Netflix, becoming addicted to Joe Wicks’s daily PE lessons… I just didn’t want to get on that dangerous hype.

The kind of little goals I’d set myself were: take out recycling, re-pot plants, doodle for 1 hour, finish this series of ‘How to Get Away with Murder’, buy new backpack, video chat with Louise, have coffee out on my roof, finish reading this book, check out ASDA online order… it was very rewarding and calmed my mind, being able to complete ‘tasks’ and tick the little boxes I’d draw next to each bullet point, but not exerting too much energy or putting too much pressure on myself. I’m definitely going to keep doing this, after the Covid madness dies down.

Another thing I’d recommend you do to feel some satisfaction and low key retrospective productivity, my friends, is go back through your diary/calendar/phone/social media posts and make notes of all the different things you managed to do in lockdown. You’d be amazed. Also, have a think about just how much time you’ve had to sit with your thoughts, self care, make measured decisions, and virtually catch up with friends and family you might not get the chance to speak to that much, in ‘normal life’.

Okay, on that pensive note, here’s what yours truly has got up to in the past 4 months of shielding/’normal’ isolation... 

Photo: Erin Veness (safe distance etc., etc)

Photo: Erin Veness (safe distance etc., etc)

There’s definitely more I’ve done/achieved, but I’ll leave it there for now. What have YOU been up to in lockdown? Anything you’ve learned, or small achievements you want to celebrate? Comment below, or tweet me perhaps. Stay safe, my gang. 

Remember when I wrote some quick fire reviews of books I read during my shielding days? Well, here are some I read after I was told by my GP that I could ‘be normal’ (ha, as if)…

The Black Flamingo, by Dean Atta.

I read this before the end of May, so when the BLM movement was dominating social media* and folks were asking for recommendations of books by Black authors, I was delighted to see this one was being shouted about. It’s a beautiful story written in verse, about a boy coming to terms with his identity as a mixed-race gay teen, and then getting into drag at university.

Thank you to the friend who sent me this via my Amazon wishlist!

*BLM is still very much on my social media radar, because I follow people who rightfully won’t let it be buried again until the next unjust killing goes viral. Read my Black Lives Matter blog post here.

Oh No, Bobo! By Donna David.

This picture book was sent to me by the very kind author. That doesn’t affect my opinion that it was a lovely story, and while I wasn’t 100% on the wording of it at times, I appreciated that it was a cleverly told tale about the importance of asking permission.

The Strangeworlds Travel Agency, by L.D. Lapinski.

A truly brilliant fantastical story about a young girl who finds escape and friendship in a bizarre little shop full of suitcases through which you can jump in and out of other worlds! L.D is a wonderful writer, and I can’t wait for the next installment in this series.

*This novel may be meant for younger readers, but I found it such a joy to read and have recommended it to folks of all ages.

The Flatshare, by Beth O’Leary.

Believe the hype. I could just leave it at that to be honest, but let me get a little deeper – this is a pretty high concept contemporary about a man and a woman who share a flat and a bed, due to their respective money issues, and while they don’t meet in person, they develop a relationship through sticky notes left on cupboards and pillows. I was also pleasantly surprised by the other story lines, including a manipulative ex-boyfriend, career wobbles and another (very old) love story.

Thank you to Quercus Books for sending me this hardback many moons ago, and apologies it took me so long to read it.

Under a Dancing Star, by Laura Wood.

Yep, I read her YA novel ‘A Sky Painted Gold’ at the beginning of lockdown, and after so many people telling me to read this one too – and a very kind soul sending it to me via my Amazon wishlist! – I finally did. So, Bea and Ben meet in Italy, where Bea has been sent by her parents to stay with her uncle in the hopes that she’ll learn something and mature somewhat, and conduct an experiment – a summer romance. It’s essentially a prequel to Much Ado About Nothing, aka my favourite Shakespeare play. How could I NOT love it?

Laura’s next book, ‘A Snowfall of Silver’ comes out this October, and I will obviously be front of the queue to grab a copy.

The Princess Saves Herself in This One, by Amanda Lovelace.

So this is actually a reread; I do love a good literary tradition, and obviously when silly Timehop reminded me that late June is when, for the past two years, I have read this book and marked the poems that resonate with me the most, obviously I had to do it again. What did I find out about myself, this time round? Well, this year I seem to be a little less bitter.

There we have it. That was alright, wasn’t it? I like doing short reviews. I worry way too much when I’m writing longer ones that I haven’t got every little bit in, or done the book justice – but this way, I’m keeping it light and hopefully piquing your interest.

Please consider shopping at indie bookshops in this difficult time; the bigger book boys don’t need your money as much, trust me. My friend Leena recently highlighted a whole bunch of indies on her Instagram, Books Are My Bag are always shouting out smaller shops, and as always I want to recommend The Big Green Bookshop and A Great Read UK, both of whom are online and don’t just have the best offers, but also the friendliest service. And my local pals (Hastings area), check out Rother Books in Battle, and Hare & Hawthorn in Hastings old town. Have I missed any? Comment below, or tweet me!

This is another sponsored post! How fabulous. 

I don’t know about you, lovely readers, but since lockdown it’s been my mission to make little improvements in my flat. Anyone who follows me on Instagram will have seen that my living room is slowly being taken over by plants; I’m finally framing some artwork to hang off my picture ledge, and I’ve recently invested in a new sparkly shower curtain which has made my teeny windowless bathroom seem HUGE and BRIGHT!? 

I can’t do much with this little space, of course. It’s perfect for me right now, sure, but after seeing so many of my pals buying homes and doing them up all over social media (house renovation Instagram accounts are a huge thing now, and they’re kind of addictive, don’t judge me) I have been inspired to look to the future and make some loose plans for my dream home. 

(image source)

This dream home will probably be near where I am now, because I can’t not live by the sea. In lockdown, I’ve come to love the sound of the seagulls every morning outside my window - and I’ve even come to like it when they swoop down and join me on my rooftop! Weird, eh? So yes, I think I’d have to live around here (St Leonards on Sea/Hastings, ideally Hastings Old Town) or somewhere like Brighton. Ideally I’d like an old ‘character’ property, but I know Victorian houses can be a right pain to do up, so maybe a nice 1930s house… Oh, I’m not that much of an expert, my parents are about to move into one of these and it’s pretty cute, and sturdy. 

This house would have to have high ceilings, a fireplace, plenty of windows, and some general quirky vibes to it. I’d customise it with some pops of colour and snazzy second hand bits and bobs. Because why go to one of the big warehouse shops for bookcases and cushions, when you can spend a day or two snooping around the local antique shops or charity homewares places for something truly unique? 

There are certain things I couldn’t get second hand, mind you. Some things can only be bought new, and aren’t up for compromise. For instance, I’d happily splash out on some big art pieces for the walls. And really, can you honestly say you’d buy and use a second hand fridge/freezer? Yikes. 

(image source)

Now, what about the properly dreamy things you want to add in? Have you ever thought about installing a little water feature, building a fancy kitchen island, or featuring a glass floor in your home? Don’t talk yourself down and worry it’s too dreamy or expensive, because it really doesn’t have to be. Have a look at TuffX Glass now, if you want to add some light and excitement to your new home, or spice up your old place, or bookmark them for the future! 

Read the title again. And again. And then say it to yourself, if you need to. Because it is the absolute truth, and it can’t be ignored any more. It's not okay to be 'not racist'. You have to be absolutely, wholeheartedly anti-racist. 

Yeah, I definitely should have posted this earlier. I have no excuses. I’ve had a killer writer’s block situation going on recently, but that’s because I haven’t had a clue what to say and I’ve been trying to listen more. 

I have a clue now. I am a very (VERY) privileged white woman, and I need to shut up for a second and give my platforms to others, who aren’t given the opportunity to speak up. So here are some things you need to do, and places you need to go to, right now, if you are like me and want to help others while also educating yourself… 

Read this by Fumble. And this one, too. 

Find out how you can support the BLM movement in the UK using this open document, by @perkin_amalaraj.

Check out this Finimpact post about supporting small Black-owned businesses. 

Go and look at some of favourite blogger/model/influencer humans' content about BLM; Ella (aka Whimsicella), Amyleigh, Nyome, Beth, Stephanie, then follow gal-dem, Rachel Cargle & The Great Unlearn, Layla F. Saad, Char Ellesse, Aja Barber, Ericka Hart, Danielle Coke, Asiyami Gold, Rachel Ricketts AND SO MANY MORE (comment with any other suggestions, please) (also, I would make a list of folks to unfollow because they're damaging and nasty, but that would give them traffic and attention, so nah). 

Right. What else? Who else? How else can I help? Hit me up in comments and/or on social media. I'm always open, darlings. 

Scene: the ITU at the adorable neurological centre, Haywards Heath, back in 2015. 22nd of May, to be precise. I’m stirring slightly on my bed, one eye swollen shut, bandages partially over both ears, and staples already itching in my scalp. I’m so tired. And grumpy. The anaesthesia is still heavy in my body, and I can almost feel my brain groggily mending itself after the latest invasion. 

Despite the tiredness, and infinite miserable energy pouring out of me, this stranger manages to keep me talking for a good few minutes before I happily pass out again. Then before I know it, I’m on the ward and the nurses are bringing me cups of tea and asking me if I’ve opened my bowels yet. It’s so funny, I don’t recall my time in the ITU after either of my brain ops – in fact, I once said to the parents ‘oh, I was only in there a couple of hours’, to which they replied ‘Grace, you were in there for two days!’ – but I remember that little flash of goofy cheer. I tell my family about the strange man who insisted on chatting with me while I was trying to black out peacefully. I start asking the nurses how he’s doing, once I remember his name – Graham. And then that goofball visits me on the ward, with his fiancee, and I find out they have a one-year-old son, too. I also learn that he’d been diagnosed and put in for surgery roughly six months after he’d had a seizure on his motorbike, which made him crash on a local roundabout. He and I become friends on Facey B, and stay in touch after we both go home to recover.

We got our histology results around the same time, a couple of weeks after our ops. (Don’t test me on that though, my memories of that time are a little compromised, to put it lightly.) I got mine first, and it was the same as the year before; low grade in a weird place, misbehaving cysts, etc. etc. Then on Grandma Latter’s birthday, while we were sitting in the garden having cake and bevs to celebrate her (she was in our local hospital at the time, mere hours away from a peaceful departure) I got a message from Graham to say he’d had his results back. Higher grade than they expected, very aggressive… two or three years. I remember having a proper cry then, on my blanket in the garden with a slice of cake in my lap. I then read the message to the family and declared ‘it’s just not fair.’ Because it wasn’t. He had a one-year-old son, a lovely fiancee, a job in place, and a whole future he’d just started to step into. How can it all be taken away, just like that? Why would the universe choose him, of all people, to go through this?

I’m happy to say that Graham is still with us, smashing the original prognosis, thanks to treatments – and undoubtedly, that unyielding cheer and dark humour. He and Amber married in May 2016, and by all accounts had a delightful honeymoon. Little Reuben is now five years old. Life is rolling on.

But unfortunately, my pal is not out of the woods just yet. He found out in February this year that his brain bugger is back. My family (and the rest of our Strictly Come Dancing group chat) didn’t find out about this until recently. I mean, what can you say? I guess it’s not surprising that it’s reappeared, and we can only hope that more treatment (which will be happening at my beloved Marsden, in Sutton) will sort it out and give him more time.

And that’s not the end of the sh*t he and Amber are facing now. 

Their lovely Reuben has recently been diagnosed with Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy, a muscle-wasting disease that will affect him massively growing up, and ultimately shorten his life. Realistically speaking, he will be lucky to make it to 30. Those are the hard, horrible facts.

Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy is incurable. There are charities for it, such as Duchenne UK and their partner Joining Jack, who are doing their best to help those who are living with it, and a few celebrities support these charities, too. But unfortunately the disease is not getting much publicity and research, because it’s too rare. (Not unlike brain tumours, I would add grumpily.)

The Wood family have had to face some of the hardest things anyone can, in recent years. But they have the toughest spirits, and unwavering cheer. When Amber slipped a disc last winter, they would still come round for Strictly parties with us – we propped her up with pillows, and she didn’t complain once. Graham’s Facebook statuses are the kind that make you cover your mouth in horror while shrieking with laughter (my favourite one was when he said he was having to wait two weeks for a GP appointment, and tacked on ‘it’s fine, not like I’m dying or anything’). Reuben is a total sweetheart, and what he lacks in muscle and energy (he can only walk for about 20 minutes before he gets tired) he makes up for in cheekiness, and the most genuine smiles.

While I’m sure this badass family could make it through this with only their natural cheer and determination, they will of course need financial support too. That’s why Graham and Amber have created their #unite4reuben Instagram account and fundraiser; please check out the JustGiving page and read their story on there, because it will tell you everything you need to know about the costs of raising a child with an incurable disease. If you can’t spare any pennies right now to donate (which is totally understandable; these are weird times and a lot of folks, myself included, are only just scraping by on furlough) then please share the link around. I’ve tweeted about it, and won’t stop tweeting about it until they’ve reached their goal. I’ve already had people unfollow me because of how much I’ve been yelling about it – good riddance to ‘em.

My family are working on a plan for an epic fundraising event, which I will be announcing on here and my social media platforms once it’s all sorted. Keep an eye out for that. All I’ll say for now is – if any readers who run their own creative businesses, have some good connections or perhaps work at companies that help with causes like this, could slip into my DMs on Instagram, Twitter, even my Facebook page, that would be much appreciated.

The universe has messed with the wrong people. Let’s do what we can to help them, shall we? 

My neurosurgeon was shocked when I told him that it's been six years since my first op. His eyes widened above the paper mask. He said he couldn’t believe it had been that long, and rolled his eyes in that ‘how old am I?’ kind of way – like I do when one of my younger colleagues reminds me that there’s an age gap of almost a decade between us, and they were playing ‘Moves Like Jagger’ in a Year 7 music class around the time I was drunkenly bopping to it on the dance floor during Freshers Week. 

Yep. Six years, folks. As I write this, it’s six years since I tried to snuggle down in my private room the night before facing the biggest and scariest thing I’d ever encountered; it was a warm night, I had an arrow drawn on my neck in pink marker pen, and I spent far too long simply staring at the cheap print on the wall at the end of my bed, over my pale legs and koala socks. A woman in a big hat, standing in a poppy field. A couple of years later I went to Majorca with Dad and Grandad, and was truly spooked when I saw the exact same print hanging on the wall outside my hotel room.

Six years since the awkward, cold shower in the wet room down the hall, at 7:30am. Then they got me on a bed, and wheeled me down the corridor into the theatre. It all felt very dramatic. I cried a lot when I had to say goodbye to my family and be taken behind the heavy white double doors. The tears stopped quickly though when I was suddenly in the next room with the anaesthetists – one of whom had the surname ‘Bacon’, which cracked me up. I remember thinking I had the easiest job, because I was going to be asleep the whole way through. I didn’t have to do any work. I also didn’t have to wait around, and wait for news.

Bacon asked me where I was from. He’d noticed I had ‘a bit of an accent’. I explained that I’m half Australian, and he promptly asked me what my favourite beach spot Down Under is. I surprised myself; I immediately said ‘Digger’s Beach. We have family friends who live there, it’s so beautiful, and peaceful’… or something like that. I passed out at some point there. I woke up ten hours later, my head full of fog, and actually felt embarrassed that I’d fallen asleep while talking. I had to remind myself that they’re probably used to it. I’ve since learned that they keep you talking as they put you to sleep, although I am still not sure why. My most recent operation, the reconstruction in 2018, was the best cut off conversation; one of the guys (who had a boring surname, I reckon, as I don’t remember it) asked how I felt as the drugs went in, and I tried to describe the sensation of the ceiling spinning above my head, like it was on a rolling conveyor belt. ‘It’s like I’m drunk!’ I laughed. He then replied ‘ahh, too many wines eh?’

I scoffed, and said ‘wine? More like whisky! Or gin...’ and then I blacked out. Well actually, I don’t know if it’s a blackout. I never remember the actual ‘going under’ moment. I just remember coming round, in another room, and bursting into tears, every single time. The last time, a male nurse had to give me a cuddle. I pulled him in and wailed against his chest. He gave me a doll to cheer me up – a mini version of him, apparently – but then by the time he came to collect it, a day or so later when I was on the ward with the anaesthesia slowly leaving my body, I didn’t quite remember him and was shocked to see this teeny doll on my bedside table. ‘Where did that come from!?’ I yelped.

Anyway, I digress. I have too many hospital stories, clearly. Recently, I even drew up a list of my top 10 hospitals I’ve been treated in (Haywards Heath in the top spot, closely followed by the Marsden in Sutton… I won’t bore you with it all, but just FYI, Brighton is right at the bottom. Beware!).

Okay. Back to Hurstwood Park, in 2014…

I had the best treatment in that little old place, both times I went in for surgery. Yesterday I wandered into its beautiful garden just before my MRI appointment, something I hadn’t done before despite revisiting the place many times over the past six years. I sat on the bench, the same one I’d sat on with my family and friends, after my second op. I looked over at the bench I’d sat on when one of my favourite schoolteachers called me to check in, not long after my first op. I then walked over to the glass conservatory, and let myself think back to the time we all sat in there with a cake, celebrating Grandma Latter’s birthday; I’d signed her card after months of not being able to hand write. I'd also sat in there before my second operation, reading a book, none of the words really sinking in. 

And then, because clearly I wasn’t weeping hard enough, I peered through the windows into the (now unused) women’s ward. I took a photo of my bed, the one right at the end against the wall, under the loudly ticking clock. I remembered the time my surgeon visited after the first op, and dared me to get up and walk; the old ladies in the beds next to me, the ones who kept me awake every night with their snoring and manic mumbling, cheering me on as I walked myself to the toilet dragging my wobbly IV contraption along with me.

I feel like I’m very lucky to be able to look back on these traumatic times almost… fondly? Don’t get me wrong, at the time it was terrifying and uncomfortable and I wanted more than anything to go home and to find a way to get myself a new, more functional brain. I never wished it would happen to someone else instead of me, though. I actually liked the idea that I was taking one for the team; that this horror wouldn’t happen to anyone else if it happened to me. Blah blah blah…

But it’s not just luck. I have had the most incredible journey, and the best treatment imaginable (and all on the NHS, mind you). My surgeon said yesterday that he’s happy to make my MRIs and check ups an annual thing from now (!!) but he emphasised that if at any point in the coming year I feel anxious or ‘twitchy’ (not sure if he meant literally when he said that… it would be appropriate, to be fair) I can call his secretary and request a check up. And I know that if I did do that, I’d have a scan and consultation appointment made for me within 24 hours, easy. That’s the level of care I get. I know not everyone gets that pleasant experience, and that’s so unfair. Hopefully, someday, it will change.

Going back a moment there – yep, I’m having annual check ups from now on. One per year. I used to have a scan and consultation every three months, then it was pushed back to every six, and now here we are. It’s weird. I’m a bit sad about it, if truth be told; I love going for my scans, having a happy, zen doze in the MRI tube, and then seeing one of my favourite humans not long after to peer at a screen with the inside of my head on it, and have a catch up like we’re friends meeting for a long overdue coffee date. I always keep him updated on what I’m doing for work, how my writing is going, and I tend to throw in whatever is on my mind at that moment in time; yesterday I casually mentioned that I have a boyfriend, and that I’m going to a BLM protest over the weekend. I’ll be sad not to have another one of these meetings for a full year, but I’m trying to focus on how exciting it is that I have got to this point. My lil buddy is behaving himself now. He’s not a blip any more, or a blob, or a bugger. We’re on good terms now – let’s hope it stays that way.