Day 82: ‘Behind the screens’

IT might not be the usual Sunday lunch chit chat, and boys may decide to avert their attention, but I’m talking about cervixes! Yes the lady garden, the bits down there, items that half the population have, but nobody wants to mention, well it’s out there today for all to read!

I’m not just talking about cervixes to make the gentleman of the species uncomfortable - as fun as that always is! I’m talking about it because of the recent stats revealed by a cervical cancer charity, showing that attendance at cervical screenings is down - again!

In 2008 the reality TV star, Jade Goody, quite publicly faced the realities of not going to her appointed smear test (cervical screening) when she was diagnosed with cervical cancer.

Sadly for Jade it was too late and, at the age of 27 - five years ago this weekend - she lost her battle with the disease. Before she died, Jade took to every TV channel and magazine to spread the word to women all over the UK of how important it is to be screened regularly. 

Her legacy was to increase attendance at cervical screenings by 400,000 that year, which had to be some small bit of comfort to her family. You would have hoped that this level of awareness would last more than five years. Apparently not, with levels of attendance dipping in the past year to less than it was before Jade died. 

Had she been for her smear test at 25, Jade could have been one of the 5,000 women who’s lives are saved every year thanks to the cervical screening programme. 

I’ve never missed a smear test, ever since I had my first appointment letter at 21 - which did used to be the age you first started screening. In 2009 - ironically the year Jade died - I noticed something wasn’t right, so went to the doctors to request a smear. I was referred straight to the colposcopy department at the QMC’s treatment centre, where I had a few biopsies taken from my cervix (I know, I used the word again!). 

It was a pretty simple procedure, nothing particularly dignified about it, but you have to go with the belief that almost certainly every person in that room has seen worse. The nurses hold your hands if you want them to, the doctors are kind and far less brutal than a practice nurse with a speculum (another mortifying word I know!), and in ten minutes it’s done, sorted, over. The worst bit is the wait for results.

It turned out like thousands of other women every year, I had some pre-cancerous (abnormal) cells. Mine were mid-grade and needed removing. So that was another trip back to the Treatment Centre a couple of months later to have those bad boys taken out - even easier than the biopsy cause this time you get a little local anaesthetic. 

Six months later my smear was clear as a bell and any worries I had were gone. I now have a test every year rather than every three, and up until this year they’ve all been fine. In fact my call back this year was another legs in stirrups, nervous laughter-filled, strangely comfortable lie down for another biopsy, but it was fine and I won’t be seeing my friends in colposcopy again for another year.

Shockingly five women who are eligible for screening do not take up their invitation and for young women aged 25-29 this rises to one in three.

I’m sure there’s many reasons women don’t go. I can understand the anxiety and the scaremongering that sometimes happens around these things, but it’s one ten-minute session out of your year, every three years. Surely it’s worth it? The chances are it will be absolutely fine, but if it’s not, it’s far better that you know, and can do something about it - the alternative doesn’t bear thinking about.

On behalf of myself, many of my friends who I know have been in similar positions, and for those who sadly can no longer speak for themselves, ladies get yourself booked in for that appointment!

As for the campaign to lower the age for regular cervical screening, I’m all for it, and have signed the petition. I have no idea what this means to the NHS in terms of funding, and I appreciate the pressures on services like this, but at least going back to what it used to be - minimum age of 21 - surely that’s a start? 

Day 81: ‘Looking for something new’

I KNOW quite a few people at the minute who are looking for jobs. Most of them are in a job they desperately want to get out of, some of them are looking for career progression, and a couple are currently out of work.

Whatever position you’re in, it’s a tough one at the minute. So many more people are going for the jobs you’re applying for, there are more and more qualified people, with excellent experience, going for the same jobs, so how on earth do you make sure you stand out?

Recently a brand new Costa was opened on Hucknall High Street and apparently more than 1,300 applied for just six jobs. How on earth as an employer do you manage the shortlisting for that one. Undoubtedly with that many applicants you’ll have a range of ages, backgrounds, levels of experience and qualifications, and you know you have to let down 1,294 of them.

While on the other hand, one of my clients advertised a job before Christmas that required some level of skill and knowledge, but with a wide enough remit for a large number of people to have been eligible, and received a grand total of zero applications. 

When you look at the two extremes, both advertised within two miles of each other, it’s hard to decipher what really is the current situation locally when it comes to the job market. 

And if you’re searching for work, just where do you start? There’s the obvious job sites I suppose, perusing the adverts in the paper, and signing up to a recruitment agency. 

But is the most reliable method just asking around? Are you better to pro-actively get out there and speak to people you know, find out who is recruiting, or even just speak to the places you’d like to work and confidently let them know you’re available, you’d like to work for them, and is there a way that can happen? 

It’s cheeky, it’s brash, and nine times out of ten it isn’t going to work, but when you really want to find a new job, isn’t it worth forgetting the usual British reserved, polite, ‘do it by the book’ procedure, and just ask the question? The worst that can happen is you’re told ‘no’ and I know we’re programmed to not like that word, but if you see it as a hurdle rather than a barrier, it could be the best thing to drive you forward to find the right job for you.

I know I’m not in that position, so who am I to comment? But I have been, and I was brash and forward, and it worked..the fourth time! Now I run my own business and pitching for new business comes with the same trappings as looking for a new job, but these days I love it. 

My fingers and toes are crossed for all my friends looking for new work, I hope they find their way in, and in some cases, their way out! 

Day 80: ‘How do they do it?’

I’VE always wondered how TV and news presenters do it when they’re having to talk about something heartbreaking, live on-air, while still maintaining a level head, clear voice and some level of composure. 

Are they superhuman? Do they have some sort of trick to help them block it out? In most cases, they probably do.

Brilliantly and rather beautifully this evening, Davina McCall proved that it’s not always possible to cope with that. I watched the same video she’d just watched on an old man called Bob, who was talking about the help he gets from a Sport Relief-funded service called SilverLine. The 92-year-old spoke about losing his wife to Alzheimers and how being able to call this helpline, day or night, is more of a lifeline to him, than just a phone number to call.

At the end of that film, I wouldn’t have even been able to read out the Sport Relief donation phone number to myself, never mind try to explain why it was so important to do so to millions of people. Davina managed it, but she made me worse as she struggled to get her words out, and a couple of times just had to stop, swallow, breathe and attempt to then read the number out. 

In any normal circumstances, a TV presenter unable to deliver their lines properly might get a few titters from the audience, but that film had completely silenced the audience, and Davina’s reaction floored everyone in the studio as much as it affected us at home I’m sure - you could have heard a pin drop.

It was unintentional, but fitting and genuine. Not something you see very often from someone in her position.

To end on a more comical note, if you haven’t already done so, watch back the Sport Relief Only Fools and Horses episode featuring David Beckham…so worth it! While you do, it might be worth a donation if you can.

Day 78: ‘Which animal would you be?’

I’M coming back as a tortoise. 

Over the past three nights, I’ve had in total seven hours sleep. Of course it’s not poor Erin’s fault, those chicken pox spots are itchy and make a good night’s sleep virtually impossible.

Somehow I’ve stayed awake all day, but during each and every of those waking days, I’ve looked around at the cats snoozing away and thought: “I wish I could just sleep like you two.” 

But the fact is I can’t. There’s nothing built in me that can make me nap of an afternoon, even when Erin was newborn and I was up every two hours at night breastfeeding, I still saw out every day bar one. 

So you can understand why the cats do make me jealous with their ability to just drop, sleep and chill, wherever they are, whatever time of day. 

But if I had the choice, I wouldn’t come back as a cat. I can also see the pitfalls.

Firstly there’s fur balls - they just don’t seem pleasant. Then there’s toddlers..they pull your tail, attempt to lift you by your back paws, they give you a cuddle that essentially means two stone of pure child resting on your rib cage and there’s of course traffic (RIP Dibble). 

No, being a cat is too dangerous. 

I’ve thought it through and I think I’d have to be a tortoise. 

My friend Louise is mum to our little shell bound friend, Horace. He’s got a great gig. He sits in his box and watches TV, has a nice wander round the house and the garden every now and then, and when he sleeps, he really sleeps! He’s in a purpose-built toddler proof shell, you never hear of a tragic road accident involving a tortoise and did I mention the sleep?

Horace’s life hasn’t been short on adventure though, oh no, he’s been on many an expedition! Somehow he actually ran away (something which amazingly also happened with my mum’s tortoise when she was little). It’s hard to imagine how either of these incidents happened, but I like to think that Horace and his Horace-kind are sneaky little critters, figuring out their route, taking their time and fooling the lot of us. 

Tortoises also live to a ripe old age, but don’t appear to age at all. Forget all these lotions, potions, nips and tucks, our slow-footed friends have the real anti-ageing secret sussed - lettuce! 

Day 77: ‘One of those days..’

I THINK today could be classed as ‘one of those days’. 

Not necessarily one of those days because everything went wrong. I didn’t for example wake up with hair like Kate Bush and a spot the size of Vesuvius on the end of my nose. I didn’t lose any business, break numerous nails, prang my car or accidentally tumble dry angora.

No today was ‘one of those days’ because it was a day that we knew was coming, wouldn’t be the easiest, but was incredibly important and needed a bit of super human strength. 

Today we said our final goodbye to Bri (my Grandad for those who missed last week’s blog) just over a week after he died with vascular dementia.

I said to a friend last week something I heard my dad repeat at the Wake this afternoon (clearly I have listened over the years): “There’s nothing more certain in life than death - it will come to us all at some point”. He’s right of course. 

It doesn’t make it any easier for those left behind, and it doesn’t make it right when someone dies before their time, or more tragically and unexpectedly. But one day there’ll be people gathering (we have to all hope) to say goodbye to all of us. 

That’s why, in the case of someone like my Grandad, a funeral doesn’t always have to be a terribly morbid affair, but a time to remember the man you’re sitting there to honour. To celebrate everything that made him who he was, to acknowledge his legacy and the people he’s left behind, and giggle about some of his best stories. 

Bri lived to the age of 75 and although in his latter years his enjoyment of life was a bit more limited due to the onset of dementia, he had a pretty cracking life to that point. 

One thing I was always so grateful for when his dementia started in 2009, was the fact that he had been forced to retire on ill-health grounds with his back a long time ago.

This may not sound that great a thing in itself. But in actual fact I think it was. 

It meant that although Bri lost a lot of himself and his freedom at the age of 71, he had been lucky enough by that age to have had many retired years enjoying life. He had the time to spend with my Gran, going away a number of times a year, playing a huge part in my sister and I growing up, and spending thousands of afternoons drinking coffee, eating cake and relaxing in some of the county’s finest garden centres. 

That’s more than most people could ever ask for, and more than most of us will get from retirement. 

He would never have asked for the hand he’s been dealt over the past few years, nobody would. But for me, he managed it with dignity, grace and more often than not, a smile. 

In light of me running out of my own words, I’ll leave you with those of Mary Frye:

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sunlight on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning’s hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there; I did not die.

Day75: ‘The return of the pox’

Ah, the age old adage about only ever having chicken pox once. Might I respond by saying, respectfully, what a load of tripe!

Erin had chicken pox at seven months old, it was very mild, but we know she definitely had it because she gave it to Mark - who had it far worse than she did!

So when I spotted two little spots yesterday morning before handing her over to Mark’s parents for a night away, I thought of everything else before chicken pox. Despite us warning his mum and dad, they insisted they’d be ok to have her, so we continued with our quiet Saturday evening.

On the phone this morning we were told there were a few more spots and by the time we picked her up at lunchtime, the little mite was covered..all over her tummy, back, neck, ear and a few on her face. 

Ever since she’s been home she’s been bright as a button, racing around as normal, causing as much havoc as she’s capable of in a short time period. But I reckon just in the few hours she’s been home, we can notch up at least another 10-15 little critters. 

Chicken pox really is insane, and it’s frightening how quickly these things can take hold. We definitely want her to have these childhood illnesses while she’s little, get them out the way, build up her immune system for when the next things comes along - but this week is not ideal.

I have mountains of work for every client, it’s my Grandad’s funeral on Tuesday, and we have lots to sort in the house. Damn you mother nature! She really doesn’t like to take account of these things does she, the cheeky minx. 

So the nursery will be working on 100% profit in the name of Erin Hitchings this week - apparently an illness she caught at the nursery that prevents her from attending for a week (their rules) isn’t good enough reason to waive the fees, so there’s more than £100 down the drain!

Thankfully we have such a bright and bubbly little lady, and except for her looking like a Cath Kidson mug on legs, you wouldn’t know anything was wrong really. 

Let’s just see how she gets on with the scratching tonight!

Day 73: ‘What we’re missing out on’

I WENT to Newark today for a press meeting to talk about one of my clients’ work restoring the Magnus Buildings and building the brand new National Civil War Museum.

For two reasons I found this trip particularly interesting. 

Firstly, Newark is frickin beautiful!

It was a gorgeous Spring morning to be making the trip anyway, but the approach into the town from the A617 is idyllic. With Newark Castle on your right as soon as you get there, and then the old pretty buildings, nice little cafes, the Palace Theatre and the quaint little shops. 

It’s the perfect place to go and have a stroll and some lunch at the weekend, and it’s not so far away. 

Now I’ve been to Whitby, Harrogate, Cheltenham and Derbyshire towns like Bakewell and Matlock a number of times in the past ten years, so why on earth do I miss these local gems? 

I was speaking to someone the other day who has lived in Nottinghamshire almost all their life, but never been to Newstead Abbey or Nottingham Castle. Is that strange, or is just complacency?

I’m guessing most people who live in London have, at some point or other, popped down the road to see Liz at Buckingham Palace, or shimmied on over to Madame Tussauds to have their pic taken groping David Beckham’s wax butt cheeks. So why do we sometimes ignore what’s around us?

My second observation today came from speaking to the marketing manager from the National Civil War Centre. He was telling me how significant Newark was in the English Civil War, in fact it was sieged three times, with one in six homes being destroyed by the conflict. 

Now I was doing a lot of nodding and smiling, and I have some basic understanding of the English Civil War - you know, the Roundheads and Royalists etc, but I could have told him significantly more about the family history of Peppa Pig! 

Embarrassingly for our education system, I’m certain that will be the case for so many others. Surely our own civil war should play a key part in the National Curriculum? 

Maybe it’s a part of our history that has traditionally been suppressed by those in power, but from what I have learned just today, there’s so much we don’t know about our own history, that perhaps we should.