Someone special was visiting the care home I managed. And, boy, were we in for a treat! By Caroline Bowstead, 43

Glancing at the calendar, I realised that Valentine’s Day was coming up fast.

We’d better organise something special, I thought to myself.
I managed Astune Rise, a care home in Middlesbrough, North Yorkshire, and the previous year we’d run a Valentine’s event for residents, celebrating three married couples in the home.
It was going to be hard to beat.
Luckily, the following afternoon I had a call from a man named Max Hunter.
‘Do you think the ladies would be interested in something a bit different?’ he asked.
Max used to manage the entertainment at a nearby care home but, since then, he’d had a bit of a career change.
Now he was a performer with the show Dreamboys!
And he wanted to know if we’d like a private show at the home.
I was gobsmacked – but it sounded like so much fun.
It wasn’t my decision to make, though, so I held a meeting with the residents.
At first, they all thought I was joking.
But when I passed a picture of Max round the dining room, the vote was unanimous.
Yes please!
‘I went to see the Chippendales in the Eighties,’ someone said.
‘My boyfriend did a striptease for my birthday once,’ joked someone else.
We booked Max in during our regular knit-and-natter hour on Valentine’s Day.
The carers were all delighted too, and when the day of the performance arrived, I certainly wasn’t short of staff.
The living room was decked out with shimmery red curtains and we cracked open a bottle of prosecco and got ready for the show.
By a lucky coincidence, the hairdresser had been in earlier that morning, so everyone was looking their best, and the ladies had all brought their bras and knickers along to throw at the stage!
The buzz in the home was electric.
A male resident in his 90s peered round the door at the audience.
‘Should I go in and pretend it’s me?’ he chuckled.
I wasn’t sure what to expect from Max, but he turned out to be a total gentleman.
We had a quick chat about what would be appropriate and agreed he’d stop short of going the Full Monty.
Then he headed off to get changed.
A few minutes later he was back, this time wearing a policeman’s uniform.
Pretend police radio chatter played over the speakers.
‘Calling for backup, backup!’
A cheer went up and Max stormed into the living room.
‘I’ve heard you ladies are in a bit of trouble!’ he told them.
It’s probably a good job he doesn’t have handcuffs with him, I thought. They’d never let him leave!

Everyone went wild as Max shimmied and wheeled his truncheon.
He lavished attention on the giggliest audience members, and party girls Anne and Betty lathered him with oil.
After half an hour, the show drew to a close, but Max didn’t head straight out.
Instead, he came back, fully clothed, to have a chat with everyone.
He’d also brought along a selection of Dreamboys bags and mugs to hand out.
‘I just never wanted it to end,’ one lady said.
‘I loved his backside!’ piped up Betty.
Afterwards, it was all anyone could talk about.
‘We were on about it for three days before and we’ve been laughing for three days after,’ Anne told me.
The residents’ families were delighted to see everyone having such a good time.
I couldn’t be more grateful for Max’s visit.
It’s always been important to me to bring the residents new experiences, and not just leave them sitting around playing cards.
And it’s never too late to follow your Dream Boys!

Pix: c. Popular Care

It was love at first sight when Dawn laid eyes on her first-ever dolly…

As I sat in my buggy, Mum pushed me through the airport.

Up ahead, a kiosk caught my eye.
The backlit display was showcasing beautiful golden-haired dolls with pretty faces.
Aged three, I didn’t understand what they were.
Pointing at them, I asked Mum, ‘Are they fairies or angels?’
‘They’re Barbies,’ she said. ‘I’ll buy you one.’
After paying, Mum passed my first Barbie over to me, and I never wanted to let 
her go.
From then on, Barbies were a staple present for Christmases and birthdays.
But as I grew up, my interest naturally wavered, and my old toys and dolls were given away to new homes.
Years later, I was studying 
at university, when everyone 
was talking about a new website called eBay.
‘It’s great,’ one friend told me. ‘Like a car boot sale.’
I checked it out and saw it was full of old toys from the ’80s, the era I grew up in.
Scrolling through Barbie dolls and My Little Pony figures, I felt 
a wave of nostalgia.
So, I bid on a Barbie I recognised.
I’m going to buy back my childhood, I thought.
When it arrived, I was ecstatic.
As I purchased more and more, I gained quite the collection – even managing to find a boxed version of my first-ever Barbie from the airport!  
It felt like I’d come full circle.
Three years later, at 23, I met my husband, Steve, who was supportive of my hobby.

'Are they fairies or angels?'

Knowing how much it meant to me, Steve would drive me to conventions and search markets and charity shops for dolls to add to my collection.
The more Barbies I gained, the more I noticed how they had progressed over time.
The modern-day dolls played into fantasy, with some dressed as mermaids or fairies.  
After falling for the nostalgia of the dolls from my childhood, I turned my interest to the original Barbies of the ’60s.
The craftmanship 
was beautiful, and I found the vintage fashion charming.
Learning their history was fascinating, and through research and hearing about other collectors’ experiences, 
I discovered what made them more valuable.
Still scouring eBay, I’d search for the signs that indicated the best value for money I could afford.
Then, I’d use my work as an artist to restore and repaint them.  
Afterwards, I’d take photos of them, posting my creations on my website, Instagram and Barbie Facebook groups.
It was so rewarding to transform these dolls and be inspired by other creators.
In time, Steve and I did a stint working in Hong Kong.
Living in a small high-rise flat, my collection of Barbies was sprawled across every room.
So, when we moved back to the UK, Steve had one request.

‘Can we confine it to one room?’ he asked.
I nodded in agreement, knowing that it had got a little out of control.
Amazingly, I managed it, displaying my collection in rolling cabinets behind glass, to protect them from dust and prevent the vintage clothing from attracting moths.
The room also had blackout blinds, to stop the sun from bleaching or discolouring them.
I regularly checked to make sure the conditions were right, as my collection was an investment, so I had to be careful.
Now, I have over 800 dolls, including Ken, Sindy and friends.
It’s worth thousands.
I’ve been lucky to purchase many at incredible deals, but 
I’ve also paid a few thousand pounds for rare Barbies I’ve hunted down.
Along the way, I’ve sold some dolls to upgrade, if I’ve found one in better condition.
Things are a bit of a squeeze now, so I’m happy to pass on ones I’ve enjoyed for long enough.
My collection has led to a lot 
of opportunities, including designing logos for Barbie conventions and being sent gifts from Mattel for Barbie’s 65th anniversary celebrations.
Life in plastic really is fantastic!

Dawn Austin, 45, Derbyshire

Leah had just dropped off her three-year-old boy at his dad's, when a phone call tore her world apart...

Gazing at my newborn 
baby boy Albie lying in an incubator, 
I felt an overwhelming urge to protect him.

I’d had a traumatic labour and developed sepsis, while Albie had been rushed to intensive care after being starved of oxygen.
But we’d both pulled through and I believed 
it had made the bond between us even stronger.
I’d met his dad Neil less 
than a year before in the bar 
I worked in.
But the relationship was difficult and when Albie was 
a couple of months old, we 
split up.
My little boy grew into a smiley, kind and fun-loving toddler who adored everything round – from bouncy balls to doughnuts.
We were inseparable and I’d take him on little adventures, such as day trips to Legoland, picnics in the park and to his favourite place, Cleethorpes beach.
We’d play for hours before having ice cream.
One day, as we sat in a café looking out to the sea, Albie put his hands on my face.
‘I love you, mummy girl,’ he said, kissing me.
‘I love you, my sunshine boy,’ 
I replied.
The nickname was perfect because he’d brought so much light into my life.
Albie was the happiest little boy and so intuitive.
If I was ever 
feeling down, I’d never tell him.
But he’d turn to me and say, ‘It will all be OK, Mummy.’
I worked at the nursery he went to, so we were never far apart.
Except for every other weekend, when he stayed with his dad on his farm.
One Friday, when Albie was three, we spent a day shopping together, then he had his favourite macaroni cheese at the pub for tea.

'It will all be OK, Mummy'

Next morning, 
I drove to Neil’s to drop him off for the weekend.
I’d always get there a little early so Albie and I could chat and play in the car.
That morning, Albie sat on my knee and we laughed as usual.
When it was time to leave, we said goodbye in the car.
Before driving away, I watched him in his dad’s arms.
Albie turned and waved at 
me, his gorgeous grin lighting 
up his face.
That afternoon, 
I was at my mum Michelle’s house, when Neil called.
‘It’s Albie, it’s Albie!’ he said, crying.
I knew then something was drastically wrong.
‘You need to come to hospital,’ he said, saying that he’d hit Albie with his telehandler – farm machinery used to lift heavy items – by accident.
‘Is he alive?’ I asked.
‘No, he’s dead…’ he said. ‘He’s dead.’
I prayed it was some sort of sick joke.
Only, as I drove to the hospital with Mum, the road was taped off and swarming with police cars.
In those gut-churning seconds, I knew Albie had gone.

Seeing an ambulance, I jumped out of the car and ran towards it.
There, I saw my precious boy lying on a stretcher. In that moment, my world stopped.
I held Albie’s hand as we drove to hospital.
I didn’t want to let go.
His beautiful face was injured, but otherwise, he looked like he was sleeping.
I was so angry at Neil and didn’t want anything to do with him.
At hospital, we were taken to a family room, and I was allowed to be with Albie.
I just felt like I’d died with him and time had frozen.
My partner George tried to comfort me, but I felt numb.

'I messed up, I made a mistake'

In the days following Albie’s death, I was consumed by grief.
I couldn’t bring myself to 
move anything that belonged 
to him, including the bowl he 
had eaten his cornflakes from that morning.
I plucked his unwashed jumper from the basket and breathed 
in his smell, taking it with me everywhere.
In time, the postmortem showed Albie had died of a 
head injury.
He had suffered multiple crush injuries to his head, legs and body.
At his funeral, I asked everyone to wear bright colours to reflect Albie’s personality.
We had a box of Albie’s favourite bouncy balls, and guests could take one away with them.
We played Heat Waves by Glass Animals, as Albie was always dancing to it, and Forever Young by Becky Hill.

I was too upset to read my tribute, so I asked a friend to.
I’d written, Albie, I’ll never understand what happened to you, why your life was so temporary or why the world is so cruel and unjust.
Accepting that I’ll never see you or hear your voice again, never tuck you in at night, is more than I can bear.
I love you endlessly, my sunshine boy, and I’m beyond fortunate that I got to be your mummy.
As the police investigated his death and questioned Neil, I had so many questions.

Did he suffer? Was he scared?
But I’d never know because I wasn’t there.
I had to leave my job at the nursery because I couldn’t face his little friends asking where he was, or look at the tributes, including a star on the wall.
Then, four months later, I found out I was expecting another boy.
It felt like a miracle, but it was bittersweet, too, because he’d never meet Albie.
In time, I gave birth to my son who I named Ebon Albie, in memory of his big brother.
At first, I struggled to look 
at him.
‘I’m worried he’ll look like Albie, but also worried he won’t look like him at all,’ 
I told George.
When he was a few months old, I started taking him to Albie’s grave so we could feel closer to him.
Just over a year later, Neil was charged with gross negligence manslaughter.

Finally, Albie will get justice, 
I thought.
A year later, Albie’s dad Neil Speakman, 39, appeared at Manchester Minshull Crown Court, where he pleaded 
not guilty.
He’d previously pleaded guilty to breaching a section of the Health and Safety at Work Act 1974.
The court heard that after I’d dropped Albie at his dad’s, Neil had taken Albie to run errands before returning to the farm to get on with chores.
As Neil climbed into the telehandler and moved bags of wood chip around, Albie played in the garden, throwing sticks into the air for the dogs.
Neil drove forward, dropped the machine forks and reversed back, when he felt a thud as the machine hit something, before driving over it for a couple of inches.
When he turned round, he saw Albie 
on the ground and realised the horror of what had happened.
On the way to hospital, Neil flagged down a passing ambulance.
Only, paramedics couldn’t revive him and he was pronounced dead in hospital.
Neil told jurors it was a ‘tragic accident’.
‘I messed up, I made a mistake,’ he said.
I couldn’t stand to look at him.
The telehandler was later inspected by health and safety officials, who found it had various defects, including a missing 
wing mirror.
Their report concluded it was ‘foreseeable that persons in the vicinity of the vehicle could be injured or killed when the vehicle was working’.
The prosecution claimed that Albie died ‘as a result of his father’s negligence, which created a serious and obvious risk of death’.
In time, the jury returned their verdict of not guilty.
I felt Albie had been let down – first by someone who was supposed to love and care for him, then by the justice system.
Now, it’s been almost three years since Albie died, but it doesn’t get easier.
I’m not religious, but I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve prayed that I could swap places with Albie.
But I know, one day, I’ll be reunited with my sunshine boy.

Leah Bridge, 31, Bury, Greater Manchester

I was on the adventure of a lifetime when I went for a swim and disaster struck. 
By Zoe Cahill, 24

As I took a deep breath, I stretched into my final pose, exhaled 
and clasped my 
hands together.

‘Namaste,’ I said.
It was the traditional 
way to end yoga practice, a recognition that everything was connected.
I started every morning with meditation followed by yoga, and was training to become an instructor.
And I’d come to paradise to do it.
Wanting a slower pace of life, I’d spent the last four months travelling across Southeast Asia.
Now I was on Ko Pha- Ngnan, an idyllic island in Thailand.
And that wasn’t all that 
had changed.
As I rolled up my yoga mat, my phone buzzed with a message from my new boyfriend, Tom.
Although I’d been travelling solo, I’d found friends along the way – and romance!
Tom and I had planned
to meet for lunch but he explained he’d been held up, so I decided to go to the beach instead.
Changing into a bikini and slinging a tote bag over my shoulder, I set off.
It was a gorgeous, sunny day and I made a beeline for the crystal clear waters.
Having grown up on 
the coast, I was a strong swimmer and felt at home 
in the ocean.
But when I was around 
50 metres from shore, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted something glistening in 
the water.
Suddenly, a searing pain
shot through my body.
It felt like electricity was flowing through my veins.
‘Help! Help!’ I screamed.
Thankfully, a surge of adrenaline powered me back to shore and then I collapsed.

'What happened to me?'

As I drifted in and out of consciousness, I heard people around me.
A pungent aroma filled my nostrils and I was vaguely aware of liquid being poured on my skin.
Then everything went black.
When I came to, I was lying on a stretcher in the back of an ambulance.
My entire body was throbbing.
‘What happened to me?’ 
I croaked.
A familiar voice replied.
‘I’m here,’ it said, ‘you’re going to be OK.’
It was Tom.
Someone at the beach had used my phone to get in touch and he’d rushed straight over.
What he told me next, left me stunned.
‘You were stung by a jellyfish,’ he said. ‘You stopped breathing.’
Luckily, a nurse was nearby and had performed CPR, while locals doused me in vinegar in an attempt to calm the angry welts on my skin.

I had then been taken to hospital, where hardly anyone spoke English.
As I was hooked up to monitors and jabbed with needles, I felt terrified.
Finally, a doctor spoke 
to Tom.
‘Her white blood cells are through the roof and her organs are failing,’ he explained. ‘It doesn’t look promising.’
I thought, He means I’m going to die.

Tom called my mum and dad, promising to let them know if anything changed, and I was transported
to another hospital by speedboat to be examined by a marine toxin specialist.
‘You were stung by a box jellyfish,’ he said. ‘They’re among the most venomous creatures on earth.’
I was treated with 
a combination of anti-venom, antihistamine and painkillers. But doctors were worried that I might go into cardiac arrest.
I had an idea, though. Every time my heart monitor beeped too fast, I slowed 
my breathing down, just as
I did during my yoga and meditation practices.
All the while, Tom remained by my side and, miraculously, 10 days later things were looking up.
But I still had to come to terms with the web of scars that covered my body, where the jellyfish’s tentacles had made contact with my skin.
It looked like I’d been scribbled on with a red pen and over the following days, the marks ballooned into painful blisters.
Snapping a picture of the marks on my wrist, I sent them to Mum.
When she phoned later that day, she’d consulted my Auntie Tonya, who happened to be a marine biologist.

'You're lucky to be alive'

‘Tonya said you’re lucky to be alive,’ Mum replied, her voice breaking.
Box jellyfish were native
to the area where I’d been staying, but I hadn’t seen any warnings.
‘If I’d known, I would have worn a wetsuit,’ I said.
Then I asked the question that had been playing on my mind all day.
‘Will the scars ever fade?’ 
I asked.
Mum and Tonya had been in touch with the parents of a young boy who’d been stung five years earlier.
As she explained how 
he still had the scars, I broke down.
I was scarred for life and I just had to deal with it.
A month later, I was finally well enough to go home.
Tom stayed on in Thailand and we agreed to make things work long-distance.
Once I got my strength back, I decided to confront my fears and headed to the beach.
Despite knowing there were no jellyfish, I was still terrified. But as I waded into the unknown, a sense of calm washed over me.
Now, a year on, my body remains scarred in some places. But I’ve come to see the beauty in it.
After all, my scars are proof of my fight for survival.
They’re artwork from the ocean and I wear them, like my best jewellery, with pride.

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An Olivier Award-winning interactive children's theatre show that brings dinosaurs to life on stage returns to London this summer.

The international hit Dinosaur World Live will run at Troubadour Wembley Park Theatre from 28 July to 6 September.

Step into a prehistoric world with remarkably life-like creatures. Meet a line-up of dinos, including every child's favourite flesh-eating giant, the T-Rex, alongside a Triceratops, Giraffatitan, Microraptor and Segnosaurus.

This is an entertaining and educational live show suitable for ages 3+.

It's 50 minutes long but there's also a 15 minute post-show meet and greet with the dinos.

Tickets are on sale now with seats for the first four previews priced at £10. Find out more here

Growing up, Milla hated her larger frame, until it made her stand out on stage...

My mum’s friend raised her eyebrows and looked me up 
and down.

‘You’re a big girl, aren’t you?’ she smiled.
Later that night, I cried in my room, wishing I could just be 
like my friends.
Aged 14, I was 14 stone and six foot tall.
Towering over my petite pals 
at school, I was relentlessly bullied for my size.
Soon, I developed body dysmorphia, convinced that 
I was hideous.
It wasn’t until I moved to Cornwall, aged 15, that life got better.
I fell in love with surfing.
The time out on the water gave me a chance to think.
Even though I worried about the surfing making my shoulders broader, it didn’t stop me.
Gradually, I realised that I didn’t care.
Through surfing, I discovered plenty of other passions.
After I’d realised how much plastic and rubbish was in the water, I got involved with beach clean-up programs.
Meanwhile, I trained as a lifeguard and learnt how to administer CPR.
It shocked me that so few people knew how to perform 
this life-saving first-aid.
In my early 20s, I started volunteering for the St John Ambulance service.
‘You’re always volunteering or working on a project,’ my friend laughed. ‘You should apply for Miss England.’
‘I’ve never even thought about it,’ I replied.
But later that evening, I did some reading.  
To my surprise, it turned out Miss England was about a lot more than just looking good in 
a swimsuit.
Instead, it functioned as a charity organisation, helping women and girls, as well as the sick and disadvantaged.
Of course, I knew that beauty queens were traditionally thin.
By then, I was
a size 16 and comfortable in 
my body.
I’d even thrown 
out my scales.
I didn’t see why my size should stop me competing.
And to my delight, I was accepted!
My application focused 
on both sustainability and a campaign to make CPR and first aid a compulsory part of the school curriculum.
In the run-up to the event, I was starstruck when I met Prince William at a lifeguard event.
It was an honour to chat to him and he even wished me luck in the finals.
Once it was time to compete, 
I was up against 39 other girls 
in 12 different rounds over two days.
They were firefighters, lawyers and doctors – a long way from the ‘bimbo’ stereotype of beauty queens.
Everyone was 
lovely, though I did notice I was the only plus-size girl.

To my astonishment, I was announced as one of the five finalists!
‘What would you bring to Miss England if you won?’ a judge asked me on stage.
‘I’m bringing the passion and drive to make a difference,’ I replied. ‘I’m so grateful for being here, but regardless of whether I win or not, I’ll still keep pursuing my goals.’
Backstage, all five of us finalists held hands tightly until they announced the winner.
When I heard my name, I could hardly believe it! I felt so honoured to represent our country.
‘I’m so glad you’ve won,’ Angie Beasley, the director of Miss England, said. ‘When I was competing in pageants in the Seventies, there were a few size-12 contestants. But these days, most are a small size 8! 
We want to buck that trend.’
‘I guess you don’t have to be stick-thin to be a beauty queen,’ I said, smiling.
Since then, I’ve had incredible opportunities to make a difference in the world.
I’ve come a long way from 
the self-conscious teenage girl 
I used to be.
Miss England has helped me to feel beautiful, but it’s about so much more than just strutting your stuff on the catwalk!

Milla Magee, 23, Newquay, Cornwall

We’d received shocking news about our baby girl and we feared the worst. But she was about to surprise us all. By Hannah Murphy, 39, 
of Barton-on-Sea, Hants

Gazing at the little bundle in my arms, I didn’t think it was possible to feel happier.

After a textbook pregnancy, my daughter Molly was born on time and my husband Chris and I were in a bubble of newborn bliss.
But within days, Molly was struggling to breastfeed and when I noticed her little arms and legs twitching slightly, we took her to A&E.
As we stood in a busy hospital corridor, a consultant went to hurry past, then stopped and stared at Molly.
‘Can I take her?’ he asked.
We followed as he took her for tests, then told us, ‘She’s having small seizures.’
She was taken to intensive care where genetic tests revealed Molly had pyruvate dehydrogenase deficiency (PDH). It was an extremely rare mitochondrial disease in which lactic acid built up in the body causing both neurological and developmental delays.
‘She may never walk or talk,’ the doctor said.
There was even a chance she might not live past her toddler years.
Looking at our perfect baby girl, it was impossible to believe something was wrong.
Molly was put on a specialist low-carb, high-fat ketogenic diet to help her process food into ketones energy rather than carbohydrates – something her body struggled to do.
It was hoped that would stop her seizures and give her the energy to develop.
But, sitting with her 
that night, we felt lost 
and helpless.
I remembered a leaflet the hospital staff had given us for a charity called The Freya Foundation, which helped PDH sufferers and their families.
I got in touch and discovered a community of supportive and hopeful parents, who helped us feel less alone.
Molly was a fighter too. When she tried and failed to sit up, she just kept trying.
‘Go on, Molly Moo,’ I’d say.
She loved swimming and being at the beach, so as she got older, I started taking her paddleboarding and surfing with me. Strapped into a special chair, she loved gliding through the waves.
Molly’s five now and doing so well. We have a little boy, Archie, too.
We continue to receive help and support from The Freya Foundation and another charity called The Lily Foundation and Chris is running the London Marathon for them this year.
Molly’s defying the odds and has learnt how to crawl and take a few steps in 
her walker. Plus she can communicate using Makaton and a few words.
Although we know Molly’s condition may progress over time, we’re determined to give her the best life possible.

• To support Chris, search ‘Christopher Murphy The Lily Foundation’ on justgiving.com

My sisters and I had always had a tight bond. But something terrifying was about to bring us even closer together. By Cheryle Brandon, 51

The deep blue sea shimmered in the sunlight and I gasped at the sight.

‘Wow, that’s stunning,’ I said.
My younger sister Kelly had spun her phone around to show us her incredible view.
‘You’ll have to visit soon,’ she said.
I was on a video call with Kelly and my older sister Chelsea.
Since Kelly had moved to Australia and Chelsea lived in Devon, it was the best way to keep in touch.
We loved a good chinwag.
But, a few weeks later, we were chatting, and I felt a burning bubble of acid reflux rising in my chest.
In the days that followed, the discomfort continued and I visited my GP.
I was prescribed indigestion medication, and the heartburn calmed down.
But before long, it returned with a vengeance, and I started struggling to swallow.
It happened when I ate red meat so, I cut that from my diet.
Then, I started choking during meals, and ended up eating only soft foods, such as milky Weetabix, yogurts and ice cream.
I started to lose weight, and my GP referred me for an endoscopy.
I assumed it was nothing more than a cyst in my throat.
So, I went to the appointment alone.
After the procedure, I sat in a waiting room.
I watched as other patients were called for their results.
They were greeted by a nurse in a blue uniform, before they went into one of the side rooms, and came out smiling.
When my name was finally called, a nurse in a burgundy coloured uniform appeared, alongside a doctor.
I thought, Something isn’t right here.
In the room, my hands felt clammy with anxiety.
‘I’m afraid we found something in your oesophagus,’ the doctor said. ‘We believe it’s cancer.’
My heart sank. Cancer hadn’t crossed my mind.
‘Am I going to be OK?’ I asked.

The doctor explained that oesophageal cancer was one of the most difficult to treat.
I’d need tests to find out what stage the cancer was at.
On the bus on the way home, I felt numb.
It wasn’t until I walked through my front door that the reality of the situation hit me.
I needed to speak to Kelly and Chelsea.
Over video call, I told them, ‘I’ve got some bad news.’

As I explained the situation, they looked devastated, but they tried to comfort me.
‘You can beat this,’ Chelsea said.
‘You’re so strong,’ Kelly told me.
Later, tests revealed that my tumour was 6cm long. It was aggressive, stage four cancer.
‘Am I going to die?’ I asked.
‘We have to attack the tumour hard,’ the consultant said.
It was too risky to operate, as the tumour was located close to my heart.
The only way to try to save my life was through high-dose chemotherapy, followed by radiotherapy.
I was told that without treatment, I could only have months to live.
When I spoke to my family, I told them, ‘This tumour, she’s like a squatter and I have to get rid.’
‘Kick her out!’ they said.
I called the tumour Geraldine – giving it a name made it more personal to fight.
I knew treatment would be tough.
So, a few days before my chemotherapy was due to start, I hosted a party to shave my head.

I knew I might lose my hair during the treatment and it was my way of taking back some control from Geraldine.
More than 50 friends and family arrived, and Chelsea travelled up from Devon to my home in Surrey.
It was overwhelming.
Then, a familiar face walked into the room.
‘Kelly!’ I shouted.
‘Surprise!’ she said as we both burst into tears.
I had a feeling she might be coming, as I hadn’t been able to get hold of her.
But it was still a huge surprise.
With Kelly and Chelsea by my side, I tied my hair into little chunks and invited people to cut one each, as a symbol of their support.
After my hair was cut, my sisters and a friend grabbed a razor and ran it across my head until every strand was gone.
As I looked in the mirror, I thought, You can do this.
Surrounded by family and friends, I felt so loved and supported.

Doctors had warned me to ‘prepare for the worst’ and get my affairs in order.
I put on a brave face but I knew the party might be my last chance to get everyone I loved together.
I hugged and squeezed them all tightly.
‘Thank you for coming,’ I said.
The next day, Chelsea, Kelly and I planned to spend time together.

For years, we’d talked about getting a tattoo – three love hearts to represent three sisters.
But we’d never got round to it.
‘What’s a better time than now?’ Kelly said.
At the tattoo studio, I lay back in the chair, and my sisters held my hands, as the needle pierced my skin.
Later, we held out our arms to admire our tattoos, and we had to bite back tears.
‘I love you two,’ I told my sisters.
‘We love you too,’ came the reply.
The following day, I arrived at hospital to start chemotherapy.
Kelly was there again to hold my hand.
But after a couple of weeks, she had to return to Australia to be with her daughter.
The side effects of the treatment were horrendous.
I suffered nausea and couldn’t control my body temperature.
I felt fatigued and spent most of my days in bed, sleeping.
In the months since the symptoms of my tumour had started, my weight had plummeted.
I’d dropped from a size 16 to a size 10, and had a feeding tube fitted.
Chelsea travelled back and forth to be by my side.
My family were there for me every step of the way.
‘I hate this, I hate Geraldine,’ I said.
But they kept me strong.
‘I’m so proud of you,’ Chelsea said.
Kelly tried to reassure me.
‘You’re going to beat this,’ she said.
But after the chemotherapy came to an end, the radiotherapy knocked me for six.
My throat was in so much pain, I even struggled to swallow water.
I suffered dehydration, urine retention and low blood pressure, and felt incredibly weak.
Kelly flew over to visit, bringing my niece which gave me a boost.

Then, after a scan, a doctor from the oncology team told me, ‘There’s no trace of the disease.’
‘Are you being serious?’ I asked.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, and questioned whether she was looking at the right file.
But she reassured me that the result was correct.
She laughed and said, ‘Miracles do happen.’
I phoned Chelsea and Kelly to tell them I was cancer free, and we all broke down in tears of overwhelming relief.

‘This is the best news!’ they said.
It took over a year after radiotherapy to feel a new version of normal.
But cancer has taught me to be more humble and appreciative of life.
Now, I undergo six-monthly check-ups.
My sisters and I have always been close, but this experience has only brought us closer.
I’ve started raising money for Guts UK, a charity that funds research into the digestive system and supports those affected by digestive conditions, and I raised more than £1400 through a ‘Great Gutsby’ themed fundraiser.
I want to raise awareness of oesophageal cancer. If my story makes just one person recognise the symptoms, then it’ll be worth it.

When I met William, my 
once-glamorous life turned into a hellish nightmare. 
By Mhairi Campbell, 64

As a smartly dressed figure approached my table, I felt pleasantly surprised.

A friend had arranged for me to go on a blind date with her friend William at a local pub.
I’d been reluctant at first, but as the conversation flowed, I felt happy I’d taken a chance.
William told me he worked as a floor layer, and I talked about my job at a beauty counter in a department store.
‘Weren’t you in a beauty pageant once?’ he asked.
I realised my friend had told him about my modelling days.
‘I was a finalist in Miss Scotland when I was 17,’ I replied.
‘I can’t believe I’m on a date with someone like you,’ he said.
I appreciated the compliment, and William seemed kind.
We started a relationship, and things moved fast.
I felt lucky, as being in my 50s, I’d started to fear I’d be single forever.
My daughter had long since moved out of my home in Scotland, and it was lovely to have company.
But, William liked to smoke cannabis.
Whenever I asked him to stop, he’d lose his temper and start shouting and swearing.
One day, he flew off the handle when we were out together in public.
An undercover police officer witnessed it, and arrested him for breach of the peace.
William had to go to court and was sentenced to three months in prison.
When I visited him, he made a shocking confession.
‘I’ve been done for domestic violence before,’ he said.
He’d never been physically aggressive towards me, so it was difficult to wrap 
my head around.
After he was
released, he’d 
cook me dinner and buy me presents.
So, whenever he did have an angry outburst, 
I let it slide.

We’d been together four years when he came into money from the sale of his old house.
‘I want to invest it in property,’ he said.
‘You should look at houses 
in Spain,’ I suggested. ‘They’re much cheaper.’
We visited, and found a property we liked.
It needed work, but it was exactly the kind of project that William was looking to throw himself into.
In the months that followed, we travelled back and forth, doing the place up.
But the money quickly ran out.
William grew frustrated, and turned to cannabis and alcohol.
It infuriated me, and our arguments became physical.
On one occasion in Spain, our neighbours called the police.

William was given a restraining order.
But a couple of days later, he knocked on my front door.
‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ I said.
‘It’s my f***ing home,’ he replied.
I didn’t want another fight, so 
I let him in. But then he started accusing me of calling the police on him.
I’d had enough.
‘I’m booking a flight home,’ 
I told him.
Then he started asking me 
for money. And when I told 
him I didn’t have any, he 
began to shout.
I walked into another room 
to get away from him, but he followed me.
So I grabbed my car keys from the coffee table and went to open the front door.
But as my hand touched 
the handle, I felt a heavy blow to my back.
I collapsed to my knees, and when I turned around, I was horrified to see that William was holding what looked to 
be a carving knife.
Then, he plunged the blade into my left arm.
I tried to pull myself up off the floor, but he stabbed me again, in the side.
Blood pooled around me.
‘You need to stop!’ I begged.
‘I can’t, it’s gone too far now,’ he said.
I managed to crawl to the bedroom, and pulled myself up on to the bed.
Within moments, the sheets were soaked with blood.
William followed and slashed the bed with the knife.
‘You should write a letter to your daughter,’ he said, before storming out the room.
‘Please call for help!’ I shouted.

‘I can’t do that,’ he said.
I begged him not to leave 
me there to die, as I started 
to drift in and out of consciousness.
I thought, This is the end 
for me.
William returned with towels, expecting me to mop up the blood.
‘I’ve called an ambulance,’ he told me.
Then he left, and I heard the front door close behind him.
I didn’t believe he’d actually phoned for help. So I waited until he was far enough away, and with the last of my strength, screamed for help.

Minutes later, my neighbour’s grown-up daughter stepped into the room.
Her eyes widened in horror.
She called for an ambulance, and explained that she’d seen William running from our home.
He hadn’t locked the door.
I must have passed out, as when I opened my eyes again, 
I was in hospital.
My left arm was bandaged, and I had a catheter.
I knew I was in a bad way.
Two police officers and an interpreter appeared at my bedside.
‘William got on a plane a couple of hours after the attack,’ one of officers said. ‘We’re still trying to find him.’
But days passed and police couldn’t track him down.
A guard stood outside my hospital room 24 hours a day, in case William came back.
I’d suffered massive internal bleeding.
The stab to my 
back had punctured my lungs, and mesh had to be inserted 
to strengthen tissue 
in my bowel where the knife had scraped it.
It was two weeks before I was discharged.
But as my home was still a crime scene, I had to stay at 
a women’s refuge.
Weeks later, doctors told 
me I was well enough to fly home to Scotland.
But it was terrifying, as William was still on the run.
It was 10 months before police found and arrested him.
He was extradited to Spain, where he remained in custody.
Meanwhile, I developed a hernia, caused by the stab wound to my side, and I 
needed an operation.
But in time, I gave evidence over video link during a visit 
to Spain.
William shot me a chilling look through the screen.
In court, William McDonald, 61, of Rutherglen, near Glasgow, pleaded not guilty 
to attempted murder.
He tried to claim that I 
had inflicted the injuries on myself in a bid to keep his home in Spain.
I thought, How could I have stabbed myself in the back?
But the ridiculous accusation, only revealed William’s true nature – he was arrogant enough to think he could get away with anything.
The court heard that William had used bleach to try to get 
rid of the blood stains.
Towels he’d used to mop up the blood were found in the washing machine, which was running when paramedics arrived.
At the end of the trial, William was found guilty of attempted murder.
He was sentenced to 14 years and 11 months in prison, and handed a 24-year restraining order, stopping him from going within 500 metres of me.
He was also ordered to pay me £20,000 in compensation.

Later, William tried to appeal his conviction, but was unsuccessful.
Now, I’m trying to rebuild my life. But it’s not been easy.
I was diagnosed with PTSD, and the trauma has stopped me forging a meaningful relationship.
But for now, I’m happy to remain single, and focus on healing the emotional and mental scars.
I’ll need further operations to keep replacing the mesh in my bowel. But I fought for my life that terrifying night when William me left for dead.
I’m not a victim. I’m a survivor.

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Closing date for issue 18 is midnight 25th of May 2026. Only one entry per person

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Closing date for issue 17 is midnight 18th of May 2026. Only one entry per person

The first ever Gladiators Experience opens in the UK this weekend.

Fans can step out of the stands and into the arena at NEC Birmingham from Saturday 2 May.

Spanning more than 100,000 sq ft, the Gladiators Experience, a full-scale, fully immersive arena, transforms one of the UK's most iconic television franchises into an unmissable day out, placing visitors of all ages and abilities at the heart of the action.

Five of the show's most iconic events have been brought to life - with adult and family-friendly versions to play. Contenders race side-by-side up The Wall in a test of speed, agility and nerve, before going head-to-head on elevated podiums in Duel, pugil sticks in hand, with balance and bottle on the line.

On Hang Tough, contenders swing across a suspended grid of rings demanding grip, timing and precision, while Unleash pits four players against each other in a fast-paced obstacle course built for speed. It all culminates in the iconic Eliminator, a relentless run through demanding obstacles, an assault on the legendary Travelator and a final sprint through the doors.

Taking things up a notch, RFID-powered leaderboards track every challenge in real time, turning the experience into a high-energy, competitive day out where friends or family members can go head-to-head, climb the rankings, and prove who’s the ultimate Contender.

Beyond the arena, the experience continues with immersive attractions. The Vault is home to an archive charting the show’s history from its US origins to the iconic UK series in the 1990s, its international versions, and a hall of fame celebrating Contender Champions to the present day. The collection features a wide range of memorabilia, including BBC Gladiators costumes, original 90s outfits, referee uniforms worn by the late John Anderson and Mark Clattenburg, helmets and props from across every era, and trophies from the 90s, 2000s and BBC revival, including Hunter’s Ultimate Gladiator trophy, alongside a nostalgic selection of 90s merchandise.

Fans can step into the action with unique photo opportunities, taking on the Gauntlet, experiencing life inside an Atlasphere, stepping onto the Powerball pitch, striking a Duel pose with a pugil stick, or bursting through a Destruction barrier. A dedicated warm-up zone and meet-and-greet space bring guests closer to the stars, while a soft play area keeps younger visitors entertained and a huge Gladiators superstore offers exclusive merchandise.

In addition to the experience opening this week, the Gladiators Live Tour 2026 will be returning this Winter, following huge fan demand after its explosive debut in 2025, bringing the iconic show back to arenas across the UK for an exciting new run. Audiences can once again experience the action-packed spectacle on a grand scale. The tour begins in Aberdeen at the P&J Live Arena on 10 October, then heads to Glasgow OVO Hydro, London OVO Arena Wembley, Manchester AO Arena, Newcastle Utilita Arena, Liverpool M&S Bank Arena and Birmingham BP Pulse Live.

Find out more here

This spring, Take a Break readers can get their green thumbs ready for something truly special! We’ve joined forces with Thompson & Morgan, the experts in garden plants and flowers, to bring you an extraordinary reader offer: a FREE Wildlife-friendly Perennial Collection, worth £27.58 – all you pay is the postage!

Carefully curated for continuous colour from late spring to autumn, this collection of 24 plug plants promises to brighten borders and attract pollinators, bringing both beauty and biodiversity to your outdoor space. Inside the collection you’ll find a vibrant mix of Aquilegia, Dianthus, Leucanthemum, Verbena and more, perfect for both new and experienced gardeners.

Don’t miss the chance to claim yours: simply pick up this week’s Take a Break magazine for your code and full instructions. Whether you want to freshen up your patio, borders or create a wildlife haven, this is an unmissable opportunity brought to you by Take a Break and Thompson & Morgan.

Supplies are limited, so grab your magazine and get planting!

Taking off her make-up, Kerry noticed something unusual…

Swiping a cotton pad over my face, I took off my make-up, ensuring to remove every last trace.

But when I got to my nose, 
I noticed a small red spot with pus, on the tip.
Giving it a squeeze, I thought nothing of it.
Only, over the next three weeks, the spot kept reappearing.
I’d pop it, then it would come back.
Confused, I saw my GP. Only, when he examined it, he seemed a little concerned and referred me to a dermatologist.
I couldn’t help but research on Google.
The words skin cancer practically jumped off the webpage.
Surely, it’s just a whitehead, 
I told myself.
Besides, I always wore SPF on holiday and although I enjoyed getting a tan, I was never a sun worshipper.
Despite the lockdown restrictions at the time, I was seen quickly.
At hospital, the dermatologist ran the magnifying glass over my nose.
‘This needs to come out now and be sent off to the labs,’ she said.
‘What is it?’ I asked shakily.
‘It could be cancerous cells,’ she explained.
But it’s just a spot, I thought, confused.
Immediately, the doctor scraped off the spot using an instrument called a curette.
I left the hospital with a big plaster on my face and in a bit of a daze.
‘It could be skin cancer,’ I said to Mum when I returned home.
‘Oh, love,’ she said pulling me in for a hug. ‘No news is good news.’
She was right, but naturally, my thoughts turned to my 10-month-old son Albie.
I needed to be OK for him.
Over the next week, 
I waited for the results to come in.
But they didn’t.
Weeks passed and I hadn’t heard a thing.
Thankfully, my job as a hairdresser and hair extension specialist was a distraction.
I called the hospital every week.
‘There could be a delay because of Covid,’ the receptionist said.
In the meantime, the black hole that had been left on my nose had healed up brilliantly.
Eventually, nine months on, 
I received a letter.
It stated that I had basal cell carcinoma, which was a type of skin cancer, but it was benign and therefore hadn’t spread.
‘Oh, thank goodness,’ I exclaimed.

But the realisation that I had cancer was hard to swallow.
Although I knew that one in two people got skin cancer, 
I didn’t realise it could look 
like a little spot.
As a result, I became more skin conscious.
I put on SPF 50 every day and started wearing a hat whenever it was hot.
Three years after my diagnosis, I noticed a spot on the side of my nose.
Not thinking much of it, 
I popped it, but it wouldn’t stop bleeding.
Two weeks later, it was still there, so I called my GP.
I was referred to the hospital and I was shocked to learn that I had skin cancer again.
After having the second spot removed, I was left with a hole on the side of my nose again.
Only this time it was much bigger.
I felt really self-conscious.
Thankfully, my results showed it was benign and it’s since healed up nicely.
My diagnoses inspired me to do a course in trichology – the study of the hair and scalp.
It’s taught me lots about scalp health and skin cancers.
I have now opened up my own salon and if I notice anything suspicious on a client’s scalp, I’ll refer them to a dermatologist.
Never did I think skin cancer could appear as a regular looking spot. So I’m doing everything I can to encourage skin safety.

Follow @kbhairextensions

After writing her first pen pal letter as a teen, Marjorie got the bug…

My dad ruffled my hair and handed me 
a stamp.

‘One for your collection,’ he said.
‘Wow!’ I replied. ‘It’s all the way from Australia!’
Dad worked at a university, and he often handled mail from overseas.
I adored the tiny illustrations of scenes from all over the world.
One afternoon, Dad asked if he could have one of my old schoolbooks.
‘My colleague wanted a copy to send to his teacher friend in Denmark,’ he explained.
That’s how I first got in touch with Nina.
She was a Danish girl aged 
10, the same age as me, and 
I was fascinated by her descriptions of home.
She told me about her family holidays in their summerhouse on an island off the coast.
I was totally spellbound!
We lost touch when she moved overseas to work as an au pair, but by then, I was mad about letter writing.
My secondary school set up 
a pen pal scheme with some French students.
We were only meant to have one each, but somehow, I 
ended up with two!
After that, I joined a pen pal club in Burnley.
All my money went on stationary, stamps and postage and soon I was writing five or six letters a week.
Our postman got to know me very well.
As a teenager, there was another advantage to my correspondence obsession – boys!
There was Mirek in Czechoslovakia, who only ever wrote about his technical studies.
Then there was Reza from Iran, who sent me jewellery!
I was smitten with tall, dark and handsome Andy in Malta.
And Samuel from Ghana swore his undying love to me!
Then there was Colin from South London who wanted to take me to Battersea funfair.
I’m thinking of going on a world tour, I wrote to my pen pal Tanja from Yugoslavia. Would you like to come?
So when I was 18, we arranged to meet one summer’s day 
at the base of the 
Eiffel Tower.
But when I informed my parents, they had other ideas.
‘Mum, I’m off to see the world!’ I announced.
‘What? Over my dead body!’ she replied.
After arguments and tears, 
it was agreed Tanja could come and stay with us for six weeks instead.
Aged 21, I had my daughter.
As a young mum, I didn’t have as much time to write and the letters with some 
of my old pen pals dried up.
Then, on holiday in France one year, 
I had an idea.

I could advertise in a French magazine to find some French penfriends.
The replies came in thick and fast – many more than I could handle so I began pairing them up with young English mums.
It worked well, so I started a Penfriend Club called ‘Over the Rainbow’.
Within a week, 95 people had subscribed. The club continued to grow and not much later, I was invited to the first ever pen pal convention, held in Illinois, USA.
Two years later, I organised a second pen pal convention – a British one in Swindon.
And next up was the Australian pen pal jamboree!
I was seeing the world, just as I’d dreamt of as a little girl.
With the internet age we pivoted on to Facebook, and our numbers only grew.
After a boom during the pandemic, we had 500 active members at any one time and 1000 followers on Facebook.
We had letters pouring in from everywhere, from Iceland to Timbuktu.
Although we’d fallen out of touch, I kept thinking of Nina – the pen pal who’d started it all!
So, on the off chance, I sent a letter to her childhood address.
To my delight, I received a reply just a couple of weeks later.
It was such a lovely surprise to hear from you! she wrote. My parents still live at this address and asked me to translate your letter. I would love to resume writing again!
The two of us wrote back and forth, catching up on our life stories.
I’ve been writing letters for six decades now.
I hope one day I’ll meet Nina face to face.
The sooner the letter!

Marjorie Edwards, 75, 
Ilminster, Somerset

I was married when I struck up a friendship with another man. And an unlikely Cupid pushed us together. By Sam Wood, 38

Glancing at the clock, I heaved a sigh.

Late again, I thought to myself.
It was another hour before the front door finally burst open and my husband Quentin appeared, full of apologies.
‘Sorry, I got caught up…’ he began.
‘…at work,’ I finished his sentence for him.
Quentin and I had met as teenagers. We’d started off as friends but gradually romance had blossomed and we’d tied the knot.
After our little boy was born, life felt perfect – and I’d looked forward to us spending lots of time together as a family. But there was a snag.
Quentin was really ambitious and, determined to get on, he started spending more and more time at work.
‘I’m so lonely,’ I told him. ‘You’re never here.’
‘I’m just trying to provide for us,’ he said. ‘I want to give us a good life.’
I understood, and I really appreciated how hard he worked for his family.
But I couldn’t help how I felt.
It wasn’t as though I had friends and family on the doorstep either.
We lived in the countryside, and with Quentin often away for work or not arriving home till late, I spent hours and hours alone with our rambunctious little boy.
I started having panic attacks and eventually was diagnosed with anxiety.
I tried to explain how I was feeling to Quentin.
‘It’s great that you’re so focused on work,’ I told him. ‘But I feel neglected. You don’t give me enough emotional support.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he replied, ‘but I’m just not an emotional kind of guy.’
It was frustrating, but I loved Quentin and I was determined to make our marriage work.
In time, we moved to a new place near the sea.

Quentin had an amazing new job lined up and I was looking forward to living somewhere with shops close by and a community.
‘We need to get out and meet people,’ I told Quentin. ‘It’s time to make some friends.’
I found a group that organised regular get-togethers and so, one evening, we headed to the pub for a quiz night.
The pub was packed to the rafters, but it didn’t take long to find our group. And, as more and more people started to arrive, we directed them to our table.
Then, while Quentin was buying some drinks, the pub door opened and a man walked in.
He was tall and good-looking, and he had a gorgeous smile.
‘Are you here for the Meetup quiz?’ I asked. ‘We’re sitting over there.’
‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I’ve been with Meetup for a few years now.’
As he walked away, I felt embarrassed.
Of course he knew who everyone was. It was me who was the newbie!
As the quiz was about to start, the handsome stranger joined Quentin and me at the table.

‘I’m Roger,’ he smiled.
It turned out that Roger and I were both great quizzers, and we fired answers across the table at lightning speed.
It was great fun, and when I heard there was another group night out being organised, I jumped at the chance to go.
This time it was a meal at a Mexican restaurant.
Roger was there and we had another really fantastic evening, tucking into delicious quesadillas and enchiladas, all washed down with margaritas.

I hadn’t enjoyed myself so much in ages – and not long after, Roger sent me a friend request on Facebook.
We chatted online and discovered we really got on. Roger was outgoing but also had a quiet, sensitive side, and was creative like me.
He told me he had a daughter from a previous relationship, and when I opened up about my anxiety, he confessed that he’d also been through it and gave me great advice on how to manage the condition.
Over time, I found myself turning to him more and more. On one occasion, when I woke up in the middle of the night with a panic attack, I called him.
He talked me through it, helping me to calm my breathing, and set up an appointment with a counsellor for me.
‘People helped me when I was at rock bottom,’ he said. ‘So I want to do the same for you.’
I was so grateful that I had made such a special friend.
When I told Quentin about how much Roger was helping me, he was relieved.
‘I’m glad you have someone to talk to,’ he said.
I couldn’t help feeling a little hurt, though, and I thought, What kind of husband doesn’t feel jealous of their wife’s close friendship with another man?
Then one night things came to a head.
Quentin and I were hosting a games night at our house, and Roger arrived early to help set up.
I was aware of Quentin watching us.
At the end of the evening, Quentin came up to me and said, ‘You’re falling for him, aren’t you?’
I was at a loss for words, so he went on, ‘I’ve been watching you two all night. Roger’s a good guy. You should go for it.’
It felt like a punch to the stomach.
Was my husband actually telling me that I should see someone else? Didn’t he love me any more?
In the weeks that followed, I wrestled with my emotions.
The truth was, Quentin was right. I was falling for Roger. He could give me something Quentin never could.
But was it enough to break up my marriage?
Quentin spoke to me and Roger separately, gently encouraging our relationship. He was so reasonable and unemotional about it.
Finally I said to him, ‘Are you sure?’
‘I think it’s for the best,’ Quentin said.
So we started divorce proceedings.
As a stay-at-home mum, I didn’t really have money of my own and didn’t know how I’d be able to support myself, let alone our son.
But Quentin had an idea.

‘Why doesn’t Roger move in with us?’ he said.
‘What?’ I asked, stunned.
‘I’m working away so much at the moment. It just makes sense,’ he went on. ‘Once you’re in a better position financially, I’ll move out.’
It was unconventional, but Roger was willing to give it a go, so a few weeks later, he and his daughter moved in with us.
I was terrified it would be an absolute disaster.
But it was the complete opposite.
The kids adjusted well and, if anything, it breathed new life into our home.
While my relationship with Roger flourished, he and Quentin also struck up a friendship, and the three of us even took the kids to Disney World together.
Roger, Quentin and I took grown-up breaks together too, the three of us piling into our car and heading off on kid-free adventures.
Although some of my family were opposed to the idea at first, once they saw how well we all got on, they came round to it.
Now, 20 months after Roger moved in, Quentin and I are officially divorced and he’s about to move into a flat nearby.
But he’ll be staying in my life – and in Roger’s.
I feel so lucky to have them both.
Quentin gave me a family and security, and Roger gave me hope and peace when I was feeling lost.
If it wasn’t for Quentin, Roger and I would never have got together. Not many women can say their husband found them a new man – but I’m so glad mine did.

During her childhood, Lisa was subjected 
to horrific abuse by the people who should have been looking 
after her…

Putting on a nice dress and my best shoes, 
I hurried downstairs.

‘C’mon, let’s go,’ 
Mum said, as she marched me, my dad and older siblings out the door.
We made our way to church and I couldn’t wait to sing the hymns.
It was the only time I had any fun, because my home life was terrible.
I was never treated with love 
or affection, and Mum was a 
drill sergeant.
In the middle of the night, she’d make me and my siblings get up to clean the house.
In time, my parents divorced and Dad moved out.
Mum started to host singles parties, and that’s how she became friends with a man named Gerald.
While she was at work, I was often left alone with him.
‘Do you want to go out for 
ice cream?’ he asked one day, when I was five.
‘Yeah!’ I shrieked excitedly.
We set off in his car, but eventually we pulled up in a field.
There, he raped me.
I didn’t understand what 
was happening, but it was so horrific I blocked it from my mind afterwards.
‘If you tell anyone about this, your mum will die,’ he sneered.
Being only little, 
I believed his threats.
One evening, Gerald gave me a colouring book, and I sat happily on the floor with it.
Then he sat next to me and his hand crept up my dress.
As he was molesting me, my sister walked in.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ he replied, as he leapt up.
Next day, Mum sat us all around the table and asked me about it.
I was too young to understand or explain what had happened, but afterwards, I never saw Gerald again.
Dad got wind of what happened.
‘I understand Gerald molested you,’ he told me. ‘Don’t make a big deal about it.’
‘OK,’ I replied, confused.
Within weeks, Mum met a new man called Fred.
‘He’s taking us to a nudist camp,’ she said.
‘I don’t want to take my clothes off,’ I told her.
‘Tough,’ she replied.
When we got there, I was embarrassed being naked in front of everyone.
A few of the men there groped my privates, and I was relieved when we went home.

One night shortly afterwards, Mum called for me from her bedroom.
As I walked in, it looked like Fred was hurting her.
‘Lisa, you should know what sex is,’ Fred told me. ‘Sit there and watch.’
I had no idea what they were doing, but I felt uncomfortable.
After six months, they broke up.
She then met a lovely, kind man, who actually seemed to care about me and my siblings.
But sadly, they broke up after three years together.
When I was 11, Mum sat me down.
‘Your sister met a nice couple on the train called Albert and Louise,’ she said. ‘They’re going to take you to the nudist camp.’
‘I don’t want to 
go back there,’ I replied.
The thought filled me with dread.
‘You’re going,’ Mum said sternly.
I’d become a secret smoker, 
and when they came to pick me up, Louise offered me cigarettes.
I thought she was cool, and instantly felt comfortable 
with these two strangers.
After a day at the camp, they took me back to their house.
‘The rule is to stay naked in the house as well,’ Albert said.
That night, they tried to force me into sexual acts, but I refused.
‘You know, Lisa, it’s OK if you want to have sex with me,’ Albert told me.
He was 40 years old.
‘What?' I replied. ‘No, I don’t want that.’
He smirked.
Mum made me visit them every weekend, even if I didn’t want to go.
But mostly, I liked being with them because I thought they loved me – which was more 
than I could say for Mum.
Soon, Albert made me watch the film Pretty Baby every time I was at their house.
It was about a 12-year-old 
girl whose virginity was auctioned off to a man.
Albert would usually molest 
me while we watched it.
‘If you had a real father, you would want to have sex with him,’ he said.
Over time, the pair forced me into sex with them, usually after giving me drugs or alcohol.
They’d often take photos of me, and they made it seem like 
a fun, normal thing to do.
It carried on for two years.
Then one day, I was at school when I was called into the headteacher’s office.

There waiting for me were 
two police officers and Mum.
‘Do you know Albert and Louise?’ one of the detectives 
asked.
‘Yeah,’ I replied.
As they questioned me, I didn’t want to say too much, because I didn’t want to get them 
in trouble.
Then, I was taken to a care home 
while Mum was investigated too.
Soon, I was 
called to testify in court against Albert and Louise, and they were convicted 
for sex crimes against children.
I still didn’t know what to think.
Months later, I was allowed home with Mum.
But far from being a concerned parent, she called me a slut.
It added to my belief that I should feel guilty and ashamed.
Then I met our neighbour’s son Eddie, who was 34.
He’d moved back in with his mum and, even though I was still only 14, he invited me over.
We kissed, and I excitedly thought we were boyfriend and girlfriend.
I didn’t know then that our age gap was wrong.
But he started taking explicit photos of me, and I realised that he didn’t really care about me.
I was crushed.
When I was 17, I began to go to church regularly.
My faith helped me realise that I’d been sexually abused as a child.
I didn’t know how to deal with it. But first, I got sober from drugs and alcohol.
I met a wonderful man called Robert, and we got married 
when I was 19.
Finally, I moved out of Mum’s house.
A year later, I had our first son.
I knew I had to start dealing with 
my trauma – not 
only for me, but to be a better wife and mother.
So I started going to sexual abuse recovery groups.
‘I’ve decided I want to be a therapist,’ I told Robert.
It wasn’t an easy road, but eventually I qualified to be a marriage and family therapist with a speciality in trauma.
I’d kept in touch with my parents, but they never took responsibility for what they 
put me through.
When I confided in Dad 
about my childhood sexual abuse, his response totally floored me.
‘Wow, Lisa, you’ve had a very extensive sex life,’ he said.
I was shocked and hurt.
So when I was 33, I cut him and Mum out of my life.
By then, I’d had another two sons, and didn’t want them around my boys.

My parents have since 
passed away.
Looking back, I think Mum must have known Albert and Louise were predators.
She didn’t know them, yet 
let them take me to a nudist camp alone.
Eddie was eventually convicted of sexual crimes against multiple children too.
It’s heartbreaking to know 
that my own 
parents didn’t 
love me enough 
to protect me.
But I’ve learnt 
to forgive, so 
that I don’t hold 
on to anger.
Coming to terms with my abuse has been extremely difficult and I was diagnosed 
with PTSD.
But I’m in a good place now.
I have a great husband, supportive friends, and three beautiful boys.
I’m also in the process of writing a book, to help other victims realise they have 
nothing to be ashamed of.
There is light after darkness, and I’m proof of that.

Lisa Plumb, 56

● Lisa has waived her right to anonymity.

Closing date for issue 5 is midnight 4th of June 2026. Only one entry per person.

Copper Adam was supposed to be helping Amy through a difficult time. But did he have an ulterior motive?

A tall, handsome figure 
in uniform came walking up to me.

‘Amy?’ he smiled. ‘I’m PC Adam Jones, here about your case.’
Immediately, I felt a wave of relief.
Because if anyone needed a knight in shining armour, it was me.
The officer had come to my workplace because, after years living with my physically and emotionally abusive partner, I’d somehow scraped up the strength to kick him out once and for all.
Only my ex had cleared my house of most of my possessions.
Two months on he was still texting me and seemed to know my every move.
Frightened, I’d put in a police complaint.
PC Jones took down the details and seemed to genuinely listen as I talked.
The following day he texted me some information about Victim Support.
But soon he was texting me more often, just asking how I was.
When a message popped up from a number I didn’t recognise one day, it turned out it was PC Jones – or Adam as he told 
me to call him – contacting me from his personal number.
He said he accidentally mixed up his SIM cards but our text messages soon got flirty.
Just two weeks after he had first dealt with my case, he suggested he pop in to see me at home.
He finally turned up at 10pm that night, arriving in full uniform and parking his police car right outside.
‘Well at least take off your stab vest,’ I laughed nervously. ‘Otherwise I’ll feel like I’m about to be interrogated!’
Chuckling, he took it off and slung it over a chair and we chatted for a bit before he left.
But on his second visit he took off more than his stab vest…
Before I knew it we were having sex but he warned me, ‘This has to stay a secret.’
I nodded. All 
I knew was that I finally felt safe.
I was working during the week as a dental nurse, and as a security guard at weekends. Despite this, all my money seemed to go on bills and keeping a roof over my head.
So skint, some days all I would eat was half a tin of baked beans, one scrambled egg and endless coffee.
I’d dropped from a size 14 to a size six in a matter of months.
Adam felt like the one good thing in my life.
‘If my ex suddenly turned up here, and I called you, would you come?’ I asked him one night. ‘Regardless of whether you were on duty or not.’
‘Well, you know, I’d try and help you out,’ he replied.
It wasn’t a resounding yes, but I didn’t care.
All I knew was that I had a 6ft, well-built copper in my bed who would protect me now.
So my ex could go and take a flying jump.
Only as time went on, it was clear my friendly neighbourhood copper was after one thing – and one thing only.
He’d always turn up at mine at lunchtimes or late at night, chat for 10 to 15 minutes, seduce me, then dash off.
‘I told my colleagues I was just nipping out for a snack,’ he’d wink. ‘I better go and grab something from Tesco to look the part!’

He was using me for sex, while I just wanted him to stick around.
I was conflicted too.
He was working on my case and I didn’t want to muck things up.

Finally though, after a year of no-strings sex, we finally petered out when I moved away and got a new job.
But it was no wonderful fresh start.
The years 
of domestic violence I’d endured with my ex – and a sexual assault I’d suffered by someone else when I was just 14 years old – finally caught up with me.
One day I started crying at work at 8.30am and literally didn’t stop until 7.30pm.
It was my mum who came to the rescue. We hadn’t always seen eye to eye, but she flew into action, looking after me, making sure I ate and helping me get back on my feet.
Over time I had counselling and became a mummy to two gorgeous girls.
When my youngest was one – and six years after I’d last spoken to Adam – I got a call out of the blue.
‘Can I ask? Do you know someone called Adam Jones?’ a voice down the line said. ‘He’s currently the subject of an investigation into possible misconduct in office.’
It didn’t surprise me that I wasn’t the only woman he’d been carrying on with, and I gave them a statement as requested and agreed to give evidence in court.
I’d been a victim of domestic violence and Adam had been a police officer.
He was supposed to help me – not sleep with me on the job.
Yes our relationship had been 100% consensual, but it had been obvious how vulnerable I was.
Determined to be a role model for my daughters, I decided to speak out.
In time Adam Jones, 40, of Monkston, Milton Keynes, appeared at Reading Crown Court.
The jury heard he’d been based at Milton Keynes police station and committed offences between 2013 and 2021.
They were told he’d contacted multiple women – including myself – on occasions when there was no policing purpose for him to do so, seeking to pursue a sexual or improper emotional relationship.
Prosecutor James 
Bruce told the court that in 2013,
two women had submitted complaints to the police regarding domestic abuse.
Jones had had a sexual relationship with one of the complainants over many years, while he pursued the other.
In 2021, Jones began texting a woman he had arrested before he had even completed her witness statement.
He’d sent personal and sexual messages before the woman went to court and gave her advice about her case.
He later deleted the messages.
The prosecutor went on to describe how Jones had sex while he was on duty.
He said, ‘That is a different class of behaviour because it puts fellow officers and members of the public hypothetically at risk.’
The sexual relationships had all been consensual.
When I gave my evidence I caught a glimpse of him in the dock, pale and puffy-faced, his eyes just staring vacantly ahead.
Jones was found guilty by a unanimous jury verdict of one count of holding a public office and wilfully neglecting to perform duty/wilfully misconducting himself.
He was also convicted by a majority jury verdict of three further counts of holding a public office and wilfully neglecting to perform duty/wilfully misconducting himself.
James Marsland, defending, told the court that Jones lived with significant ADHD issues 
and had long suffered with depression and anxiety.
He added that Jones had resigned from his job with Thames Valley Police.

Judge Heather Norton told Jones, ‘It is clear your behaviour had a lasting impact. The consequential harm caused to the police service is profound and malicious.’
Jones was sentenced to two years and six months’ imprisonment.
All the investigating officers in the case were really professional but three months on from court, Adam’s behaviour has still destroyed my faith in people.
I’d been a woman in need, 
but Adam had just one thing on his mind.
Now I trust no one.

Amy Reynolds, 39, Milton Keynes, Buckinghamshire

Amy has waived her right to anonymity.

David’s bubbly daughter suddenly began to struggle with everyday tasks. Now, he’s fighting for his precious girl with everything he has...

Pigtails flying, my daughter whirred around, her feet going faster and faster.

‘Come on, Daddy,’ she ordered, gesturing at me to join her.
I grinned at her.
How could I turn down her command?
Soon, I was up on the dance floor and we were spinning around together.
Me and Khloe, four, were in one of our favourite places – a restaurant where infectious upbeat Latin American music blared out and brought customers to their feet.
When the song finished, the pair of us flopped down in our seats to catch our breath.
Khloe and I were a tight-knit team.
I was a single dad – we’d been on our own since she was two when her mum had left us.
I had a grown-up daughter too from a previous relationship, but she now had a family of her own.
At home, Khloe’s energy never stopped.
‘I’m going on the trampoline,’ she said, and soon I could see her bouncing up and down.
And at weekends, we often went to our local woodland park.
‘Watch me, Daddy,’ she yelled as she ran along the trail.
Afterwards, she said sternly, ‘Now, I want to go to McDonald’s.’
I smiled at my bossy girl – she never shied away from saying what she wanted or thought we should do.
Chuckling, I said, ‘OK, then, let’s go.’
Pitching up at McDonald’s, she was soon tucking ravenously into chicken nuggets.
Once we were back home, Khloe settled down to watch her favourite Disney 
film, Lilo & Stitch.
‘Sit with me,’ 
she said.
But shortly after her sixth birthday, 
I noticed she wasn’t her normal, exuberant self.
Her balance seemed to be 
off kilter when she was running and jumping.
Weeks later, her teacher asked to speak to me.
‘Khloe couldn’t open her backpack today,’ she said, with a worried look.
She described how she’d been bent double at the waist as she tried to open the bag, but her fingers merely fumbled with the straps and couldn’t undo them.
The teacher had had to step in to help her.
What on earth is wrong with my girl? I fretted.
Watching her move more closely, I noticed she was much more hesitant in her actions.
Then, something caused further alarm…
‘My head hurts, Daddy,’ she said.
Her headaches grew worse and worse.
Worried, I took Khloe to hospital.

She underwent countless tests, 
but doctors were unable to find out what was wrong.
Then, finally, they had answers.
‘We know what’s wrong with Khloe,’ one doctor said.
I felt relieved.
Surely now they’ll be able to help her, I thought.
But their faces were sombre.
A consultant explained that Khloe was suffering from leukodystrophy, a rare genetic disorder which affected the brain and nervous system.
‘There is no cure,’ he said.
My heart constricted in fear. I listened as the consultant said the condition caused a progressive loss of neurological function.
Next, they outlined what would happen to my girl. They could see that she was losing the ability to walk and talk.
She was ageing backwards.
Eventually, she would lose her sight. It was too much to bear.
But worse was to follow from the doctors.
‘It’s unlikely she will live more than a few years,’ they said.
The news was just nightmarish.
‘How’s this happened?’ I wept.
Up to the age of five she’d been a normal girl, who relished running in the forest and dancing.
‘Is there nothing that can be done?’ I begged. ‘Surely someone can help her?’
But her prognosis looked hopeless.
I felt Khloe was too young to understand, so I didn’t tell her about the disease.
But she wondered why she couldn’t run and play with the other children.
‘You might have to use a wheelchair,’ I said.
Another girl in her class used 
a wheelchair – Khloe was unfazed when I told her she would be like her classmate.
My girl needed me, so I began to find out everything I could about the deadly condition.
Khloe had been diagnosed with metachromatic leukodystrophy (MLD).
It was a genetic disease – both me and her mother must have been carriers, although neither of us was affected.
I learnt that the disease caused a loss of a specific enzyme which then resulted in the nervous system being attacked.
As I read more about it, a flicker 
of hope ignited 
inside me.
Although there 
was no cure, stem cell treatment existed, which, in some cases, could halt the progression of the disease.

There were examples of children who’d survived into their 20s because they had benefited from it.
I would do anything for my darling Khloe.
So I had to work out how I could get the treatment for her.
Taking out my health insurance policy, I made a call.
‘I’m sorry, but that’s not covered,’ an employee said, after I’d explained Khloe’s condition.
My heart sank.
I would have to pay for it.
But the cost was astronomical – it was more than £3m.
‘How can I begin to raise that amount?’ I sighed.
But I had to try.
‘You’re my life,’ I whispered to Khloe.
Friends set up a GoFundMe for her, while I began to find out which hospitals could offer the specialist treatment for my girl.
‘Please help me,’ I begged one.
But after they looked at her notes, they replied, ‘Sorry, but we don’t think we can help her.’
Crushed, I tried another. But I got the same answer.
Meanwhile, her GoFundMe donations were going up and up.
I was so touched by the kindness of others, but I knew the sum needed was still so far away.
By now, Khloe had difficulty walking and needed strong lenses in her glasses to be able to see.
But I was determined that we would mark the day when she graduated from nursery school, adorned in her blue cap and gown.
I stifled 
my tears as Khloe smiled from beneath her hat.
Would this be the last milestone 
we’d experience together like this?
Deep down inside me, a resolve began to grow.
I had to try everything 
I possibly could.
Back I went to more hospitals. But still the answer was ‘no’.
However, I did learn that a conference was to be held by experts in leukodystrophy in a few months’ time.
I travelled to it and spoke to some of the doctors.
We lived in America, and several of the experts told me that getting treatment in Europe might be a better bet because their methods were more advanced.
The cost would be cheaper as well.
Now, I’m contacting hospitals in European countries and China too, and am trying to keep hopeful.
Khloe is seven and can’t walk on her own any more, but she can pull herself up and use a walker.
Her voice is much lower in volume too.
My girl might be ageing in reverse before my eyes, but 
there is still a glimmer of her personality.

‘No,’ she said stubbornly when I tried to dress her in something she didn’t like.
Still my bossy girl, she made
it perfectly clear which frock she wanted to wear!
But it’s incredibly cruel and hard seeing her deteriorate before my eyes.
And I can’t bear to lose her.
I’m desperate to find a way 
to stop the progression of this horrific disease.
I’ll never give up fighting for my little girl.

David Garcia, 60, Nashville, US

Opening the email, Heather's life was about to change beyond all recognition...

Brushing my thick tresses, I turned to Mum and asked, 
‘Why don’t I have hair like everyone else in 
the family?’

The eldest of six, from a young age I had noticed that I didn’t look very much like my brothers and sisters.
I had tanned skin and my hair was dark and curly, while my siblings were fair and had straight locks.
Mum shrugged 
it off.
But as I got into my teens, I began to ask more questions.
I didn’t look much like my mum’s husband, and I began to think I might have a different dad.
‘Mum, what did my dad look like?’ I’d asked.
But she would always change the subject.
Only one day, when I was 
14, she gave me an answer 
I wasn’t expecting.
‘When I lived in America, I met a man out there,’ she started. ‘Soon after that, I came back 
to the UK – then I discovered 
I was pregnant…’
It was a lot to take in.
‘I never told him I was expecting, and I never spoke to him again,’ Mum continued.
‘So Dad doesn’t even know 
I exist?’ I asked.
She shook her head sadly.
It left me with more questions than answers, but for a while 
I didn’t delve any deeper.

'Dad doesn't even know I exist?'

I needed time to process it all.
Years went by, and I found success as a model and presenter.
Life was great. Yet I couldn’t shake a feeling that something was missing.
Living in a city as diverse as London, people often asked about my heritage.
But I could never give them an answer.
I don’t even know that myself, I thought.
So one day, when 
I was 32, I ordered 
a DNA test kit online to see if I could get to the bottom of my family roots.
But when it arrived a few days later, I suddenly felt quite hesitant.
What if it revealed something that I’d rather 
lay buried?
Three months on, though, 
I finally summoned the courage to open it.
I took a saliva sample, then sent it back in the post.
In the back of my mind, 
I hoped an ethnicity match would help me find a distant relative, and I could go from there. But I told myself to keep my expectations low.
A few days later, the results landed in my inbox.
Nervously, I opened up the email and held my breath.
As I scanned the screen, 
I couldn’t believe my eyes.
I shared a 25% DNA 
match with a woman named Jaydah Smith.

After doing a quick calculation, it struck me.
‘She must be my half-sister!’ 
I gasped.
It also said my father 
was likely a man called Milton Smith.
There were a few other names listed as well, 
who I assumed must 
be distant relatives.
I couldn’t believe it.
The results also said that I was 30% African American.
It made sense, as I knew I wasn’t fully white.
It was a relief to finally know who I truly was.
Still, it was a lot to absorb. Only then did reality set in.
What if they don’t want to know me? I suddenly thought.
My dad and sister might 
not be ready for another person coming into their lives.
What if it caused unnecessary drama for all of us?
After mulling it over, I decided to contact one of the other family members on the sheet, Linda.
Not wanting to give my dad or sister a shock, I reasoned that reaching out to a distant relative might be a better idea.
Finding her on the Ancestry app, I messaged her.
Hi Linda, you don’t know me, but I think I’m a long lost relative of yours, I tapped out.
Just a few hours later, she 
got back to me.
Linda explained that she and my dad were first cousins, and she would be delighted to help me.
She reached 
out to Milton and Jaydah, then passed their contact details on to me.
They would love to chat to you, 
Linda said.

'I can't believe I have a second daughter'

I let out a little squeak of delight.
But it was also anxiety-inducing.
Jaydah and I arranged to speak over FaceTime.
And any nerves melted away when she came on screen.
‘Heather?’ a friendly face asked.
‘You must be Jaydah!’ 
I laughed, thrilled.
Chatting away felt surreal – 
not only did we look similar, 
but were also so alike.
We clicked instantly.
She was 27 and lived close 
to our dad, Milton, in Miami.
We spent hours chatting, and 
it made me realise that I had nothing to worry about.
Next, it was time to ring Dad.
‘Hi, Dad,’ I said, nervously.

‘Heather,’ he replied.
He sounded calm, and it put me at ease straightaway.
We chatted for hours – I’d come as a total surprise to him.
Mum hadn’t told him about 
me at all, or even that she had become pregnant.
‘If you need anything, I’m 
here for you,’ he said, as the 
call was coming to an end. ‘I am your father, after all.’
It was a moment I never thought would happen.
Over the following months, 
I kept in constant contact with my dad and sister.
Later that year, that side of my 
family were having 
a big get-together in Florida, so I flew 
to finally meet everyone in person.

Pulling up at the hotel, I was a bundle of nerves.
Then I spied Milton and Jaydah waiting in the car park. I ran straight out of the car and into their open arms.
We shared the biggest hug 
and all three of us cried.
It was magical.
‘I can’t believe I have a second daughter!’ Dad said. ‘And my girls look 
so similar!’
Linda and the rest 
of the family then 
came out, and I was introduced to all the relatives – including my half-brothers.

For the entire trip, Jaydah and I were inseparable.
We laughed, cried, and spent that week making up for lost time.
And it wasn’t just 
us who were alike.
So many relatives commented on how 
Dad and I were like two peas in a pod in terms 
of our mannerisms, personalities and even some of our interests.
We both loved 
politics and world 
news, and he got me into basketball.
When the reunion was over, Jaydah and I weren’t done catching up.
Deciding we should do something we’d have done as children, we went to Disneyland!
Heading home was emotional, but we made 
a promise to try to travel the world together whenever we got the opportunity.
‘I’m so excited for our future,’ I said as we hugged at the airport.
Since then, I’ve flown 
back to see my dad and sister, and Jaydah met some of my British siblings when she came here.
Later this year, I’m going 
to take some of them with me to meet my American family for Thanksgiving.
Now, whenever Jaydah and 
I hang out, we always try to wear matching or co-ordinating outfits, as if we were children again.
She’s like my twin!
We have so many holidays planned and still 
talk every day.
I’m determined to spend as much time as I can with my dad, too, as he’s now 70.
Every day, I wake up and pinch myself.
I can’t believe that I’ve found the missing piece to my puzzle.
My life is like a real life version of Disney’s The Parent Trap – 
and I couldn’t have asked for 
a happier ending!

Heather Jayne, 35, Liverpool

Joy's daughter couldn't wait to meet her new fella for dinner. But something tragic happened in that restaurant...

Looking in the rear-view mirror, I smiled at my daughter – but then frowned.

What’s that? I thought.
We were on our way home from nursery when I noticed Alison, four, had red bumps on her forehead.
‘What did you eat today?’ I asked, thinking it might be an allergic reaction.
I knew I hadn’t given her anything different in her lunchbox.
‘David gave me a sandwich,’ she replied.
I made a quick call to the nursery and found out her little playmate had given her a sandwich with chocolate spread in.
A check of the ingredients revealed it contained peanuts.
We had tests carried out and, sure enough, they found Alison was allergic to peanuts.
From that point on, she always wore a medical bracelet which gave details of her allergy.
Most of the time she was with me and my hubby Grover and her younger brother Daniel, so we were able to carefully check the ingredients of any meals.
‘But what happens when she’s not with us?’ I said to Grover, worried. ‘We need to teach her how to ask the right questions.’
As she grew older, she took charge.
‘I’m allergic to peanuts,’ she told a waiter, as I watched. ‘What’s safe for me to eat on the menu?’
And she made sure she never accepted food from anybody else.
My girl was taking the lead in making sure she stayed safe.
‘I’m so proud of you,’ I told her.
Alison didn’t let her allergy stop her from doing anything or going anywhere – and she always took her EpiPens with her.
She was devoted to horses and loved riding Western-style, her hair flowing out as the horse’s hooves hurtled over the ground.

But there were a couple of episodes where she accidentally came into contact with peanuts.
She started to itch and her lips and throat swelled when she borrowed a lip gloss from a friend at school.
But my sensible girl had used her EpiPen and went straight to hospital.
Later, she found out the girl had eaten a peanut butter sandwich and traces had gone on to the lip gloss.
When she left home to study at university, I was anxious about her being away from home.
‘It’s OK,’ she said, reassuringly. ‘I can look after myself. There’s no need to worry.’
But one day she phoned to tell me she’d needed to go to hospital after suffering a reaction to her roommate’s dog licking her.
It turned out the dog had been playing with a toy which had peanuts inside it.
While at university, Alison took part in a project to help disabled children ride horses.
‘It’s wonderful to see how much they get out of it,’ she told me.
It was no surprise when she told me she wanted a career working with horses.
Ten days before she was due to graduate, she texted me, I’m going out on a date!
More texts followed.

'What did you eat today?'

‘She’s obviously keen,’ I laughed to Grover.
She told me he was a teacher and, as usual, Alison had chosen the restaurant carefully.
She’d eaten there several times before.
More and more texts arrived from her as the date got nearer.
I’m going to have my hair done, she wrote.
My heart swelled as I got caught up in her excitement.
On the night, I glanced at the clock and worked out that she’d be eating.
I hoped the evening was going well.
But suddenly my phone rang.
It was Alison’s number.
‘Mum,’ she said, but then she hung up.
Odd, I thought. But she’ll call back later.

And when the phone rang half an hour later, I expected it to be her.
But it wasn’t.
It was someone from a hospital.
I listened as they told me Alison had been admitted because she’d had a severe anaphylactic shock.
My heart began to thump in fear.
Grover and I raced there.
Doctors met us, their faces sombre.
Fearfully, I grasped Grover’s hand while they explained that Alison was unconscious and would be transferred to another hospital.
This was the worst reaction she’d ever had to peanuts.
I called Daniel, and he rushed to be with us.
We stayed by her bedside.
But tests over the following two days confirmed swelling on the brain had occurred and caused permanent damage.
‘She’s never going to wake up,’ I said in utter despair.

I’d been looking forward to her graduation the following week.
But now it was unbelievable we were preparing to say goodbye to our gorgeous girl.
Through my tears, I said, ‘She has so many friends and family. They’ll want to say goodbye.’
Grover nodded in agreement.
In the days that followed, I counted more than 100 people who came to see Alison.
It was heartbreaking, but also comforting to know she’d touched so many people.
She was just 23 when she took her final breath.

‘She’d want to give life to others,’ I said determinedly to Grover.
So we gave permission for Alison’s heart ventricles, kidneys and liver to be donated.
After the funeral, still in the grip of raw grief, my mind swirled with questions.
What had happened that dreadful night?
I began to piece together in more detail the sequence of events.
We found out she’d ordered her usual fish dish of mahi-mahi at the restaurant.

'She should still be here'

Alison knew the meal was safe and had eaten it several times there.
So how had she come into contact with peanuts?
All her life, she’d been so careful.
Was it an accidental brush of a hand with someone who’d eaten a peanut butter sandwich?
Where? Where had it come from?
My mind was plagued with all the different scenarios.
But eventually, we found out what had caused our darling daughter’s death.
The chef at the restaurant had changed the recipe.
He had added peanut sauce to the dish.
Not only had he changed the recipe, but he hadn’t told anybody what he’d done.
The waiters had no clue that the meal now contained deadly peanuts.
And neither, of course, did Alison.
‘This should never have happened,’ I said, shaking my head in despair. ‘She should still be here with us.’
Alison had acted as quickly as she could after she’d taken a few bites and realised that she’d been in contact with peanuts.

She had used her EpiPen immediately.
She’d even walked to the ambulance, talking to the paramedics.
But on the way to hospital, she’d had a cardiac arrest and had to be resuscitated.
She’d been unconscious when she reached hospital and never came round again.
So many years she’d spent asking questions at restaurants and scrutinising food labels in supermarkets.
So many years she’d 
protected herself.
But we’d lost her to a food allergy.
I’ve now started a campaign to get better guidelines 
in place for restaurants to communicate with customers about allergens.
A menu with a full list of ingredients, similar to labels on food in shops, could help to prevent a reaction like the one Alison suffered.
I miss my darling girl every day, but I know she’d be proud of me for pushing for better awareness in restaurants.
It’s too late for my girl, but I know we’re going to save lives in her honour.

Joy Pickering, 53

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An open heathland in muted shades of green, yellow and brown, set against a pale blue sky, stretched out before us, as we approached Away Resorts Sandy Balls for a four night stay over the Easter holidays.

Along the way, we'd already spotted the New Forest's famous free-roaming ponies. 'There's one!' 'There's another!' my sons Odhran 10, and Reuben, 8, shouted from the back seat, pressing their faces against the windows for a closer look.

Arriving at reception, it was lovely to see the space decorated for Easter with pastel coloured streamers and bunting. A member of staff in an inflatable egg costume, stood waving and ready to greet young visitors. Our check in was at 2.30pm and we arrived an hour early. Our lodge wasn't ready. So, we headed to one of the site's playgrounds.

The equipment was wooden and in keeping with the surroundings. The boys loved scrambling through the net bridge, playing Floor is Lava on the balancing beams, and seeing who could go highest on the swings. After enough time had passed, we returned to reception, checked in and head to our lodge.

We stayed in the exclusive Heartwood lodge, which was located in the Bluebells area of the resort. On the site map, this looked to be right at the back of the holiday village and away from the main entertainment area. But in reality, Sandy Balls is quite a small resort, and our lodge was only about a 10 minute walk from the central hub.

Our area was a no car zone. You are allowed to pull up outside your lodge to unpack your car and pack up on leaving. But aside from that, you must park in your nearby allocated bay. This worked well with the exception of one night when we returned late and found someone parked in our space. Reception was closed, and although there is an out of hours number, it was late and we didn't want to be waiting around when the kids were ready for bed. So, we left a note politely asking the driver to abide by the allocated space rule. On another note, we don't drive an electric car but for those who do, there seemed to be plenty of charging spots.

Anyway, back to our first impressions of the lodge! We were delighted to see that it was large and had a stylish, modern exterior. Inside was a spacious living room and kitchen area, with a round four seater table. The kitchen came equipped with everything you might need - a large fridge freezer, gas oven and grill, microwave, dishwasher, and plenty of glasses, crockery and utensils. I had all the pots and pans I needed to cook an Easter Sunday roast dinner.

There was a little pack with a tea towel, cloth, sponge, and a small bottle of washing up liquid provided, alongside a few dishwasher tablets (though I could have done with bringing one or two more from home). I'd also recommend bringing another dishcloth and tea towel, as I brought these from home and ended up using alongside the ones provided. There wasn't a washing machine, but there is a launderette on site, if needed.

The boys stayed in a room with bunk beds and a separated single bed. There was also a pull-out sofa in the living area. So, this lodge can sleep up to seven people. There was plenty of storage space (with wooden hangers) and a smart TV in every room, which you could connect to your home Netflix and Disney account. But the best feature was the king-sized master bedroom. I've stayed in a Eurocamp lodge where you can barely squeeze between the furniture and the bed, so having so much space felt luxurious, though I have to say the lodge didn't meet the same high-spec as our accommodation at Blenheim Palace Lodge Retreat.

There was a main bathroom in the lodge with a shower. But the master bedroom had its own en-suite toilet and sink, and there was a freestanding bath with a mirror TV. I found I had to boil a couple of kettles of water to get the bathwater to the right temperature. But once filled, Reuben was quick to hop in. During our stay, he enjoyed a couple of relaxing baths, chilling out in front of The Simpsons and the Easter appropriate movie Hop, while asking me to bring him a hot dog to snack on while he soaked. This was a definite highlight of the accommodation.

I also enjoyed having a dressing table to sit at and dry my hair. I brought a hair dryer not realising there was one provided. Towels were also provided, though I packed a couple extra for the swimming pool. Despite the blue sky on arrival, it was quite a chilly spring weekend, and it wasn't until a couple of days into our stay that I realised the boiler to turn up the heating in the lodge was located in the cupboard next to the front door of the lodge. If you're staying outside of summer, it's also worth checking the radiators are turned up to the appropriate setting.

When it came to WiFi, it was confusing as our phones brought up our site name - Bluebells - alongside our lodge number. But our information booklet informed us that there was no WiFi in the lodge and we hadn't been provided with a code. Anyway, we had good enough signal on our phones to get by without it.

If I was to grumble about anything it would be the untidiness of the decking area. There was lots of tree debris, which is to be expected giving the woodland location. But beyond a good sweep, the decking was in need of a power wash, and the cushions for the rattan furniture needed a good soaping down. They were too dirty to sit on, but this didn't really bother us during our spring stay, as it was a bit too chilly to sit outdoors anyway.

After relaxing in our comfortable lodge for a couple of hours, we headed out to wander around and explore the holiday park. The boys found another playground (for the rest of our stay they couldn't walk past this without them asking to pop in 'just for 10 minutes'). But they loved the zip line and playing chase around the wooden climbing structures. There was birdsong and squirrels climbing the surrounding trees.

We ventured down to the Woodside Suite for the Kids House Party but this was for younger kids and the boys didn't want to hang around. Outside in the courtyard, Reuben was delighted to find a group of kids playing football, who were happy for him to join in.

Later, we ordered a takeaway pizza from the little kiosk at the back of the site's Aubrey's Forest Kitchen. It was delicious and I'd highly recommend. But during our visit it closed around 8.30pm. There was seating outdoors, but it was too cold. We were allowed to take our pizza into the Woodside Suite, where we waited for the entertainment to begin.

We weren't sure what to expect from the Live & Wild Show but it turned out to be one of the highlights of our trip to Sandy Balls. Next day, Odhran said, 'These entertainers always say they're going to be funny and they never are, but this guy was actually hilarious.' We all agreed. While Reuben is the reptile lover, it was Odhran who was delighted to be pulled up on stage, after an adorably spirited little girl whose dance moves were almost as impressive as her dad's (who gamely climbed on stage). Odhran gave the entrance dance socks too, and bravely held a corn snake round his neck. But his poor dad, who'd left us earlier in the day to perform in the BFG at Chichester Festival Theatre, happened to return at the point when Odhran was on stage, and ended up being hauled up to shoulder a giant albino python. Odhran and Reuben thought it was hilarious and took great joy in heckling their dad. 'Put it on his face,' Reuben shouted.

After the Live & Wild Show, the boys had their first go at karaoke. Ever the showman, Odhran was first up, for a beautiful rendition of Journey's Don't Stop Believin' and later, one of our favourites, A Million Dreams from The Greatest Showman. Reuben, usually shy, also braved the mic to sing Running Up That Hill by Kate Bush. My husband, as payback for me recording him on stage, put my name in for karaoke and I ended up torturing the crowd with my version of Patsy Cline's Crazy.

After a fantastic night's entertainment, we indulged in a lie-in the following morning, before heading out for a walk. On an open field up on a hill, it was quite windy. I felt cold in my light jacket. Odhran was wearing his padded winter coat, but Reuben was best prepared for the unpredictable spring weather in his Polarn O. Pyret Stormy Shell Jacket, which shielded him from the wind. The following day, we got caught in a sudden shower and I watched the rain run off his jacket like water off a duck's back, while I got soaked through! Another great thing about this jacket is you can add a fleece layer underneath for extra warmth during colder months. Remember to pack well for the weather to make the most of the outdoors.

After returning from our walk in the local Godshill area, we joined a guide and another group of visitors for a pond dipping activity. Away Resorts Sandy Balls offers a number of activities that are available to pre-book through the resorts really handy app - walk the resident alpacas, drive a mini jeep, test your aim at archery or axe throwing, or get creative with some crafting activities. Pond dipping cost £7.50 per person. I didn't have to pay as I was just supervising the boys.

Our guide Steven brought along retractable fishing nets, sample jars, and a stereo to play music on the short walk through the woods to the pond and back. The boys absolutely loved pond dipping. Odhran was thrilled to be the first to catch a newt, though I think all the kids managed to find one by the end. At one point, a frog hopped out of one of the kids' nets but it was on the wooden platform for a minute before Reuben pointed it out and one of the mums managed to catch it and we placed it in each of the kids hands before popping it back in the water.

Steven had a laminated chart showing the kids many of the creatures they might come across while pond dipping, including creatures such as dragonfly larvae. Obviously, it's never possible to tell exactly what you will find while pond dipping. We might have been lucky or have been visiting at the right time of year, but our little adventure was extremely fruitful. It was a fun and wonderfully wholesome activity that was another highlight of our holiday.

After pond dipping, we headed back to the lodge for lunch before popping back out later for Gel Blasters. This cost £13.50 per person, and was a great alternative to paint balling, as it doesn't hurt so much when you're shot. After a safety briefing, we pulled on our protection masks and separated into two different teams. There were different games and challenges and it was great fun and more exercise than I'd bargained for. Afterwards, we stopped off at the on-site Carte D'Or ice-cream truck and sat at one of the picnic tables to enjoy our cones.

Then, it was a quick stop back at the lodge to grab our swimming gear. The pool at Away Resorts Sandy Balls didn't in any way compare to the Splash Waterpark at Butlin's Bognor Regis or the indoor pool at Haven Devon Cliffs, and lacked a slide, but it was still a fun way to break up the evening and the boys loved that they were able to use the jacuzzi (ages 8+). We just turned up and didn't have to pre-book a time slot.

We had just enough time to return to the lodge for dinner before heading to Round the Campfire, which took place outdoors. There was a stage set up and a lovely singer on acoustic guitar played pop favourites to keep the crowd entertained. One of the things I appreciated about Sandy Balls was that when it came to buying a pint of Madri and fresh popcorn at the bar in the Woodside Suite or marshmallows for the campfire, everything was reasonably priced. I've previously visited attractions at Halloween and Christmas and been charged £6 for a couple of marshmallows on the stick. So, I was pleasantly surprised to be able to purchase a bag of marshmallows for £2 to toast over the fire pit.

The atmosphere was lovely with festoon lights and blankets provided, but it got a little too chilly and the rest of the night's entertainment was moved indoors to the Woodside Suite. We loved the silent disco but were too tired to stick around for the late night disco.

The following day was Easter Sunday, and we headed out on a lovely walking route around the holiday village and discovered the distinct, dome-shaped sand and gravel outcrops that give the site its funny name. The dome-shaped hills were formed millions of years ago, when the River Avon flowed over 100ft about the level we see today. As the river current slowed and deposited sand, it built up in layers to form these distinct formations, which first appeared on maps during Tudor times, as 'Sandy Ballas.'

After our walk, we visited the on-site shop to pick up cooking oil to make a Sunday roast, but there's a little cafe in the shop and we sat here to enjoy toasted wraps and ciabattas for lunch. The shop and deli is open 8am to 7pm seven days a week and it was well stocked with all the essentials including toiletries and dog food (Sandy Balls is a dog-friendly holiday village). There were plenty of food, snack and drinks supplies too, and the shop sold refrigerated family-sized meals, such as a large lasagne or moussaka, which was handy for taking back to cook in the lodge if you wanted a change from eating at one of three on-site dining options. But it's worth mentioning that there were special meal deals in the restaurants, and kids could get a main course for £1 with every adult main purchased.

Away Resorts put on free activities for special occasions (though you may need to secure your spot through the app). As it was Easter, the kids had fun decorating eggs and then competing in an egg rolling championship. There were other seasonal paid activities too, such as an egg hunt.

The evening entertainment was a Coldplay tribute act, which we really enjoyed. Odhran, a Coldplay fan, thought the singer sounded just like Chris Martin. It revealed my age though, as I was more familiar with the original hits that launched the band, whereas Odhran hadn't heard of a couple of these songs, but was singing along to all their more recent hits.

We then headed over to the arcade, where I enjoyed lobbing balls at clown skittles, and the boys spent all their pocket money on a 10p coin pusher. The manager was kind and after watching them continuously feed the machine in the hope of winning bundles of tickets, he informed them that as long as the tickets were touching the glass they'd won. So when the tickets didn't drop down, he opened the machine and handed them the bundles. The boys were thrilled to have their hands on more arcade tokens than they've probably held in their lives. They exchanged them for a plastic gun and a bow with suction cups arrows. But it wasn't so much about the prize as the novelty of winning lots of tickets!

The following morning, we took a 25-minute drive to Paultons Park (home of Peppa Pig World) for a fun and full day out enjoying the rides and rollercoasters. If you're staying at Sandy Balls with kids, I'd definitely recommend a trip to Paultons. But there are lots of kid-friendly attractions under an hour's drive away, including Go Ape Moors Valley, New Forest Water Park, New Forest Reptile Centre, and Oceanarium Bournemouth, to name a few.

Back at the holiday village, there was music by candlelight later in the evening. But we were all tired from a busy day at Paultons Park and had to leave early the following morning. So we decided to stay in the lodge and play a couple of board games we'd brought along. The boys loved playing Dobble, a fast-paced card game, where you each take a card and then put another from the pile down in the middle. The first person to spot a matching symbol between their card and the card from the pile and to shout it out, wins that card. It continues until all the cards have been drawn and the person with the most wins. This game comes in a handy little tin that I've taken to popping in my handbag, so I can pull it out to keep the boys occupied if we're in a situation where we're waiting around. And it's a great size to take on travels. The following morning, we set off from Sandy Balls, and Reuben was pleading to stay 'just one more day.'

Take a Break's verdict

Families might be reluctant to opt for a forest holiday over a beach stay, but we were really happy we chose Sandy Balls. The New Forest is such a unique location and we loved seeing the free-roaming ponies and the charming thatched roof properties. Away Resorts Sandy Balls is a really nice sized holiday village and the atmosphere felt so relaxed. We didn't have to queue up to grab a table for the evening entertainment and felt we could take things at our own leisurely pace. There were plenty of activities and evening entertainment to keep everyone occupied, and you can bring your own bikes or hire them on-site to explore one of the cycle paths. There were several times during our visit that Odhran and Reuben turned to me and said 'I really like it here.' The peaceful surroundings and the laid-back nature of this holiday village gave them a real sense of relaxation. This was our first time at an Away Resort holiday village and we would definitely return to Sandy Balls or check out one of the holiday park operators other 20+ sites across the UK. Find out more here

The eagerly anticipated World of PAW Patrol at Chessington World of Adventures, will open its door to the public on Sunday 3 May, just in time for the bank holiday and perfect for an upcoming summer days out with little ones.

The £15 million immersive experience is set within 1.4 acres of land and includes four thrilling new rides, three themed play areas where kids can throw themselves in tail-wagging fun, alongside themed dining all inspired by Adventure Bay.

Rubble & Rocky's Play Zone is a hands-on, climbable construction zone where guests can slide, climb, and explore alongside their favourite construction pup, Rubble. Junior eco-heroes can also climb, crawl, and tinker their way through a maze of repurposed parts. The interactive play space invites kids to explore, problem-solve, and invent alongside Rocky, turning 'old' into 'PAW-some'.

At Flounder Boat Play, little explorers can help Captain Turbot on a high-seas adventure abroad the Flounder Boat.

The thrilling new rides are each themed around beloved members of the PAW Patrol pack, including Chase’s Mountain Mission rollercoaster, Marshall’s Firetruck Rescue, Skye’s Helicopter Heroes, and Zuma’s Hovercraft Adventure, the UK’s first ‘Drifter’ ride**.**

To ensure all rides and play areas at the new land are 'ruff ruff ready' for opening, Chessington appointed superfan Hallie Sawyer, aged 4, from Southampton, as its official 'PAWject Manager' after a huge nationwide search that drew more than 2,000 entries.

Here Hallie gives us a little sneak peek at the new attraction...

When I found a stray dog hiding under my car, 
I could never have imagined what would happen next. By Kelly Allen, 28

Yawning, I rolled out 
of bed. It was the morning after Bonfire Night, and the fireworks had been going off until the early hours.

Now, as I looked out the window, I could see that 
it was chucking it down 
with rain.
I headed downstairs for breakfast but as I pottered about in the kitchen I was distracted by a strange whimpering noise coming from outside.
‘Dad, can you hear a dog crying?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, I can,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and check it out.’
We traced the noise to my car and looked underneath.
A dog was crouched there, shaking with fear.
‘She must be terrified after all those fireworks last night,’ I said.
Dad gently called to her and, after a bit of hesitation, she approached, wagging 
her tail.
‘Maybe she’s just lost,’ I said.
We led her into our back garden and gave her some leftover chicken and a bowl of water.
She was in a bit of a sorry state. Her coat was matted and filthy and she was so skinny, I wondered when she’d even eaten last.
We started ringing around local animal shelters, but 
they were all full and I was worried she might be put down if we called the council dog warden.
‘We can keep her for the weekend,’ Dad said. ‘Just until the vet opens on Monday.’
In the meantime, I set about cleaning her up. It took several baths of hot soapy water to clear away all the grime, but she looked much better once I’d finished.
Then first thing Monday, 
we took her to the vet who checked and found she was microchipped.

'Please can we keep her?'

Using that, the vet discovered her name was Mia, she was a five-year-old greyhound-Staffie cross, and she belonged to a family in a town 100 miles away.
At first, we were all relieved to have found her real home. But when the vet rang them to let them know where she 
was, they admitted they’d abandoned her on purpose.
I’d always wanted a dog, but with work and other responsibilities it had never been the right time.
But now, I turned to Dad and said, ‘Please can we keep her?’
‘Maybe just until we find her a permanent home,’ he replied.
But over the next days 
and weeks, Mia’s loving personality won him over 
and we agreed there was no way we could give her to someone else.
‘She still thinks she’s a puppy,’ I said, laughing as I watched her zooming round the garden.
Yet, Mia still gave us glimpses of what had led to her hiding under my car.
She’d cower from anything resembling a stick, including mops and vacuum cleaners. And although she was comfortable walking around our neighbourhood, she was intimidated by new places, large crowds or groups of other dogs.
Keen to help build her confidence, I took her to a dog show near our home in Newark, Nottinghamshire.
To begin with, she stuck to my side like glue. But the more shows we went to, the more confident she became, sniffing the other dogs and investigating her surroundings.
I started taking 
her to training classes too.
At first, Mia struggled with the ‘stay’ command, anxiously following me whenever I got too far away.
But as time went on, she became more secure.
And we even ended up achieving the Kennel Club’s highest training award.
At a dog show soon after, I noticed there was a tryout for Scruffts – the Kennel Club’s competition for crossbreed dogs, held at Crufts dog show every year.
Instead of being judged according to their breed standard, the pooches are judged on things like their personality or work with the community.

So, I took Mia along. After explaining her backstory to the judges, we had to run around the ring together. It was something Mia would’ve found overwhelming when she’d first come to live with us, but now she trotted beside me happily.
When the judges announced she’d qualified to enter the golden oldie category of Scruffts, I was thrilled.
‘Mia, we’re going to Crufts!’ I squeaked, hugging her. ‘I’ll buy you any toy you want!’
She picked out a duck and trotted to the car looking very pleased with herself.
Arriving home, I couldn’t wait to tell my parents.
‘You are joking, aren’t you?’ they said, laughing.
‘No, I’m not!’ I said. ‘She was a star!’
I really couldn’t be more proud of my gorgeous pooch Mia. She’s come so far and being invited to compete in Scruffts is recognition of that.
She may’ve looked like the tramp when we found her, but now she’s most definitely blossomed into a lady.

Bending down, I leant forward, grasped the green top leaves of the carrot and pulled.

‘They’ve done well this year,’ I beamed, holding the vegetable up to show my youngest son, Nikil, 17.
He often came with me to 
help in our allotment – it was 
one of our favourite places.
I loved growing vegetables, and that autumn’s crop would give us some tasty meals.
Being out in the fresh air 
also lifted my mood.
A month earlier, my dad had suffered a heart attack, and although he was recovering, 
I was still worried about him.
Shaking the soil from our harvest, we placed our home-grown fare into bags and set 
off back home.
Soon we were walking along the street where we had lived 
for the past 16 years.
We had moved there soon 
after Nikil’s first birthday.
He was the only one of my three boys still living at home, 
as our eldest, Kusal, 25, shared with friends, and our middle son, Sith, 21, was at university.
Later my husband, Don, arrived home from his shift as 
a bus driver.
‘Smells good,’ he said, coming into the kitchen as I was cooking.
Our gorgeous kitten, Gigi, just two months old, weaved in and out of my legs, seeking attention.
I leant down and ruffled her ears.

After tea, we went into our conservatory and settled down 
to relax.
Days later, we waved off Nikil. He was going away on a school trip.
But Don and I weren’t going 
to be on our own, because Kusal was coming to stay.
Sure enough, I heard the wheels of his e-bike turning into the path moments later.
‘Hey,’ he cheered, as he walked in and propped his bike up in the conservatory.
Don looked at his watch.

'We need to get out! There's a fire!'

‘Time I was going,’ he said, grabbing his things and heading off to his night shift.
I yawned, gave Gigi one last stroke and headed up to bed.
Dimly, I was aware of Don returning home in the middle 
of the night.
The next morning, I woke with a buzzing headache.
I looked at the time – it was 8am – and padded downstairs 
to feed Gigi.
Still feeling a bit groggy, I made myself a cup of coffee and headed back upstairs.
There were no sounds coming from Kusal’s bedroom.
I reasoned he was likely still in bed because he’d been out late with his friends the night before.
As I relaxed in bed with my drink, Don got up and went downstairs.
I continued to snooze for a bit, but then, I heard a distant alarm and the clattering of Don’s feet up the stairs.
He banged on Kusal’s door.
What is going on? I wondered, as Don ran into the bedroom.

‘We need to get out!’ he panicked. ‘There’s a fire!’
Without time to think, 
I scrambled out of bed.
I realised the alarm was coming from our house.
We all hurried down the stairs.
But as I reached the bottom, plumes of grey smoke mushroomed up before me.
The smoke hurt my eyes and then I began to gag as it hit the back of my throat.
Don and Kusal ran out of the door as more clouds swirled around the hall.
I was about to follow them, but I suddenly remembered Gigi.
Where was she?
Frantically, I turned my head this way and that, trying to see 
if I could spot her.
I ran into the kitchen, but by this time the smoke was so 
thick and black that I could barely see anything.
Desperately, I patted the litter tray to see if she was there and then I felt along the floor.
‘Gigi! Gigi!’ I called.
But she wasn’t there. Could she be in the living room?

From outside, I could hear 
Don shouting for me.
‘Get out! Get out!’ he yelled.
But I couldn’t bear the thought of losing our little furball.
Feeling my way, I went into 
the living room. I felt around the furniture and the floor.
But there was no sign of her.
My throat constricted and I could hear Don and Kusal calling for me in desperation.
I took one last feel of the sofa.
She wasn’t there.
Heartbroken, I stumbled out of the house and sank into Don’s arms.
Minutes later, the fire brigade arrived.
But as I looked 
up in despair at our home, I could see that the inferno 
had completely 
taken over.
Within 10 minutes our home had gone.
How on earth had this happened?
When the flames were eventually dampened, a firefighter came over to talk to us.

‘The fire started in the conservatory,’ he explained.
Stunned, I listened as he informed us the blaze had been started by the lithium battery 
that had been charging up 
my son’s e-bike.
The battery had exploded.
My head reeled.
We were provided with emergency accommodation, 
but later that day I returned 
to the house, still in a state of total shock.
I looked up at our home, thinking of my poor little Gigi.
But then I spotted something move under a nearby parked car.
A flash of black fur.
It was her!
Gigi had survived!
I scooped her up and held her close, nuzzling her.
‘My brave girl,’ 
I cooed.
We soon found out that the conservatory 
had been fully destroyed, along with half of the ground floor and part of the 
upstairs as well.
‘All our photos gone,’ I wept 
to Don.
Baby pictures, baptism certificates, school photos, wedding photos… even my wedding ring was gone.
But there was more bad news that followed.

'We're going to repay it and live in it again'

We discovered that our house insurance hadn’t been renewed.
In the midst of our worry over my father’s health, 
it had somehow slipped through the net.
Now we would have 
to pay for everything ourselves.
Our funds were limited.
Would we have to give 
it all up and start again somewhere else?
‘This is our home,’ 
I said, determinedly. ‘We are going to repair it and live in it again.’
My employer gave me an interest-free loan and we used our credit cards to pay tradespeople to make the structure safe.
Scouring Facebook Marketplace, we bought cheap second-hand furniture.
Then we moved into the 
top part of the house and loaded up three skips of our burnt belongings.
‘Give me that,’ I said to 
Don, taking a paintbrush.
The pair of us began to decorate the house.
Bags of clothes were donated to us and a GoFundMe page brought in much-needed and much-appreciated funds.
‘People are so kind,’ I said, with tears in my eyes.
It turned out my son’s bike was second-hand and had been converted into an e-bike.
The lithium battery charger was not compatible and had exploded while the bike was 
left charging.
We learnt the hard way 
how e-bikes are one of the fastest-growing fire risks.

Thankfully, we all survived because our smoke detector 
was working.
But the toll has been heavy.
At work, when the fire alarm was tested, I began to shake uncontrollably as I remembered when ours had gone off.
I urge anyone with e-bikes to charge them in a shed or garage, but if you have to do it in the house, don’t leave them unattended 
or charge them while you’re asleep.
Make sure you shut the door and have a smoke detector and an escape route as well.
And be wary of ‘bargain buys’.
We’re so lucky we escaped.
Now, I’m determined to raise safety awareness.

Anoma Hettiarachchi, 48, 
New Malden, SW London

When Angela finally found the courage to confront her toxic husband, he took
shocking revenge…

Turning off my car engine, I opened the door to 
be greeted by a man holding a glass of wine.

‘Lovely to meet you 
at last,’ Robert said, handing me the drink and a note before I’d even got out of the car.
‘What does it say?’ I said, trying to decipher the badly written Welsh – my native language.
‘It says, When can I kiss you, he grinned.
He’s a fast mover, I thought 
to myself.
I’d talked to Robert, a farmer, for years over the phone as part of my job in the same industry.
We’d become friends and shared details about our lives, but this was the first time we’d ever actually met.
A year before, I’d lost my long-term partner suddenly 
and had taken voluntary redundancy, needing time 
to grieve and regroup.
Robert had found out I’d left and given his number to a friend, who’d passed it on to me.
I was flattered – and when 
I’d felt ready I’d called him.
Knowing I loved animals, he had invited me 
to his farm to meet his goats.
I was a mum-of-four, and wasn’t 
in the market 
for love. Plus, looks-wise, he wasn’t my type.
But Robert was persistent.
After I left, he called me every day and we spoke for hours.
Six weeks on, I went to visit him again.
One thing led to another – and later, he turned to me in bed.
‘I’ve fallen for you,’ he said. ‘Will you marry me?’
It was very quick, but I felt as 
if we knew each other.
‘Yes, but as long as we stay engaged for a while!’ I said, making sure we gave things time.
Eventually, he moved in with me and my adult daughter Jo.
Only as time went on, I realised Robert couldn’t give me the emotional support I needed. Often, all he seemed to care about was sex.
Two years later, my eldest son Clive took his own life at 31.
I was distraught, but instead of supporting me, Robert lost his rag.
‘What are you crying for?’ he said. ‘People lost whole families in the war.’
Friends told me he wasn’t right for me, and my children didn’t 
like him, but I was completely numb and didn’t have the strength to leave.
And when he suggested tying the knot at the register office soon after, I thought it meant 
he loved me.
Tragically, four years later one of my other sons, Jamie, died 
by suicide too. He was just 32 and it came as a huge shock.
To lose two of 
my four children in such a way was impossible to bear.
I turned to friends for comfort, because Robert wasn’t there for me.

'I promise things will change'

Over the years I grew increasingly unhappy and tried to leave Robert several times, but nearing my 60s I was worried I wouldn’t meet anyone else.
Is it a case of better the devil you know? 
I thought.
Time passed and I started a new job.
It gave me a new lease of life and I made a group of friends.
Meanwhile, Robert would spend hours tinkering with 
his vintage tractors – most of which I’d shelled out for – and didn’t lift a finger to help me 
with the chores.
One day, he accused me of having an affair with one of my male pals.
By now, I’d had enough and went to confront him.
‘We need to have a break,’ 
I said to him.
‘I know I take you for granted,’ he agreed. ‘But I promise things will change.’
Despite my better judgement, 
I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Three days on, I was laid up in bed with a stomach bug when Robert climbed in beside me and moved his face close to mine.
I thought he was going to kiss me, but he clamped his teeth around my lip and bit down hard.
It was such a shock, and 
I didn’t understand what was happening.
I felt something run down my face and realised it was blood.
Suddenly he straddled me and put his hands around my throat.
‘You’re going to die,’ he said. ‘Die, b**** – I’m going to f***ing kill you today.’
I was terrified he would kill me. I’d never seen him so angry.
I tried to kick him and wriggle away, but he was too strong.
‘Help, help!’ I screamed, gasping for breath, but he squeezed my throat again. Eventually, I managed to get free and fell on to the floor.

If I can just get to 
the bedroom door, 
I thought, starting to crawl towards it.
Then he jumped on top of me, put me in a headlock and strangled me from behind.
Suddenly Jo came rushing in, her features contorted in shock as she saw my blood-covered face.
She tried to get to her phone, but he knocked 
it away.
Jo pushed and kicked Robert, screaming, ‘Get off Mum, leave her alone!’
As she tried to pull 
him off me, I seized my chance to escape.
I ran halfway down the stairs – still in 
my nightdress and pouring with blood – then stopped.
‘I’m not leaving without you,’ 
I shouted to Jo.
With a final push, she shoved Richard over and we ran off together. He was hot on our heels, but I grabbed the keys and raced to the car.
‘The first person we see, we’ll stop and tell them to call the police,’ I said to Jo.

As we drove over the hill, 
I saw a carer leaving someone’s house. We stopped and I turned to her, in tears.
‘Please call the police,’ I said. ‘My husband tried to kill me.’
Shocked by the sight of 
the blood, she dialled 999 straightaway.
Within minutes, the police arrived.
They wanted to take me to hospital, but I couldn’t face it and went to see the GP instead. My neck was black and blue and I could see two of Robert’s fingerprints on my throat.
Officers told me Robert had injured himself and was receiving treatment.
I was relieved that he’d been arrested.
Afterwards, 
I struggled to cope.

I thought I could deal with what had happened after grieving the loss of two sons, but I needed support.
It was difficult to come to terms with the fact that someone I trusted had wanted to kill me. But all I was given was a leaflet.
Jo was affected too and couldn’t go back to the house after what she’d seen.
In time, Robert Pinnington, 65, pleaded guilty to assault causing actual bodily harm, making a threat to kill, and intentional strangulation at Caernarfon Crown Court.
He was sentenced to three years in prison and given a 15-year restraining order against me and Jo.
Standing up in court, I read 
out my victim impact statement, in which I described how his attack had made me feel worthless and ashamed.
I wanted to look him in the eye, but he only appeared by video link.
Later, I was sickened when 
I found out Robert had been released after serving just 
14 months of his sentence. I feel angry and let down.
Looking back, I believe that Robert preyed on me when I was vulnerable and he was emotionally abusive throughout our relationship.
After everything I’ve suffered, I know I’ll get through this too with the help of my loved ones.
Now I’m sharing my story to warn other women to stay away from Robert.
He is a violent abuser who will never change.

Angela Pinnington, 62, Caernarfon

● The free, 24-hour National Domestic Abuse Helpline number is 0808 2000 247.

Aimee’s son Isaac had been given a devastating diagnosis, but he was determined
to run rings around it…

My two-year-old son confidently dribbled his football round the back garden, expertly weaving it this way and that.

‘I can’t believe how good he is,’ I said to my husband Adrian.
Isaac had already wowed all our friends, who were convinced he’d be playing in the Premiership one day!
He’d always been a bundle of energy.
If he wasn’t kicking a ball about, then he was climbing or running around.
But he adored his cuddles too.
Later that day, as he and his five-year-old sister Eva were sitting together on the sofa and Isaac gently rested his head on her shoulder, I felt a wave of contentment.
Just a few weeks on, I took Isaac for a routine check with the health visitor.
When she picked up that 
he had a speech delay and suggested speech therapy, I wasn’t that worried.
Though his words still weren’t clear yet, I always knew exactly what he was saying and he’d hit all his other milestones early,
But when Isaac turned three, our world started falling apart…
We were on holiday with my in-laws in Hunstanton, Norfolk, and had driven to the seafront.
As we were about to get out of the car, Isaac said, ‘Mummy.’
Only it came out all slurred.
Suddenly his eyes glazed over and started twitching, and his body went floppy.
‘He’s not breathing properly!’ I said 
to Adrian.
It was as if I was watching my son’s life slip away right 
in front of me.
Frantic, Adrian scooped Isaac up and we ran towards a group of paramedics who happened to be working at 
a seaside event.

'Can you bring someone with you?'

Isaac’s body was shaking violently and a paramedic confirmed it was a seizure.
Then, just as quickly as it had started, it stopped.
As Isaac came round, the relief 
we felt was indescribable.
He was taken 
to hospital where a CT scan came back all clear,
Later, we were told an MRI scan looked normal too.
But just 10 days on, Isaac suffered another seizure and was diagnosed with epilepsy.
Medication didn’t stop the seizures.
And as doctors tried different drugs, something more sinister was happening.
One day, when Isaac was four, I looked up to see him walking towards me taking long wide steps with his arms stretched out as if to steady himself.
And just like that his walk began to change.
Adrian and I worried it was side-effects from his medication.
But because of the Covid lockdown, doctors’ appointments weren’t face-to-face.
Feeling helpless, I filmed Isaac walking, but unable to see him in person, medics still weren’t convinced it was the medication.
Meanwhile, we were waiting for the results of the intensive blood tests he’d had.

Eight months after Isaac’s gait first changed, we were due for a face-to-face appointment at hospital.
But that very morning, a nurse called and said, ‘Can you come in earlier… and can you bring someone with you?’
I knew then it was bad news.
But nothing could have prepared us for what we were told when we got there.
‘Isaac has CLN2 Batten Disease,’ the doctor said.
I listened, bewildered, as he explained it was a form of childhood dementia, and that our son would lose all his skills, as well as his sight.
Then came the phrase ‘life expectancy’.
‘How long does Isaac have?’ Adrian said, welling up.
‘I’m afraid that once symptoms begin, life expectancy is around six to 12 years of age,’ the doctor admitted.
It felt as if time had stood still.
It all just seemed too cruel.
Then something inside me snapped.

'Issac has a poorly brain'

I looked into Isaac’s beautiful blue eyes, brimming with such innocent joy, and I decided, No, this disease is not going to take him. Not my boy.
But a few days later, as I watched Isaac playing with his toys, I crumpled into tears.
‘Why are you crying, Mummy?’ Eva asked. ‘It’s not like Isaac is going to die.’
Mum was there and we just looked at each other, and both of us were crying now.
Eva was so young but she knew something was terribly wrong.
And I couldn’t hide it from her.
‘Isaac has a poorly brain,’ I began. ‘We don’t know exactly what’s going to happen, but we know Isaac isn’t going to make it to be a man like Daddy.’
I’m not sure just how much Eva understood but things progressed quickly.
Isaac had surgery to fit a device into his brain so he could receive infusions of a wonder drug called Brineura, that slowed down the progress of the disease in people with the condition.
Our family, friends, and local community all stepped up.
My sister created a fundraiser to help with all the adaptations needed in our house to look after Isaac safely.
We even needed a bigger bed so Adrian and I could sleep with him each night in case he had a seizure.
Another fundraiser enabled us to go to Disneyland Paris before Isaac lost his sight.
An amazing lady called Lucy organised the trip, which included a special breakfast with all the Disney characters.
Isaac couldn’t wait to hug them all – even Darth Vader!
But we couldn’t shut out reality forever.
Isaac started at a special school and six months in, he started using a walker 
to get around and a specialised trike too.
Soon he lost his peripheral vision and could only see what was in front of him by tilting his head to the side.
Eventually, he could only see a few feet ahead of him.
It was heartbreaking.

When Isaac turned eight, Adrian came home one day with an unexpected proposition.
My husband loved taking part in Iron Man events.
‘They’ve got Iron Kids Wales coming up,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we enter Isaac?’
It was a ‘run only’ event for children aged three to 15 in Tenby, Pembrokeshire.
And when the organisers confirmed that Isaac could take part on his walker, it was all systems go.
‘Who’s going to run a race?’ I grinned to Isaac.
‘Meeee!’ he whooped, excitedly throwing his arms in the air.
The race was nine months away but it was touch and go if he’d be able to take part.
Just one month before the big day he needed an operation to fit a feeding tube.
But remarkably Isaac recovered in time.
On race day, Eva, Adrian, and my in-laws all watched from the sidelines as I took my place next to Isaac at the start of the 500m course.
We’d decorated his walker with posters that read, I can’t see you! Please cheer for me!
And the crowd did just that.
They clapped, cheered, and chanted, ‘Go Isaac. Go Isaac!’ 
as he pushed his walker along beaming with joy from start to finish.
It took him 10 minutes and when we crossed the finish line the place erupted in applause.
When the organisers gave him his medal, my eyes were streaming with tears of joy.
Six months on, Isaac is such
a happy boy.
He loves his big sister, his school, all his friends, and going swimming and out on his trike.
Although he’s almost blind now, I’m so grateful 
that the Brineura medication gives him the quality of life he still enjoys.
We only learnt after Isaac’s diagnosis that learning difficulties alongside seizures are a major red flag for Batten Disease, and I’m doing my best to raise awareness.
Now, I always urge people to slow down and really take the time to appreciate life.
Because my brave boy’s battle has opened my eyes to what truly matters.

Aimee Tilley, 37, Kettering, Northamptonshire

● Aimee has started a podcast for those caring for children with additional needs. Follow Isaac on Instagram @isaac_fighting_battens_disease
● To find out more about Batten Disease visit bdfa-uk.org.uk