Earlier this month, Europa-Park in Rust, Germany, was honoured for the eleventh time with the industry's highest accolade, the Golden Ticket Award, as the 'Best Theme Park in the World', coming out tops against renowned theme parks such as Walt Disney World and Universal Studios.

We visited during May half term, but when I spoke to other parents about my trip to Europa-Park with my two young sons, Odhran, 10, and Reuben, 8, the response surprised me. No-one had heard about this major attraction, despite it being the second most visited theme parks in Europe and its many accolades. Many people I spoke to confused it with Eurocamp or another holiday park operator, EuroParcs. Rollercoaster enthusiasts from the UK are fully aware of this highly-rated attraction, which last year celebrated its 50th anniversary. It is home to record-breaking rides, and with six to seven million visitors every year, it's seems a well kept secret among its mostly German, French and Swiss visitors. But while around two million Brits flock to Disneyland Paris every year, it appears we might be so dazzled by Mickey Mouse and his pals that we've overlooked Germany's hidden gem.

The theming

Europa-Park covers an area of about 235 acres, making it Germany's largest theme park. We walked about 20,000 steps a day here, so comfy footwear is a must. The attractions are spread across 20 beautifully designed themed areas - 18 of which are based on European countries and the other two include Adventure Land and Grimm's Fairytale Forest. Stroll alongside the canals of Italy, cross over a bridge into France, or explore the cobbled streets and wooden chalets of Switzerland - the park takes you on a charming journey through Europe.

The attention to detail is meticulous. We found ourselves knocking on walls to see they were plywood or plastic that had been well painted to mimic stone, but at Europa-Park nothing is a cheap facade - the buildings have been constructed with heavyweight materials and great care has been given to bring an authentic feel to each themed area. For example, the light-coloured limestone used to build the piazza in the Croatian-themed area was shipped in from that part of the Mediterranean. Snap a picture next to the whitewashed buildings in the Greek area and it would be easy to convince friends and family you'd been to Mykonos.

Europa-Park also takes visitors on a culinary journey through the different countries - sample tarte flambée in France, pizza in Italy, gyros in Greece or tapas Spain. What we loved about the theming was that every time you turned a corner you stumbled upon something new. We thought we'd explored all the areas fully on our first day in the park, but then we'd approach from a different direction and discover something we hadn't noticed the first time round.

The rides

There are more than 100 attractions and rides for visitors of all ages, including 14 roller coasters. We spent two days exploring the theme park. On the first day, we arrived at around midday and stayed in the park until closing time (online it said 6pm but on the day the park stayed open til 7pm). On the second day we had early access, as we were staying at one of the Europa-Park hotels. So, we were able to enter at 8.15am (45 minutes before the official opening time) and enjoyed a full day in the park.

We entered the park in the Spanish themed area and Odhran and Reuben were keen to hop straight on the first ride they saw, which was Feria Swing - a carousel with swinging carriages that swoops up and down. Then we happened to catch a flamenco dancing show on the area's main stage. As we made our way deeper into the park, I feared huge queues for the most popular rides, as it was a bank holiday so the theme park would be busier than usual.

But as Odhran ran up to Euro-Mir, a giant space-themed rollercoaster with cars that spin round the track, we looked in amazement at the wait time on the digital display next to the entrance - only 6 minutes! Europa-Park doesn't do expensive fast track nonsense. Instead, they hire plenty of staff and operate rides in a highly-efficient manner. Aside from the big thrill rides, you can take your bag on a lot of the attractions, which helps to keep the queue moving along.

The park also operates a single rider line on the big attractions to fill up empty seats and reduce overall wait times. Through the Europa-Park app there's a free virtual queue service, where you can digitally reserve a ride time-slot for major attractions. But the day's limited slots were snatched up quickly and we didn't managed to make use of the virtual queue. This didn't bother us in the slightest, as despite visiting the park during a busy holiday time, we never waited longer than 25 minutes to go on any ride, and we experienced all of the 'big five' - Voltron Nevera, Silver Star, WODAN Timburcoaster, Blue Fire Megacoaster and Eurosat CanCan Coaster.

The water attractions

Europa-Park has fantastic water-based attractions. Poseidon was the first water coaster we’ve ever been on, and it did not disappoint. The combination of a high-speed rollercoaster with a log flume was really exciting. I was relieved to find that despite the big drop, we didn’t get soaked, though I think in the heat, Odhran and Reuben were hoping it would cool them down.

They did however manage to get drenched from head to toe by standing on the sidelines of Atlantica SuperSplash. They seemed to find waiting for the ride to race at a speed of around 50mph into the waters below and create a refreshing tidal wave that washed over the sideline spectators as exciting as they did when experiencing the ride itself.

We also enjoyed Fjord Rafting and Whale Adventures – Northern Lights, a boat ride where you travel through Icelandic waters and use water cannons to target various features – or in our case my husband, who was stood by the fence trying to take photos.

Our favourite rides

Voltron has a wonderful sense of theatre as you enter the stall and the suspense mounts. The steep launch is thrilling and it hits speeds of 62mph, with several launches and inversions along the way. But I found my head got rattled around a lot, which is why I choose WODAN Timburcoaster as my favourite ride at Europa-Park. In fact, we all agreed this was our favourite ride (though at 1.26m Reuben wasn't able to go on all the big rollercoasters). We loved the force of this ride. You could hear it whooshing past.

Aside from WODAN, I loved the huge loop of Blue Fire Megacoaster, where you seem to just hang in the middle of it for a split second. Odhran loved Euro-Mir, but his favourite ride was Silver Star - a steel rollercoaster that reaches a speed of 79mph and has an incredible sense of weightlessness. This was in the Monaco area and Odhran was really taken by the flavour of Formula 1 and projections of the Côte d'Azur in the holding area. We all really enjoyed Alpine Express, but Reuben rode it with a VR set in his first VR rollercoaster experience (at an extra cost of four euro) and sited it as his favourite ride at Europa-Park after WODAN. We also enjoyed the novelty of the CanCan Coaster and spiralling down at speed in the dark to the sound of Galop Infernal. My husband couldn't resist a few goes on Atlantic SuperSplash.

What is there for younger kids?

Europa-Park is suitable for all ages and has loads to offer younger kids and toddlers. There are plenty of gentle rides, themed zones, interactive play areas and splash zones. The best areas for little ones are probably the Ireland and Grimm's Fairytale Forest sections. The park also offers plenty of family-friendly facilities such as baby switch, allowing parents with toddlers to take turns on the big rollercoasters without having to wait in line twice. There are baby rooms with changing and quiet nursing areas, and the park is pushchair friendly and you can hire buggies at the main entrance.

The shows

Alongside all the rides, there are several shows to enjoy and you'll need to check the app for times to make sure you don't miss out. The boys were enjoying the rides so much that I found it difficult to pull them away to go and see one of the shows. We'd heard great things about the figure skating show but as Reuben had already expressed an interest in the horses in the Spanish area of the park, I decided The Legend of Zorro show might be most engaging for the boys, and I was correct. They were completely engrossed in the storyline (even though it was in German) and enthralled by the sword fighting and horse-riding tricks. If you're visiting Europa-Park, I'd highly recommend taking a break from the rides to enjoy one of the excellent shows on offer.

There's also the daily parade which takes place around 4.30pm. You'll want to be the Luxembourg themed area to make sure you catch this. Europa-Park's main mascots are the animated mice Ed Euromaus and Edda Euromausi. Ed leads the parade, joined by his friends, and it's seasonal, so you'll enjoy a different spectacle in summer, autumn and winter.

The accommodation

There are six themed hotels at Europa-Park and we stayed at the 4 star Hotel Colosseo. Our holiday got off to a great start from the moment we pulled up at this grand hotel and stepped into the beautiful foyer with archways and a painted fresco on a vaulted ceiling. 'Are we in Germany?' Reuben asked, feeling confused by our movements from Strasbourg to Germany and now stepping into Italian-inspired surroundings.

Hotel Colosseo features a stunning replica of the Colosseum and the foyer opens on to a piazza with water fountains in the centre, where kids can splash around and cool down, while adults sit and enjoy a coffee or a cocktail. They host regular fountain shows, set to lights and music. Odhran and Reuben were obsessed with the fountains and loved running through them and playing with other kids.

We stayed in a standard room, which was beautifully themed in a Roman/Italian style. There were Leonardo da Vinci inspired paintings and the bunk beds were in keeping with a wooden wheel design. There was a dressing table and hairdryer provided, and a small table with two chairs and an armchair next to the double bed. So, it felt pretty spacious.

There was a safe and a minibar (this was empty but water was provided). There was a walk-in shower and the water pressure and temperature met my fussy standards. I like to be able to relax rather than hurriedly getting washed. The bottled water and white fluffy towels were well replenished during our stay. Rooms at the hotel range from standard family units to the premium Caesare & Cleopatra suite, which features an in-room private sauna and whirlpool.

Hotel Colosseo also offers a stunning Roman-style spa with an outdoor pool that Odhran and Reuben loved. It stayed open until 10pm so they were able to enjoy a swim after a busy day at theme park, while I stretched out on one of the loungers by the pool and read my book.

Food and drink

The buffet breakfast was included in our stay and it had a huge choice on offer from fresh fruit and cereals, cured meats and cheese, to a variety of breads and pastries, pancakes and Nutella, alongside all the cooked breakfast offerings you might expect. I was happy to find English Breakfast Tea among the plentiful choice of tea options. Odhran and Reuben love a buffet breakfast and this had lots to fill their tummies before a busy day in the park. Reuben hopped up to have his photo taken next Europa-Park's mascot, Ed Euromaus, who was in the dining area to welcome kids in the morning.

There are plenty of dining options within the theme park itself, but as you can get your ticket scanned at the exit so you can re-enter the park, we preferred to head back to the hotel during the day to take a little break from all the action and enjoy a bite to eat. Hotel Colosseo is right on doorstep of the theme park, and about a two minute walk from the dedicated hotel guest entrance. So it was easy to nip back to the hotel for an hour. We really enjoyed Pizzeria La Romantica, with inside and outside seating, overlooking the hotel's piazza and water fountains. This was casual and reasonably priced dining. The stone-baked pizzas were delicious (priced between €13 - €19 or £11 - £16) and the boys loved the spaghetti bolognese (€8.50 or around £7 for a child's portion). Adults could also order half-size portions of the pasta dishes, which was perfect when you wanted something a bit lighter for lunch.

Other dining options at Hotel Colosseo included Antica Roma, a buffet-style restaurant designed to look like an elegant ancient Roman vault, and featuring a large Mediterranean hot and cold buffet, priced at €47.50 per adult (around £40) and €15.50 per child (around £13). Child aged five and under eat free.
Restaurant Medici is a more intimate, a-la-carte venue, offering fresh pasta, seafood, cured meats and fine wines.

Bar Colosseo on the fifth floor of the hotel was closed during our visit, but the downstairs Bar Commedia dell' Arte had a lovely atmosphere and was beautifully decorated with masks on the walls. It's a café and a bar and was the social hub of the hotel, as it opens out on to the lively piazza. It served the most delicious Italian ice-cream and tasty looking cakes and desserts. The ice-creams were really reasonably priced and came in tall glasses or bowls and were served with whipped cream and all kinds of toppings. A pint of beer (we opted for Erdinger and Bitburger) cost under €7 (around £5-£6).

As a guest at any of the Europa-Park hotels, you are welcome to visit the restaurants, bars, and pools at any of the other resort hotels. From Hotel Colosseo you can cross over a charming little bridge to dine on one of the waterfront terraces. Krønasår - The Museum-Hotel has a Nordic-style. Bell Rock is Europa-Park's maritime-themed hotel, Castillo Alcazar is styled on a medieval Spanish knight's castle, Hotel El Andaluz has the vibe of a sun-drenched Spanish country estate, and Hotel Santa Isabel is in the style of Portuguese convent. Alongside the hotels, Silver Lake City offers alternative accommodation with rustic tipis, covered wagons and log cabins, and the feeling of being transported into the Wild West. Europa-Park also provides comfortable tent and caravan pitches.

The location

Europa-Park is located in Rust, Baden-Württemberg, Germany. It's right at the edge of the Black Forest and near the borders of France's beautiful Alsace region and Switzerland. We flew return from Gatwick to Strasbourg with EasyJet. It was a short flight of just over an hour. We hired a car and the drive from Strasbourg airport to Europa-Park took about 40-45 minutes. We extended our holiday to spend a few days exploring some of the beautiful locations within this corner of Europe. Find out more about Europa-Park here.

Take a Break's verdict

We can see why Europa-Park has been honoured with the title of 'Best Theme Park in the World' so many times, and we would return in a heartbeat. There was so much to love about this world-class attraction - from the theming to the number, variety and calibre of the rides. Highly efficient ride operations meant wait times weren't an issue. We were able to hop on many rides straightaway and never queued for longer than 25 minutes, even on the most popular attractions. If we had to nitpick, I found it a pain that there weren't any free drinking water fountains in the park and we had to spend about £4 on a small bottle of water - it was hot so we went through many. But this is a small gripe when we take into account everything it did have to offer. We loved chilling out at Hotel Colosseo. It was beautifully designed and the perfect place to relax and unwind. The outdoor pool and fountains in the piazza really added to the experience. The food and drink tasted great and felt reasonably priced. Europa-Park is a must visit for theme park fans of all ages, and if you couple it with a visit to its nearby sister waterpark Rulantica (which you absolutely must!) then you really are in for them most memorable time. Europa-Park proves that Germany is about a lot more than just city breaks to places such as Berlin and Munich. If you're planning your next family getaway or if you're a thrill-seeking couple, this is a destination that needs to jump straight to the top of your bucket list.

Cassie’s nephew’s suffering was kept hidden, but now she’s determined his voice will be finally heard…

Blowing up balloons 
for my son Chase’s 
first birthday party, 
I was beaming.

My family filled my living room with chatter and laughter, and that’s when 
my younger sister, Naiyahmi, introduced us all to her new 
fella Tai-Zamarai.
‘Hi, good to meet you,’ he said.
He seemed nice enough –joining in, helping with the games, and making everyone laugh. 
They suit each other, I thought, relieved that my sister was happy.
Over the next few months, I saw him at a handful of family events. However, when Naiyahmi announced they were getting married, alarm bells rang.
‘Isn’t it a bit quick?’ I asked 
her gently.
‘When you know, you know,’ she said with a smile.
I really wanted to support 
her, so I said she could have 
her reception at my house.
But soon after, I noticed that his social-media posts were angry rants full of prejudice and aggressive language.
I was shocked when Naiyahmi began echoing his views.
When I attempted to talk to her, she shut me down.
‘I can’t host the reception anymore,’ I told her firmly. ‘And 
I won’t be at the wedding. I can’t support this.’
Instead, she got married at a register office.
After that, she slipped further into his world. 
I never visited their home, and didn’t even know where she lived. My only glimpses of her life came through disturbing online posts.
It was months later when 
I next saw her at Mum’s house, and I was shocked.

Her frame was skeletal 
and her face pale.
She was also six months pregnant, however, she was barely able to stand unaided.
‘Naiyahmi, what’s happened to you?’ I said, and rushed to steady her.
‘I can’t stay with him. He doesn’t want the baby. I can’t cope,’ her lips trembled.
I was horrified. My sister, once vibrant and full of life, was a shadow of her former self.
But she was asking us for 
help and we weren’t going to let her down.
She stayed with Mum, and in time gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, Abiyah.
But she wasn’t at Mum’s long, and started to moved around a lot, staying with different people.
Then, at Christmas, there was a knock at my door.
I opened it to find her on the step, holding Abiyah. He was tiny and timid, his big brown eyes shining with fear and curiosity 
all at once.

'Naiyahmi, what's happened?'

‘Please,’ she said softly. 
‘Can we stay with you?’
I smiled, holding the door 
wide open for her to come in.
‘Don’t worry. I’ve got you,’ 
I said. ‘We’ll get through this thing together.’
Days turned into weeks and then months.
It was the five of us – me, my two kids, Chase and Kai, plus Naiyahmi and her little Abiyah.
She was very attentive over Abiyah, and my kids doted on him as well.

We went on walks, and our kids enjoyed playing together.
At soft play, Abiyah squealed with joy, climbing slides and banging toys together.
‘He’s such a lovely little boy, Naiyahmi,’ 
I smiled.
Slowly, she began to bloom, too. She started wearing a bit of make-up and was even smiling again.
I felt like I had my sister back.
When Abiyah’s first birthday rolled around, I organised a small party to celebrate.
He tore at wrapping paper, giggling as balloons bounced around the room.
‘He’s growing so fast,’ I said, snapping photos.
Wanting Naiyahmi to feel supported, I had let her invite Tai-zamarai. I told myself that it was the right thing to do.
But, after that party, I saw the changes creeping back. The make-up vanished. Headscarves returned. Conversations about the ‘kingdom’ filled the air.

‘Abiyah is special,’ she murmured one night. ‘He’s meant for greater things, a kingdom of his own.’
I forced a smile, but my stomach twisted. She was slipping away again…
Then, one morning, she packed her things.
‘Thank you, Cassie,’ she whispered, avoiding my eyes.
She scooped Abiyah into her arms, slid into a waiting taxi.
Then she was gone.
I only saw them through social media after that. The posts grew stranger, more radical, and 
I worried about their views, but never about Abiyah.
When he’d lived with me, she had been so attentive.
Nearly three years passed, then came a knock at the door that changed my life forever.
‘Are you Cassie?’ the police officer asked gently.
I nodded, dread rising in me.

'I want Abiyah's energy to feed the earth'

‘I’m sorry to tell you… Abiyah has died. He was found buried in a garden 
in Handsworth.’
The words made no sense. My body froze and I couldn’t speak.
Not my quiet little boy.
Tears blurred everything. The officer’s voice faded as I tried 
to take in this news.
I was the first in the family to find out, and it fell to me to inform the others.
That night, we gathered, clinging to one another, broken.
All I could see was the boy who’d giggled at soft play, who’d clung to my hand at Christmas, who had eaten lunch at my table.
‘Abiyah,’ I whispered into the silence of my bedroom. ‘I wish 
I could have kept you safe.’
In time, Tai-Zamarai, 42, and Naiyahmi Yasharahyalah, 43, appeared at Coventry Crown Court on charges that included child cruelty, causing or allowing the death 
of a child, and attempting to pervert the course of justice.
Piece by piece, I learnt the terrible truth.
They had isolated themselves. Their ‘kingdom’ had become everything – above food, above healthcare, above love.

Abiyah’s needs were neglected in pursuit of their beliefs.
Three-year-old Abiyah Yasharahyalah was found buried in his parents’ Birmingham garden two years after his death.
Severely malnourished and suffering multiple health conditions, he likely died of starvation in 2020.
They had lived off-grid, claiming sovereignty and shutting out authorities, with police missing chances to intervene.
In 2022, a social worker uncovered the truth while the pair were living in a squalid Somerset caravan with another child.
I had to testify at the court case. Speaking about my own sister was surreal, but I agreed to do it for Abiyah.
They were both found guilty. Tai-Zamarai received a jail sentence of 24 years and six months, while Naiyahmi was given 19 years 
and six months.
It was justice, but hollow. No sentence could bring Abiyah back to us.
Five months later, we finally 
got to bury him.
Our family wept, shared stories and clung to the few memories we had of Abiyah.
‘He was such a quiet little boy,’ I whispered to my cousin. ‘Do you remember his shy smile?’
As we laid him to rest, I grieved about the future he would never know – school days, friends, holidays, birthdays.
His life had barely begun.
‘I want his energy to feed the earth,’ I told my family. ‘To become something living.’
For now, Abiyah’s grave is marked only by a stick in the ground. But I’ve started a GoFundMe appeal for a proper headstone. Something simple, loving, permanent.
‘This is for him,’ I tell anyone who’ll listen. ‘For Abiyah, who deserved so much more.’
Guilt still gnaws at me, though. Did I do enough? Could I have saved him?
But I remind myself of one truth – for those months with 
me, he was safe, he was cherished and he was loved.
Abiyah, my beautiful nephew, my quiet little boy, will never, ever be forgotten.

Cassie Rowe, 43, Birmingham, 
West Midlands

•Search for ‘Abiyah Yasharahyalah’ at gofundme.com for Cassie’s fundraising page

I was globe-trotting when I found a new furry friend. Could she become my travel com-paw-nion?
By Melissa Keck, 37

As I sat down to lunch, my phone pinged with another enquiry.

I smiled and thought, That’s the third one this week.
I’d started pet-sitting as a side hustle to earn a bit of extra cash, and business was booming.
In time, my side gig became so successful, I quit my corporate job to do it full time.
Being my own boss allowed me to work to my own schedule and freed me to do more travel.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon in Bali, I decided I wanted to travel full time and work remotely.
Friends at home and abroad were encouraging, and 
I set about teaching myself how to code.
Within 18 months, I’d found a fully remote tech job, and 
I bounced between hostels 
and house shares in Asia and South America.
I relished every second of my new adventure, but I was an animal lover and missed the company of a furry friend.
Three years later, I was staying at a co-living space in Mexico, when I spotted something that made me gasp.
There was a kitten curled up in some towels.
It barely looked a week old, and its eyes were only half open.
‘Whose kitten is this?’ I asked, turning to the other residents.
One of them shrugged and said, ‘She was on the street by herself. So, I brought her in.’
I scooped the kitten up, wrapped her in my scarf and held her trembling little body close to mine.
It seemed unlikely she would survive without her mother, but I was ready to try anything to save her.
After a flurry of frantic messages to local vets, I tracked down kitten replacement formula and sprinted across town to collect it.
There was a storm outside, and after it died down, I went out in search of the tiny 
kitten’s mum.
But she was nowhere to be found.
‘I have to get her to a vet,’ 
I told my friend Sienna.
However, it was impossible 
to book an appointment at 
such short notice.
So, Sienna and I took it in turns through the night to care for this fragile creature, waking every couple of hours to feed her through a syringe.
Then, suddenly, things took a turn for the worse.
The kitten refused to eat and started being sick.
I held her close 
and cried.
‘If you can’t stay on this earth, just know you’re not alone,’ I whispered. ‘I’m here with you. But if you want to stay, I promise to give you the best life.’
By the time sunlight began to stream in through the window, the kitten was still alive.
I named her Milagro – Spanish for miracle.
‘We’ll call her Mila for short,’ 
I told Sienna.
Later that day, Mila was examined by a vet and prescribed electrolytes.
In the days that followed, she’d cling to the bottle with her tiny paws, sucking like her life depended on it.

The co-living space didn’t allow pets.
So, once Mila was strong enough, I found an apartment and signed a short-term lease.
There, Mila took her first wobbly steps, and her cheeky personality emerged.
I wasn’t about to part ways with Mila, but I wasn’t ready to give up travelling.
I thought, How would a 
kitten fit into my lifestyle?
So, I helped her become comfortable with being in a cat carrier, by stuffing it with her favourite toys.
Then, I trained her to wear 
a harness and lead.
At the end of our tenancy, I booked a flight to Colombia.
By now, we had travelled plenty of places by foot, car, and bus. Still, I feared a flight might be a step too far.
But once on board, Mila curled up in my lap and slept the entire flight.
Travelling with a feline in tow didn’t always run so smoothly.
Back in Mexico, I handed Mila’s paperwork to a bus driver and he frowned.
‘You’re missing a document,’ he said. ‘She’ll have to go in with the luggage.’
‘Absolutely not,’ I replied, stepping off the bus.
Instead, we travelled to our next destination by taxi.
It cost three times more, but it was worth it to have Mila safely by my side.
We were constantly on the move, but I brought Mila’s home comforts to every destination.
She had almost as much luggage as me!
Planning every border crossing meant my travels became slower and I began avoiding overly touristy destinations, as I didn’t want Mila to feel overwhelmed.
But having a furry companion opened-up a whole new world of experiences.
As we walked through the streets, Mila sat perched on my shoulder.
We were often stopped by curious locals, who were amazed at Mila’s calm demeanour.
She seemed to love travel as much as I did.
Now, Mila is three years old and it’s hard to believe how that sickly little kitten I held through the night has grown.
We’ve visited six countries and three continents.
I promised Mila the world and together, we’re exploring it – one paw-step at a time.

When I found my grandad’s
long-lost brother, I wasn’t expecting a second shocker…
By Katrina Barber, 45

As I played in my bedroom, my grandad Derek’s voice called, ‘Tea is ready, love.’

I bounded downstairs.
‘After tea, can we look at photos?’ I asked.
‘Of course,’ he replied.
My mum and I lived with my grandparents, and one of my favourite things was spending time with Grandad, looking through his old photo albums and finding out about his past.
I’d learnt that he’d met Granny Vera near Coventry before they’d eventually moved back to her birthplace of Northern Ireland.
Grandad had always been close to his brother David and the two had kept in contact.
After David got a job in South Africa, they continued to exchange letters and parcels.
Then, when I was aged 10, David and his wife Maria came to visit.
But after he returned to South Africa, he and Grandad gradually lost touch.
Time passed, and I asked, ‘What happened to Uncle David?’
‘We just lost contact,’ he replied.
I could hear the sadness in his voice.
‘Life gets in the way, doesn’t it?’ he said. ‘We both had our own children and grandchildren.’
We knew Grandad missed his brother, and as I grew into adulthood, Mum tried several times to locate David, but without success.
Then, in my 30s, I decided to search for him myself.
I joined local online groups in and around the area I knew David had emigrated to.
I wrote a message explaining who David Barber was and how his brother would love to hear from him.
Months passed.
Then one day, a notification popped up on my Facebook.
It was from a woman who told me she knew of someone named David Barber and she’d reached out to his daughter Bridget after she’d spotted my post.
It wasn’t long before I received a message from Bridget.
You must be my long-lost cousin! she wrote.
In the days that followed, we exchanged messages.
We got to know each other and found out about each other’s lives and families.

'I can't believe it's been so long'

But by now, Grandad was in his 80s and too frail to travel to South Africa. David was in his 70s.
Why don’t we arrange a Zoom call? I messaged Bridget.
That’s a brilliant idea, she replied.
I visited Grandad to break the news.
‘I’ve found your brother David!’ I said.
‘How?’ he asked, in amazement.
I explained how I’d tracked David’s daughter Bridget down through Facebook.

‘We’ve arranged a Zoom call so you can chat to each other,’ I said.
Grandad was overcome with emotion and fought back tears.
Just days later, I sat him in front of my laptop.
When David’s smiling face popped up on the screen, Grandad choked up.
‘Well, look who it is!’ he chuckled.
‘I can’t believe it’s been so long,’ David replied.
They chatted for hours and it was heart-warming to hear them catching up after so many years apart.

Later, Grandad told me, ‘I’d love to visit the South African side of the family.’
But he suffered heart problems and couldn’t manage a long-haul journey.
‘Why don’t you go visit them for me?’ he said. ‘One of us may as well get to meet them.’
‘I’d love to,’ I replied.
Grandad and Uncle David started chatting regularly over Zoom, phone calls and texts.
But, a couple of years after being reunited, Grandad sadly passed away following a cardiac arrest.
It upset me that he’d never got to see his brother one last time.
‘At least you managed to reunite them over Zoom,’ Mum said.
After Grandad’s funeral, I felt even more determined to travel to South Africa in his memory.
I saved my money, and booked flights. Then, I travelled from my home in Richhill, County Armagh, to Cape Town.
David was waiting for me at arrivals.
‘It’s amazing to meet you!’ he said, beaming.
He wrapped me in a hug and introduced me to his wife Maria.
We travelled to their home and I met their family. We all shared so many quirks and mannerisms and had the same sense of humour.
David was similar to Grandad in so many ways – from how they laughed to the sort of jokes they told. They were definitely cut from the same cloth.
Then one night, David dropped a bombshell.
‘Maria isn’t my first wife,’ he said.
He explained that he’d travelled to South Africa with his first wife, but things hadn’t worked out.
She’d gone back to the UK, but at the time, she was pregnant.
In the years that followed, he’d been unable to track down his ex and their child.
He told me, ‘I travelled back to the UK to find her, but I didn’t have any luck.’
In time, he’d settled down with Maria and they’d gone on to have four children together.
‘Why don’t I try searching?’ I suggested. ‘After all, I did manage to find you.’
After my two-week visit to South Africa, I made my way back home and knew I had to find David’s long-lost daughter.
Armed with what knowledge I had, I went trawling through Facebook.

Eventually, I tracked down David’s daughter, Tracey, and explained who I was.
He’s got grandchildren and great-grandchildren he needs to meet! she messaged back.
Now, we’re planning to get everyone together, so David can finally meet his daughter. In the meantime, they chat every day, making up for lost time.
I was thrilled to track down Grandad’s brother, but who would have thought I’d end up filling in another missing piece of the family puzzle?

When I got a call to say my son had been sick at school, I had no idea of the nightmare that awaited me.
By Helen Blythe, 38

As I drew back the curtains in my son Benedict’s room, he opened his eyes and sat up.

‘Can we do numbers and puzzles today, Mummy?’ he asked.
I smiled and said, ‘Of course we can.’
Benedict was due to start school soon and was already keen on learning and curious about everything.
‘Can I have a book about the nervous system?’ he asked, one day.
My bright boy was going to be like a sponge at school, soaking up everything they could teach him. But before he started, there was an important health issue I needed to speak to the staff about.
Benedict suffered from asthma, and we’d found out when he was younger that he was also allergic to cow’s milk, among other things. He was also allergic to other food, including eggs, nuts, sesame and kiwi fruit.
He’d ended up in hospital before after going into anaphylactic shock.
As he’d got older, we’d talked to him about his allergies and he was really switched on, always asking what was in food.
I smiled proudly when he asked me sensibly, ‘Is there any cow’s milk in this?’
But now, he was going to be out of my sight, so I had to pass on clear information to staff.
‘I’ve spoken to the teachers about his allergy, and I’ve shared a plan with them,’ I told my husband Peter, after I’d been to the school.
I explained that Benedict’s oat milk would be stored in 
a sealed carton with his name on it in the staff fridge. The milk would be poured into his bottle in the classroom and handed straight 
to him.
I provided them with adrenaline pens too.
Although I was anxious, I knew I had to put my trust in them.
And, when Benedict started school, he loved it straight away. I heard him excitedly telling his younger sister, Etta, what he’d been doing there.
On Friday, when he got home and discovered he wouldn’t be going in again until Monday, tears welled 
in his eyes.
‘I want to go,’ he said.
However, after that, he soon got into the swing 
of the routine.
One day, when he’d been there a few weeks, we had a scare when the school rang to tell us Benedict had been sick after eating a pizza.

'I'm on my way to pick him up'

He recovered at home and, thankfully, didn’t need any treatment.
Two months on, Benedict excitedly opened the first window of his advent calendar then headed off to school happily.
But around 10.30am, Peter called me at work.
‘Benedict’s been sick at school, so I’m on my way to pick him up,’ he said.
‘I’ll meet you there,’ I said.
Seeing the emergency services as I arrived, I panicked.
Rushing inside, heart thumping, I saw paramedics leaning over my boy’s tiny frame and could see he was unconscious and had a rash around his mouth.
Peter was there and we watched in horror as they tried to revive him.
I learnt Benedict had collapsed after being sick for a second time and staff had used his adrenaline pen twice to no effect.
Peter had arrived and while an ambulance was called, he’d begun CPR along with one of his teachers.
Now, we were rushed to hospital in the ambulance and there, I watched in fear as doctors tried to save our boy.

But after an hour, one said, ‘I’m sorry, there’s nothing more we can do.’
Neither me nor Peter could speak. Our bright, curious, lovely boy was gone. He was just five.
As I left the hospital with Peter, clutching Benedict’s little burgundy school sweatshirt, white polo shirt and grey shorts, I was in total shock.
Just six hours earlier our son had left for school, 
happy and smiling, now we were returning to our home in Stamford, Lincolnshire without him.
Telling Etta her big brother was gone was heartbreaking.
Her bewildered eyes betrayed that she didn’t fully understand. How could she when 
she was only two-and-a-half?
As I battled my raw grief, questions swirled around my mind.
Had there been a mix-up with his milk? Had the plans I’d set up with the school been followed?
But despite the police speaking to teachers at the school, I couldn’t get any answers. We’d been told an inquest would be held into Benedict’s death, but we didn’t know when.
In the weeks and months that followed, we did our best to keep going for Etta’s sake. But it was hard, especially as she still didn’t understand that her big brother was gone.

'Is Ben coming with us?'

Whenever we got ready to go anywhere, she’d ask, ‘Is Ben coming with us?’
I’d try to explain it to her again, but we still had so many unanswered questions ourselves.
Finally, more than three years after we’d lost Benedict, a jury inquest into his death was held.
While I was desperate for answers, I didn’t know how I was going to cope with hearing about my son’s last moments.
The inquest heard that Benedict had died from food-induced anaphylaxis and that the only allergy severe enough to cause this was cow’s milk.
I was shocked to hear the plan we’d put in place with the school hadn’t been followed that day.
So, instead of his milk being brought into class and poured in front of him, it was poured into a cup in the staffroom, then taken to the classroom and given to him.
A mix-up with the lactose-free milk of another pupil could have occurred.

Benedict had been sick shortly afterwards. When he was sick again, he was taken outside to get some fresh air, where he’d become ‘grey’ and ‘floppy’.
Benedict had then been carried into the classroom where he was treated with his adrenaline pen twice, but it had no effect because he’d already gone into cardiac arrest.
The inquest heard it should have been administered the first time he’d vomited.
The jury concluded that the probable source of the allergen that caused the fatal anaphylaxis was the 
ingestion of cow’s milk protein, most probably from Benedict’s own cup during break time.
They found contributing factors to his death included a delay in administering his adrenaline and potential for cross-contamination of milks.
The jury also concluded that not all staff were aware of Benedict’s allergy plan and that lessons hadn’t been learnt after the reaction he’d suffered to pizza at school.
For years, we’d been left in silence, without answers, without accountability. Now, after painful waiting to uncover the truth we’d discovered our boy’s death had been completely preventable.
A cascade of failures meant Benedict had died in a place where he should’ve been safe and that was devastating.
‘I don’t want this to 
happen to anybody else,’ I wept to Peter.
Now, I’m fighting hard in Benedict’s memory to get a new law passed for schools to protect children with allergies.
Our precious son is not the only pupil to have lost his life after suffering an allergic reaction at school.
Since his death, more children have died this way.

Benedict’s Law – or the School Allergy Safety Bill – asks for every school to have a clear allergy policy, staff who are trained to deal with allergies, and spare allergy pens on site.
At the moment, there is no requirement for schools to have these measures in place.
If these had been properly in place at Benedict’s school, I firmly believe he would still be here with us.
Now, we miss our boy desperately, but I’m determined he will leave 
a powerful legacy for children like him who need to be kept safe.
His life mattered – and his death must too.

• For more information visit benedictblythe.com

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Hot Wheels Monster Trucks Live returns in 2027, making tickets for this family spectacular the perfect experience gift this Christmas.

Expect huge trucks, jaw-dropping stunts and an arena transformed by explosions of colour as part of a brand-new show, Colour Bash.

There'll be paint-splattered trucks, dazzling lights and non-stop thrills as every wheelie, jump, donut, smash and crash brings a vivid burst of colour.

The action begins when mischievous Skelesaurus drains all the colour from Monster Truck Island. Rhinomite, Mega Wrex, Tiger Shark, Bone Shaker and Bigfoot must win it back, one massive stunt at a time, alongside a mysterious new ally who will be revealed this autumn. As the trucks battle to restore the island, the arena builds towards a spectacular finale of light, sound and pure Monster Truck energy.

UK Tour Dates Include:

The O2, London – Saturday 9th & Sunday 10th January

OVO Hydro, Glasgow – Saturday 23rd & Sunday 24th January

Utilita Arena, Birmingham – Saturday 10th & Sunday 11th April

AO Arena, Manchester – Saturday 17th & Sunday 18th April

There are matinee and evening performances, plus VIP packages and a Pre-Show Party offering fans the chance to get up close to the trucks before the action begins.

Tickets go on sale tomorrow, Friday 18th September at 10am. Available from £25, with a discount available for under 13s. Purchase yours here

Weeks after we’d proudly sent Greg off to uni, the police were at our door. But what they 
told us made no sense.
By Mandy Mackie, 63

Seeing my son Greg step out on to the stage alone and start singing, my mouth fell open.

‘He didn’t tell us he had 
a solo,’ I whispered to my husband Colin.
We’d recently moved to 
a new village, and Greg, 
six, had settled in well.
Smiley and bubbly, Greg quickly found his feet at the village school. He’d made new friends and now, here he was performing Highland Cathedral in the end of term concert – and I couldn’t have been prouder of him.
‘You were brilliant!’ Colin told Greg afterwards scooping him in for a hug.
‘I wanted to surprise you,’ Greg said, grinning cheekily.
Soon after, we went on holiday to Greece and when he spotted two women giving out flyers for a nightclub, he offered to help them.
As he chatted with 
holiday-makers, we both marvelled at his confidence.
One thing I’d noticed about my boy, too, was that if he ever saw anyone standing alone in the playground or at 
a party, he was always the first to go and make them feel at ease.
It’s like he never wants anyone 
to feel lonely, 
I thought proudly.
Over the next years, Greg continued to thrive.
Colin helped manage the local speedway team, and when Greg was 12, he was riding as well.

'Our son has never used drugs'

I would wince as he’d zoom around the track, whizzing this way and that. But he loved it.
Time went by so quickly 
as Greg grew, and before 
I knew it, he was a handsome 17-year-old lad, getting ready for his school prom.
‘Well, what do you guys think?’ he asked, showing 
us all his outfit.
He’d opted for a bright pink and purple suit.
‘A bit of colour cheers everyone up!’ he insisted.
When he turned up, his teacher told him he was 
the only person who could have pulled off that outfit!
There were more celebrations when Greg secured a uni place at Edinburgh College.
He was off to study TV and Media and we were all 
so proud of him.
At first, he commuted the 
hour and a half to the campus, but then he paid for student accommodation himself after taking on two part-time jobs, although he would still nip back in the 
car with his dirty washing.
He made friends there straightaway, and I’d never seen him happier.

‘I really want to take some of the acting classes,’ he told me and his dad excitedly 
on a trip back home. ‘And 
I’d love to go and work in Australia for a year.’
Then, six weeks after Greg had moved into student 
digs, Colin and I were awoken by a knock on the door of our home in Moffat, Dumfries and Galloway.
It was only 6am, still pitch-black outside, and we shook ourselves awake to 
go and answer.
On our doorstep were 
two police officers, and one asked, ‘Are you the parents 
of Greg Mackie?’
When we nodded, they asked to come inside and panic began to rise inside me.
We sat down with them and one said, ‘We’re really sorry, but your son has died of a drug overdose.’
The words just didn’t make any sense to me.
Colin looked straight at them and said, ‘That can’t 
be right. Are you sure you have the right person? Our son has never used drugs.’

However, the officers 
were adamant.
‘He was found in his student room,’ explained 
the officer.

Still, we just couldn’t connect what he was telling us to our boy.
In order to apply for his uni place, Greg had filmed 
a short documentary on the dangers of drugs.
Plus, we’d always raised the kids to be open and honest about everything, so why would Greg suddenly start keeping us in the dark?
It just wasn’t him.
The officers said they had no further information, but would be in touch again soon, and then they left.
I collapsed in tears.

'Greg was found in his student room'

It was left to Colin to begin telling our family, starting with Greg’s doting big sisters – my daughters from a previous relationship – who were heartbroken.
We’d sent our 18-year-old off to uni for the first time, and just two months later, he was dead. And as we tried to get our heads around that, only one thing made sense.
‘Someone must have spiked his drink as a prank,’ I said.
‘A prank that went badly wrong,’ Colin added.
Everyone we spoke to 
who knew our boy said the same thing.
It was two more weeks before we were allowed to see him, and even then all we were allowed to do was stand behind the glass partition of a hospital morgue.
Finally, once the post-mortem examination was completed, we were able 
to visit him at the funeral parlour. There I got to give my son one last cuddle.
Soon after, it was confirmed Greg had five ecstasy tablets in his system when he died – an amount even hardened drug users wouldn’t take.
‘The only explanation for this is that his drink was spiked,’ Colin and I insisted to the authorities.   
But we still had no answers as to what had happened when we were finally able 
to hold his funeral – the day before my birthday.
We asked mourners to wear purple, Greg’s favourite colour. 
He always said it gave him hope for the future.
Over 500 people attended, with more listening in outside as the strains of Highland Cathedral – the song he had sung when he was six years old – filled the crematorium.
Afterwards, the police investigation continued. 
They took more than 70 statements, some insisting that Greg had been drinking.
But the toxicology report confirmed there was no alcohol in my son’s system 
at all. The only thing he had drunk that night was cola.
After a year-long inquiry, the police decided to close the case, classifying it as a non-suspicious drugs death.

When we insisted Greg had been spiked, social-media trolls commented we were simply in denial. But no one knew our boy better than us.
We went to organisation after organisation with our belief about what had happened. But there had been no one to help us, so we created our own charity, Spike Aware UK.
Our hope was that no other family would have to go through what we did without any support.
We’ve spent the last eight years raising awareness of spiking.
According to official figures, one in nine people have reported being spiked – and who knows how high the real figure is?
We’ve set up a helpline for victims and their families. The youngest person we’ve helped was just 11, the oldest was 82.
This year, Greg would have turned 26, and it still seems totally wrong that he’s not here with us.
As far as we are concerned, we continue to not know how Greg lost his life.
Our charity relies on donations from the public, and every single penny goes to creating awareness.
We visit schools, colleges, pubs, anywhere we can, warning people to cover 
their drinks and never leave them unattended.
We tell them to watch out for their friends as well, and to alert authorities if they witness anyone attempting 
to spike someone.
Recently, Colin gave evidence to Parliament, helping to shape new legislation on spiking, which will come down harder on the perpetrators.  
There’s not a day that we don’t miss our precious boy.
Now, we’re determined to keep his legacy alive and 
get comfort from the fact 
that even in death our son’s helping others.

• Superintendent Joanne McEwan from Police Scotland said, ‘We continue to thoroughly investigate reports from people having been spiked. Every report is taken seriously, with extensive enquiries carried out, and where perpetrators are identified, they are dealt with swiftly and robustly.’

• For information or to donate visit spikeawareuk.org

Cherene Robertson’s therapy horses might be small – but their impact is mighty

A hand reaches out and touches a soft, warm face. At once, the atmosphere changes. The room seems brighter 
and there’s a feeling of joy in the air.

It’s all thanks to a sprinkle of magic delivered by a very special team of bliss bringers, known as the Hoof Gang.
Luna, Bubbles, Eeyore and co are used to bringing comfort and support to people in their hour of need. But they are no ordinary therapy workers.
They are part of Lunar Eclipse, a non-profit organisation that’s dedicated to helping people thrive by connecting with horses.
It’s the brainchild of Cherene Robertson from Stirling who started Lunar Eclipse after seeing the uplifting effect these gentle animals had on those around them.
Cherene, 53, has been horse-mad her whole life.

She says, ‘For as long as I can remember, I’ve been obsessed with horses. Mum and Dad got me riding lessons aged five, and I was lucky enough to have my own ponies.’
But it wasn’t until years later that she turned her passion into her purpose.
Six years ago, she was attacked at work which forced her to give up her job. At the same time her daughter was diagnosed with a chronic health condition.
‘I was feeling lost,’ she says, now. ‘Then a friend who worked for Riding for the Disabled suggested I retrain as an Equine Facilitated Learning (EFL) practitioner, a professional who uses horses to help others develop personal skills.’
Mulling it over, Cherene then spotted an advert online for a black and white gypsy cob called Luna, and she realised she’d found her calling.
She says, ‘I told my husband Moray and he bought Luna for me as a present for our silver anniversary. It seemed extravagant, but he said that he wanted me to be happy again, to get a chance to explore this new avenue 
and to show what I was capable of.’
As soon as Luna arrived, Cherene knew she’d made the right decision.
She began her EFL training and started practising on friends and their children.
‘From the start you could see the effect Luna had on people,’ says Cherene. ‘I added an “r” to her name and Lunar Eclipse EFL Therapy Horses was born.’
Right away, Cherene wanted the horses to be accessible to all.

'He wanted me to be happy'

She says, ‘There were so many people I wanted to reach – like those in hospices and care homes.’
And she quickly realised she couldn’t do that with a full-sized horse.
She’d soon recruited miniature horse Bubbles.
Shetland ponies Eeyore and Smarties, plus more miniature horses, Apollo, Daisy, Robyn, Teddy and Marina, came hot on their hooves.
‘The horses might have been small,’ Cherene says, ‘but the effect they had was enormous.’
One of their first successes was with a boy called Conor.
‘We visited his school,’ says Cherene. ‘At the time he had really limited speech, but that night he went home and said, “Horses! Horses!’’ It was the first time he’d told his parents anything about his day at school, so his Mum got in touch.’
Lunar Eclipse has now been working with Conor, eight, for two years and Cherene says the change in him is incredible.
‘His communication skills have massively improved,’ she explains. ‘He knows all the horses’ names and Bubbles and Luna are his absolute heroes. Luna gives him swan cuddles, where she tucks her head and neck round him!’

Another child helped by the hoof gang is Ellie who was struggling at school until her new friends helped her gain confidence.
But it’s not just kids feeling the equine love.
‘We’ve spent time with the Chelsea Pensioners and visited countless care homes,’ says Cherene. ‘Just the smell of the horses can bring back happy memories, even for those suffering with dementia.
‘One man recalled as a boy riding the butcher’s cart, pulled by a horse named Ginger. Another remembered getting a clip round the ear as a child for stopping on the way back from the corner shop, to share their apple with a horse in a field!’
One particularly special service is providing end-of-life support.
Cherene says, ‘Apollo has a habit of seeking out the person who really needs him. We were in the foyer of a care home one day when he pulled me towards a certain room.
‘A staff member gave us permission to go in, so I introduced myself and Apollo to the man in the bed, who agreed we could visit.

‘With that, Apollo snuggled right into the crook of the man’s neck and just breathed on him. The man said he’d never felt so at ease and asked if we’d come again, which we did.’
The man, named Stuart, was already receiving palliative care, and it wasn’t long before the home called Cherene to say that he didn’t have long left.
‘They asked if I’d bring Apollo to be with him at the end,’ she recalls. ‘Sadly, although I rushed straight there, we didn’t make it in time. But we paid our last respects, Apollo resting his chin on Stuart’s chest.’
They were then given the great honour of accompanying Stuart on his last journey into the crematorium.
‘When the staff at the 
home talked about how 
much Apollo had meant to Stuart at the end, I could hardly hold it together,’ says Cherene.
Now she’s hoping to reach yet more people, and the Hoof Gang is expanding. Another Shetland, Molly Moo, has joined the crew and 
with Henry, a full-sized Arabian cross, that takes the gang to 11.
‘I want even more people to experience the incredible healing potential of these animals,’ says Cherene. ‘Horses are such spirit animals. They pull you through anything. Whatever you’re going through, just being beside one makes you feel better.’

• To find out more about Cherene and Lunar Eclipse visit gofund.me and search ‘Support Lunar Eclipse Scotland's Healing Therapy Horses’.

Inspiring Rumeysa is always reaching greater heights…

Standing with the trolley in the supermarket, strangers turned to stare at me.

‘Don’t mind them,’ my mum Safiye soothed.
And, in truth, I was getting used to the looks.
At six years old, I stood at 5ft 6in tall.
When I was born at 32 weeks, my parents noticed I was bigger than the other babies.
I weighed 13lb and was 59cm long.
After tests, I was diagnosed with Weaver’s syndrome – a rare genetic disorder that caused excessive postnatal growth and skeletal issues.
It was a randomly occurring condition and no one else in my family had it.
Weaver’s syndrome also caused me to have health complications, like a hole in my heart, umbilical hernia and scoliosis, so I needed multiple operations.
As I grew, I towered above my two older siblings.
I was home-schooled and while I had a supportive family, at times I still felt self-conscious.
My clothes had to be made by a custom tailor and my shoes by an orthopaedic expert.
Even my bed was custom-made.
I used a wheelchair or walker to get around.
Then at 17, I came across a news story about the tallest girl in the world.
Wait a minute, I thought. I’m taller than her!
So, I put myself forward for a Guinness World Record.
The adjudicator had to stand on a chair just to measure me…
As she pulled down her tape measure, she grinned.
‘You’re 7ft 0.09in tall, Rumeysa,’ she beamed. ‘I can officially say you’re the world’s tallest female teenager!’
I was thrilled.

'We're so proud of you!'

My height was measured three different times, just to be sure.
Then, my record was confirmed and I was presented with a certificate in a presentation with my family.
‘We’re so proud of you!’ Mum cheered.
To be awarded that at such a young age was an amazing achievement.
I’d always been shy and struggled to make friends.
But becoming a part of the Guinness World Records family opened up a whole new world 
for me.
I found others with extraordinary traits, just like me.
It was empowering.
One time, I met Jyoti Amge – the world’s shortest living woman – who stands at just over two foot tall.
As she looked up at me, and I towered over her, we couldn’t help but laugh.
‘We’re total opposites!’ I chuckled.

Although my height can be an obstacle too…
A few years ago, I was able to fly on a plane for the first time in 
my life.
Turkish Airlines installed a stretcher over six seats, across three rows so I could fly from Istanbul to San Francisco.
While I was there, I went to a festive maze – with Christmas trees even taller than me.
This is so magical, I thought as I made my way around.
It was amazing to finally travel to other countries, something most people take for granted.
More recently, I was awarded the record for the world’s tallest woman – at a height of 7ft 0.7in.
In total, I have eight world records – including longest back (female), longest finger (female), largest hands (female) and widest hand span (female).
My records have really boosted my confidence.
Now, I’m a speaker and an activist.
I raise awareness for rare disabilities and conditions – and I hope to make a difference across the world.
Mine has made me who I am and, for that, I’m always proud.

Rumeysa Gelgi, 28

All I wanted was to have a baby. But what would my dream end up costing me? 
By Sophie Forbes-Perry, 43

Gazing at the waves lapping against the shore, I made a wish.

Please, I thought, please let it happen.
For the last two years, my husband Simon and I had been trying to start a family without success.
Now, as I headed for 40, I’d started to worry it might not happen at all.
We’d gone on holiday to Thailand to try to relax and unwind, but having a baby was my dream and it was all I could think about.
Then, when we got home, I made an amazing discovery.
‘It’s finally happening!’ I said to Simon, barely believing it. ‘You’re going to be a dad!’
We were overjoyed.
I was so happy I didn’t even mind when morning sickness struck and I had my head over the toilet bowl.
At nine weeks, we booked an early scan, excited to get a glimpse of our longed-for baby.
But as the sonographer swept the scanner over my tummy, she said, ‘I’m just going to ask for a second opinion.’
My heart sank.
I knew it wasn’t going to be good news, but it turned out to be devastating.
There was no heartbeat.
I’d suffered what was known as a missed miscarriage. The pregnancy had ended but there’d been no obvious signs of bleeding.
I had to have surgery to remove the foetus and it was an awful time.
Nine months later, though, I said to Simon, ‘I’m ready to try again.’
This time it took us three months to fall pregnant and once again we booked another early scan.
The sonographer peered at the screen and said, ‘I don’t know what I’m looking at.’

'We'll get through this'

Then came the words we’d been dreading.
‘I need a second opinion.’
I glanced at Simon anxiously.
When the sonographer returned, I braced myself.
I was having what was called a molar pregnancy. The baby and placenta had not formed, because of a problem with the fertilised egg.
I had been pregnant at some point, but now only tumours remained in my womb.
Again I had to have surgery to remove them, but a week on I was still being sick.
‘I don’t feel right,’ I said to Simon.
I was given antibiotics but they had no effect and I needed scans and blood tests.
Then I saw a consultant who said, ‘The tumours have come back.’
I didn’t know what that meant so, back at home in York, I did some research 
and what I read left me reeling.
I discovered that the cells left behind by a molar pregnancy could continue to grow and become malignant.
I had another operation and days later my phone rang at home.
It was the hospital.

I knew they wouldn’t have rung unless it was urgent and, as I answered the phone, I said, ‘It’s cancer, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ the doctor replied.
I was numb, but I managed to phone Simon.
‘We’ll get through this,’ he said.
Doctors told me I was suffering from gestational trophoblastic disease, a rare condition which caused abnormal cells or tumours to grow in the womb during or after pregnancy.
In most cases the tumours turned out to be benign, but mine weren’t.
Getting pregnant had given me cancer.
Still reeling from the loss of the baby and the cancer diagnosis, I began chemotherapy.
It made me feel so ill, but I was relieved to hear that the cancer had not spread to any other organs.
But the consultant warned me, ‘Best not to get pregnant for a year in case there’s a risk of recurrence.’
By then, I was 41 and mindful of time slipping by.
Simon and I had been struggling to conceive for four years but, despite the heartache we’d suffered, I wasn’t ready to give up.
So we waited for a year and then I had a round of IVF, and an embryo was implanted.
But during a scan at 10 days, the sonographer again called for a second opinion.
The doctor explained that the quality of the embryo wasn’t good, and it looked more like a cyst.
It was one blow after another.
I’d suffered a miscarriage, a molar pregnancy, cancer, a year-long wait to try again and now the IVF hadn’t worked.
Yet, even then, I still had hope.
The doctor told us we might have success with a donor egg so we gave that a go and I was overjoyed when I began to have bouts of sickness. Even brushing my teeth made me gag.
But when I did a pregnancy test, the result was negative.
I was so confused.
‘I don’t understand,’ I said to my doctor. ‘I’ve got morning sickness but no baby.’
It turned out I’d lost the baby very early on because the embryo had not developed.
There had been a baby but now there wasn’t.
Now we had to make a decision to try again or accept the fact we’d never have a child.
‘Enough’s enough,’ I said to Simon. ‘We’re both worn out.’
He agreed.
It was time to start living 
a different life from the one we’d planned and I became an ambassador for The Cancer Treatment and Research Trust, an organisation committed to 
the research and management of rare cancers.
I also want to set up a group for couples who are childless for whatever reason.
I’ve gone through heartbreak, but it’s made me strong and I’m determined 
to use that strength to help others.

• For more information visit heartandsoulwithsophie.co.uk and cancertreatment.org.uk

2026 Answers

Issue 01 2026: Page 15 Picture Pointer = Hexagonal

Issue 02 2026: Page 15 Picture Pointer = Fragrant

Issue 03 2026: Page 15 Picture Pointer = Perilous

Issue 04 2026: Page 15 Picture Pointer = Astrology

Issue 05 2026: Page 15 Picture Pointer = Delighted

Issue 06 2026: Page 15 Picture Pointer = Nectarine

Issue 07 2026: Page 15 Picture Pointer = Idealistic

Issue 08 2026: Page 15 Picture Pointer = Collaborate

2025 Answers

Issue 01 2025: Page 15 Picture Pointer = Fantasy

Issue 02 2025: Page 15 Picture Pointer = Appendix

Issue 03 2025: Page 15 Picture Pointer = Flattery

Issue 04 2025: Page 15 Picture Pointer = Mixture

Issue 05 2025: Page 15 Picture Pointer = Express

Issue 06 2025: Page 15 Picture Pointer = Crystal

Issue 07 2025: Page 15 Picture Pointer = Anecdote

Issue 08 2025: Page 15 Picture Pointer = Mythology

Issue 09 2025: Page 15 Picture Pointer = Ceremony

Issue 10 2025: Page 15 Picture Pointer = Motivating

Issue 11 2025: Page 15 Picture Pointer = Perfume

Issue 12 2025: Page 15 Picture Pointer = Bejewel

What the stranger said next saved Kerry’s life…

Walking into the dining room of the care home I worked in, I made a beeline for the kettle.

I was about to make a cuppa for an elderly resident, but her daughter was hot on my heels.

‘I don’t mean to be cheeky but are you alright?’ she asked, gently.

‘What do you mean?’ I replied.

‘When you were helping my mum, I noticed you had a really big lump on your neck,’ she said.

She told me her relative had had a similar lump and been diagnosed with thyroid cancer.

‘I don’t mean to scare you, but you should get it checked out,’ she said.

‘Thank you,’ I replied.

My mum Carol and her two sisters had all been diagnosed with cancer at around my age – almost 30 - too.

Could history be repeating itself? I fretted.

After booking a doctor’s appointment, I developed strange symptoms.

‘It’s as if my brain needs a couple of seconds to tell me to swallow,’ I told the doctor.

I was referred for a biopsy, which I had two weeks later.

A busy working mum to Aiden, 11, and Harley, six, that helped keep me distracted while I waited for the results.

But it seemed to take forever.

Eventually, three months later, I walked nervously into hospital.

There, I received the news I’d been dreading.

I had thyroid cancer.

‘We’ve found a 6cm lump, and you’ll need surgery and radiotherapy,’ the doctor said.

Deep down, I’d already known, but hearing the ‘C’ word aloud felt shocking and strange.

Afterwards, dazed, I walked to the hospital café.

I sat quietly, trying to breathe, and broke down in tears.

All I could think was that I was going to die and leave my kids without a mum.

Calling my partner Steven, I could barely get the words out between sobs.

‘Everything will be fine,’ he soothed.

He was so strong and protective.

Though I tried to shield the children, Aiden guessed something was wrong.

I realised I’d have to tell them, which was hard.

‘Don’t panic love, but I have cancer,’ I said, explaining I’d have surgery to remove it.

Meanwhile, I told my daughter, just six, that I was poorly, but I was going into hospital to make me better.

For a while, anytime I was feeling unwell, Aiden would worry I was going to die.

It was heartbreaking.

Finally, five months later, I was taken into theatre for surgery to remove half of my thyroid gland.

I was terrified I wouldn’t wake up.

Only, five hours later, the surgeon declared it had been a success.

I can move on now, I thought.

But at my check-up two weeks later, there was bad news.

‘We think the cancer could have spread to the other half of the thyroid,’ he said.

I needed more surgery.

And when he said I’d need medication for the rest of my life, I crumbled.

I felt broken and betrayed by my own body. I wasn’t ready to admit this was how life would always be.

The thyroid gland had so many vital functions, such as producing hormones that controlled bodily functions like heart rate and body temperature.

Without it, I’d need lifelong hormone replacement therapy.

After successful surgery, I had to stay in a room for a week to have radiation treatment to mop up any tiny cancer cells that may have been missed.

It went well, but it took a toll on me - not just physically, but mentally.

My family and medical staff were so supportive.

Now, I’m grateful to be here and that I get to experience the simple things, such as my son and daughter starting new years at school.

And I’ll forever be thankful to that stranger for speaking up.

By Kerry Morrow, 32, Glasgow, Scotland

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I stayed at The Grafton Hotel in the heart of Dublin with my husband and our two young sons, Odhran, 11, and Reuben, 8, for two nights, mid-week in August.

The Hotel

It's located in the bustling heart of Dublin, but as we stepped through the front doors of The Grafton Hotel, we were greeted by a surprising sense of tranquility. The lobby of this stylish, four-star, Art Deco-inspired hotel, features velvet sofas in teal and pale yellow, alongside disco mirror pillars, and modern pendant lights hang from a high ceiling, creating a bright and airy space. We inhaled a pleasing custom signature scent as we made our way from the entrance, past an inviting café towards the check-in desk. The lobby spills into the adjoining Bartley's Bar & Restaurant, an elegant but cosy space that offers a more eclectic decor of dark woods and richly coloured upholstery, alongside copper and brass light fixtures. An outdoor terrace, offers guests the chance to sip a coffee or a cocktail and watch the world go by.

The Room

We stayed in a family room that had a super king bed and bunks. The room was really spacious and had a large bathroom with a powerful rainfall shower, fluffy white towels, and premium toiletries. But there was also a separate room with a toilet - a great consideration for family rooms, where everyone is trying to get ready at once.

The Grafton Hotel recognises that not every family consists of two adults and two children, and offers family rooms that sleep up to six. These consist of a super king and two sets of bunks, meaning larger families don't have the hassle of juggling separate room bookings.

Odhran and Reuben were delighted to find a little souvenir teddy on their bed, alongside a small bowl of chocolates, and I tucked into the chocolate brownies on a thoughtful welcome slate. There were complimentary cartons of water and a kettle with tea and coffee provided. There was free Wi-Fi, a flat-screen TV (but we couldn't access Netflix, only regular channels) and I was happy to spot an iron and ironing board when I pulled a crumpled dress from my suitcase. One of the real luxuries of The Grafton is the space in the family rooms. You don't feel on top of each other, as there's floorspace for the kids to play and a couple of large armchairs if you're feeling ambitious and think they'll be distracted long enough to allow to sit and read a chapter of your book.

The room could have benefitted from some artwork on the walls, and while practical, the stainless steel handrail by the steps into the room could have been more stylishly incorporated into the design. The blue and gold carpet clashed with the coral coloured tiles in the bathroom. But for space and comfort, The Grafton Hotel was a winner. It was so peaceful, which felt surprising considering its location right in the heart of the city. I didn't hear a peep, and slept like a baby! I sank into the luxurious bed, and heavy curtains kept the room dark and ensured we all had a great nights sleep and woke feeling completely refreshed and ready for a day of exploring. The noon checkout time on our final day felt like a real treat.

Food & Drink

Our seasonal package included a complimentary cocktail on arrival, and after checking in, we settled in the inviting Bartley's Bar. While the menu offered an enticing selection of classic and signature cocktails, the mixologist was equally happy to craft our off-menu favourites: a spicy margarita for my husband and a passionfruit martini for me. The cocktails were a delicious way to transition from travel mode into relaxed holiday vibes. Bartley's is a lovely cocktail bar to visit even if you're not staying at The Grafton.

Later, we enjoyed dinner at the hotel. There's the adjoining Bartley's Restaurant, but we ate in the bar area. The menu offerings included steak, burgers, and fish dishes. My husband chose supreme of chicken with gnocchi, while I enjoyed the vegetarian rigatoni pasta with pine nuts, spinach, pesto and parmesan. The boys chose sausage and mash and burger and chips from the separate kids menu.

For dessert, my husband and I shared a creamy cheesecake and chocolate brownie with vanilla ice-cream, while Odhran and Reuben chose the trio of ice-cream. Though the dishes were prepared with care, they stopped short of being memorable, yet the inviting atmosphere made this a relaxing family-friendly spot to escape the bustle of the city outside.

We lingered over a relaxing breakfast in the stylish Bartley's Restaurant - a space where dark wood and leather furnishings blend traditional and contemporary styles. A tasty hot buffet of sausages, bacon, eggs, mushrooms, beans, tomatoes and hash browns, allowed guests to build their own full Irish breakfast, and Odhran and Reuben tried black and white pudding and Irish soda bread. It became a two-course affair, as the boys finished with fresh waffles, topped with honeycomb and blueberries and a side of watermelon slices, and I treated myself to a pastry and mini muffins.

Location

The Grafton Hotel is located right in the heart of Dublin city centre. It's round the corner from the famous Grafton Street, a pedestrianised shopping area where lively buskers bring a vibrant soundtrack to your shopping spree. Here you'll find landmarks such the luxury department store Brown Thomas, and the historic Bewley's Café. Odhran and Reuben made a beeline for the LEGO Store to spend their holiday money. They also enjoyed a visit to Disney Store, where they checked out the Marvel and Star Wars zone. There were action figures for photo ops, including a giant Hulk statue.

The Grafton Hotel is minutes aways from St Stephen's Green - a 22-acre Victorian park adjacent to Grafton Street. Odhran and Reuben enjoyed chasing each other around the flower beds and we sat by the lake. It's an interesting park to stroll around as there are lots of memorial plaques and dedicated monuments honouring prominent figures and historical events.

Dublin is an easily walkable city, making it ideal for exploring with kids, and from The Grafton Hotel, you can reach Trinity College and the cobbled streets of Temple Bar (Dublin's nightlife quarter, where you'll find traditional pubs and live music) within 10 minutes. Explore and enjoy sightseeing during the day, and when little legs get tired, you can easily pop back to the hotel for a rest and refresh before stepping back out for the evening.

Cost

Night rates at The Grafton Hotel typically range from around £170 for a standard room to over £400 for a family room. Prices depend heavily on the season, day of the week, and room type. Find out more here

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I thought I’d lost my beloved cat for good. Then three years later, there was a bolt from the blue. By Kate Wood, 38

Scanning the car park, I got a few odd looks as I shouted for my cat.

‘Danger, Danger!’ I hollered.
And suddenly, there he was padding towards me – Danger, my handsome Bengal cross cat.
‘The wanderer returns,’ I said, laughing as I stroked his glossy fur.
My kitty had a tendency to roam, so I’d trained him to come to me when I called his name.
But it didn’t half attract some funny looks when I shouted it out in public!
Danger had been owned by my housemate, so it was her who’d chosen the name Danger because he was a feisty kitten who left chaos in his wake.
But after finding out she was pregnant, she’d asked if I’d take him on.
‘Absolutely,’ I’d agreed.
I’d always been a cat lover, so I knew I could give him lots of love.
Affectionate and playful, Danger loved cuddles and tummy rubs. And when I got him a furry friend, Beans, the pals would snuggle up together.
A couple of years later, we moved house and I let Danger out in the day for his first stroll around our new area.
‘Don’t go too far, mister,’ I warned him.
Only, hours later, he hadn’t crawled through the cat flap.
Worried he’d got spooked by the sound of fireworks and got lost, I went out in the dark to look for him.
‘Danger!’ I shouted, as I searched gardens, alleyways and hedges.
But there was no sign of him.
For weeks, I pounded the streets of my neighbourhood searching for him and even posted on Facebook groups.
I was gutted to lose him but still had a spark of hope.
‘I’ve got a feeling he’ll turn up,’ I told a pal.

'Don't go too far, mister'

But when a year passed with no sign of Danger, I knew it was unlikely I’d see my mate again and sadly cancelled his pet insurance.
It felt so final.
I missed him desperately and I wished he’d been there when my daughter was born and around for a much-needed cuddle when my relationship ended.
Then, one night, I’d just put my little girl, two, to bed when I got a call from a woman called Anthea.
‘Have you lost your cat?’ she asked, explaining she’d been rescuing feral kittens at a cat colony and come across a handsome Bengal.
She’d scanned his microchip and found my number.
‘Yes, Danger’s mine!’ I squealed in amazement. ‘He’s been missing for three years.’
Elated, I bundled my sleeping daughter into the car and drove over to the location on the other side of Rotherham, South Yorkshire, where I lived.
Hopping out of the car, I yelled, ‘Danger!’
Suddenly, I heard that familiar meow, as if he was saying, ‘Mum, is that you?’
My heart soared as he came running over and I pulled him into a hug.
‘It’s really you,’ I said, crying tears of happiness.

I don’t think either of us could believe it! It was the paw-fect moment.
As there were lots of people milling around, he was wary and I couldn’t entice him into his carrier.
But the next morning, with the help of Nicola, another volunteer, I went back and was able to get my boy home.
Danger, now 10, has settled back in happily and has stunned the vet by being in such rude health.
I still wonder what he was doing for those three years, but I’m just delighted he’s back where he belongs.
Beans is giddy to have her sidekick back, too.
And so that my green-eyed gallivanter doesn’t use up another of his nine lives, I want to get him a GPS tag.
But so fur, so good!

Setting off on 
a run, Peta didn’t feel so good…

Tying up my laces, I set off for a 5k run.

Since having my daughter, Ellie, 20 years earlier, I’d suffered with high blood pressure.
Straightaway, I’d quit smoking and started exercising.
Aged 38, I still had days where I didn’t feel well within myself, and a couple of months ago, I’d popped to my GP.
But I was told no one was available to see me and that 
I’d be prescribed a different contraceptive pill. And that was it. I’d hoped they’d have examined me further.
Soon after, I contracted Covid, and was out of action for two months.
But today I was determined to go for a run.
I’d spent the morning cleaning my house which 
had left me feeling exhausted and, for some reason, nauseous too.
Maybe my asthma is playing up, I’d thought.
So, I eased myself into 
my jog.
Only as I got going, I began to feel breathless.
A strange pain shot down my left arm too.
I tried to shake it off, but then my nausea got worse.
Covid has really done a number on me, I thought.
I managed to complete my 5k, but returning home, I took some paracetamol for my 
arm pain as well as some Rennie tablets in case I had indigestion.
Launching myself on to my bed, my cat Winnie nudged me and wouldn’t leave my side.
It was so out of character.
Was my kitty trying to tell 
me something?
Later, Ellie and I drove into town, but I started feeling worse and called 111.
‘I feel clammy and there’s tingling down my left arm,’ 
I explained.
‘We’re sending an ambulance to you,’ the operator replied.
‘Oh, that’s not needed – I don’t want to waste their time,’ I said.
But one was on 
its way.
Once paramedics arrived, they did an ECG and gave me some aspirin.
‘We need to get you to the hospital,’ one told me. ‘We think you’re having a heart attack.’
‘I can’t be – I’m only 38,’ 
I replied.
My husband, Toby, was abroad for work, so Ellie phoned him en route to the hospital.
‘I’m sure it’s not a heart attack,’ I said, trying to reassure her.
At the hospital I underwent scans and tests.
Later, a doctor visited me with news.

‘You are having a heart attack,’ he explained.
Am I going to die? I fretted, as the tears streamed down my face.
I was transferred to a nearby hospital where an angiogram confirmed I’d suffered a spontaneous cardiac artery dissection, also known as a SCAD. It meant that I had a tear in my artery.
It was not known what caused a SCAD, but it was more common in women and thought that it could be due to hormonal fluctuations.
My contraceptive pill had recently been changed, and I had started my period earlier that day too, so it made sense.
I wondered if Winnie detected I was in danger and that’s why she was fussing over me.
I was put on blood thinners, beta blockers and blood pressure medication and forced to rest up so the tear could heal.
After undergoing six weeks of cardiac rehabilitation, I started training for the Bournemouth 5k to raise money for the British Heart Foundation.
I was so proud when I hit 
my goal of finishing in under 
40 minutes!
Since then, I have been raising money for the Beat SCAD charity too.
My message to others is to check your blood pressure and be your own self-advocate if you feel something is wrong.
There’s a chance I could suffer a SCAD again, but I’m focused on remaining positive and living life as if each day could be my last.

Ann Blair’s daughters were playing in the sea, but there was something sinister lurking nearby…

Clearing up the breakfast table, I smiled hearing the chatter of excited voices in the bedroom.

‘Bring on the beach!’ my 15-year-old daughter Lulu said.
‘We might find sea urchins,’ her twin Ellie replied.
My girls were identical and inseparable.
They did everything together, from playing basketball to gym sessions.
I’d left my husband Joe back home looking after our other children Maggie, 11, and 10-year-old son, Tripp.
This was a four-day mum and daughter holiday in Florida.
Some friends had joined too.
After breakfast, we headed to the shore.
Before us stretched beautiful white sand and crystal clear water as far as the eye could see.
As the girls ran into the sea, I lay down nearby with my friends.
This is just perfect, I thought.
A while later, me and some of the mums decided to head back to our rented house.
‘See you later!’ I called to the girls.
After getting some more things, we headed to a nearby cafe for lunch.
Then as we walked back to where the girls were, we noticed a large crowd had gathered by the water.
‘Why are all those people there?’ I asked Ellen.
‘There’s a shark by the football in the water!’ someone nearby shouted.
What? I thought.
I looked out to sea and, sure enough, there was a football floating near the shore.
‘I’ll call the kids,’ Ellen said in 
a panic.
I watched with my heart in my mouth while she dialled her daughter’s number.
‘There’s no answer,’ she said.
Instinctively, we started running towards the throng.
We had to find 
our girls.
I carried on running, thinking Lulu and Ellie would suddenly appear before me.
Then something made me stop in my tracks and look back.
There, on the ground, was Lulu.
In my panic, I’d run past her.
‘Oh my god,’ I cried.
She was partly covered by a towel but her face was as white as a ghost.
Suddenly, Ellie was there too.

'There's a shark in the water!'

‘Mum, it’s Lulu,’ she said. ‘She’s been bitten by a shark.’
I started screaming, unable to control myself.
When I looked closer, I saw Lulu’s thigh protruding grotesquely, a mass of flesh and blood.
The beast had taken a chunk out 
of it.
Ellie knelt down and gently tried to keep Lulu’s eyes open.
I grabbed Lulu’s hand.
‘I love you,’ I said to her, begging her to stay awake.
Doctors and nurses who’d been on the beach offered to help.
‘Mum, she’s going to be OK,’ Ellie said.
‘No she’s not, she has no leg!’ I cried.
Frantically, I called Joe’s number.
‘Lulu’s been bitten by a shark,’ I told him.
Minutes later, an ambulance arrived and Lulu was loaded on to it.
I ran back to the house with my friend Kelly and Ellie. We grabbed some things, and in a daze started driving.
Just breathe, I thought to myself, willing Lulu to live.
During the hour drive to hospital, Ellie turned to me.
‘Mum, Lulu lost her hand too,’ she said.
I froze in horror.
I hadn’t seen the rest of Lulu’s body because she was partially covered up.
How was she going to survive with no arm and perhaps no leg?

At last, we arrived and I ran into A&E and grabbed a doctor.
‘My daughter was bitten by 
a shark. Do you know if she’s OK?’ I asked.
‘She’s alive, she’s in surgery,’ he said. ‘She’s lost her left hand and we’re trying to save her leg.’
I almost collapsed in relief.
I realised I could cope with anything as long as I still had my little girl.
But later, another doctor approached.
And the news wasn’t good…
Surgeons had been forced to amputate 
her leg above the knee because 
her femoral artery 
had been severed.
‘People normally 
die within seconds 
of that happening. The fact she’s alive 
is a miracle,’ the doctor explained.
I was devastated she had lost her leg but I repeated, ‘She’s alive, she’s alive.’
When Joe came, I collapsed into his arms, sobbing.

Finally, two hours later, Lulu was out of theatre.
She was intubated and her body was swollen, but she was still with us.
I sat next to her and gently held her hand.
In the middle of the night, she woke up. She pointed to the space where her leg should 
have been.
‘It’s gone, sweetheart,’ I said.
In that moment though, I knew she was still the same Lulu.
The following morning, Ellie came in, bent down and hugged her twin.
Then she sat down next to her and held her hand, making a heart shape with her fingers to show Lulu she loved her.
‘She’s doing really well, we can take the breathing tube out tomorrow,’ the doctor said.
I was overwhelmed with relief.
But still dark thoughts threatened to overwhelm me.
How will she be treated without an arm and leg? I fretted. How can she have a normal life?
Next day, Lulu spoke for the first time.
‘I made it,’ she whispered.
‘You did, honey,’ I replied, tears rolling down my face.
She and Ellie slowly explained what had happened.
‘We had been looking for sea urchins and were swimming back when suddenly someone screamed “Shark!”,’ Lulu said. ‘I looked down and saw the shark’s big body and we all just started swimming for our lives.’
Lulu said she felt something and instinctively lifted her arm out of the water.
‘Mum, my hand was missing, there was just flesh and bone,’ she told me. ‘I tried to scream 
but nothing came out.’
She said, 
even though 
she felt no pain, she knew that the shark had then latched 
on to her leg.
Someone then ran into the water and punched 
the shark.
‘I blacked out in the strangers’ arms and the next thing I knew I was coming round on the beach,’ she added.
Lulu said she remembered trying to focus on breathing and keeping her 
eyes open.
She also felt someone putting 
a tourniquet round her wounds 
to try and stop the bleeding.
That person almost certainly saved her life.
As I listened to my girl, I couldn’t believe what she’d been through. She remembered every bit of it.
Next day, despite her injuries, Lulu was able to sit up.
My girl was so determined!
Her fitness from playing basketball and volleyball meant she was strong and was recovering quickly.
Five days 
later, Lulu was transferred to a rehabilitation unit where I stayed with her.

'Mum, my hand was missing'

More surgery followed, which allowed her to have a state-of-the-art prosthetic hand.
One night, Lulu cried for the first time since the attack happened.
‘Losing an arm and a leg does not define you,’ I told her. ‘It’s how you cope with it that 
defines you.’
After that, she rarely complained.
Lulu’s determination to get better astounded the physiotherapists.
She out-performed every task they set her.
Sometimes she’d get frustrated, but she was never angry.
And she never once said, 
‘Why me?’
Instead, she said, ‘Why not me?’
Two and a half months after the shark attack, Lulu came home.
She’s now back playing golf, volleyball and basketball.
Her bond with Ellie and the friends who were on the beach that day is stronger than ever.
I know these girls will have each other for life.
She has since launched the Lulu Strong Foundation (lulustrong.com).
It aims to raise funds and awareness for better prosthetics for amputees which are still woefully inadequate.
Lulu’s set her sights on becoming a doctor, a motivational speaker and 
a paralympic athlete.
My daughter lost her arm and leg, but it hasn’t stopped her.
It’s made her stronger.
For Lulu, the sky’s the limit.

Ann Blair Gribbin, 44

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Dad had taken our dog for a 
walk in the park. But a shocking encounter was about to 
change our lives forever…
By Susan Kohli, 51

After hanging up a top, 
I turned my attention 
to a pile of dresses.

‘Pop those up there,’ my dad Bhim said, pointing to an empty rail.
Seagulls wheeled overhead and fresh sea air of the Kent coast filled my lungs.
My two older brothers and I were helping Dad on his market stall, but we couldn’t wait to dash down to the beach afterwards.
As the morning passed, I enjoyed listening to dad’s friendly chat with customers.
After a few hours, he turned to us with a smile 
and said, ‘Off you go,’ and 
my brothers and I raced happily down to the sand.
When I was 11, we left the seaside behind and moved to Leicester, where Dad opened a textiles factory.
Just as I’d watched him run his market stall, I enjoyed learning how he ran his 
new business.
But in time, the textile trade started to dwindle.
‘I’ve got to close the business and retire,’ Dad 
said eventually.
But I knew that he’d need something to keep him occupied.
‘He can’t sit still,’ I told Mum. ‘He’ll go mad.’
She agreed, so we were pleased when he took on three allotments over the road from our house.
That first summer, 
he came home, proudly showing 
us the tomatoes 
and cucumbers 
he’d grown.
He planted 
fruit trees, harvesting 
apples, plums 
and cherries.
And we weren’t the only ones who benefitted from his harvest. Laden down with vegetables, Dad would knock on neighbours’ doors.
‘Thanks, Bhim,’ they said, gratefully taking his produce.
But green fingers didn’t run in the family.
When he and Mum went away on holiday one time, 
he left me in charge of the seedlings he was growing.
‘It’s easy,’ he said, giving me instructions on how to care for them.

'They spat at me and racially abused me'

But I was hopeless with tending to plants. By the time he returned, the seedlings had wilted and died.
Dad didn’t grumble, but 
he never asked me to look after his plants again!
In time, I left home to get married.
But it was an unhappy marriage, and when it came to an end after 18 months, 
I returned home to live with Mum and Dad.
Dad had reached the age 
of 80, but remained active. When he wasn’t at his allotments, he’d take Rocky, our border collie and terrier mix, to the park next to our house.
When Rocky was younger, 
he’d bound along in front 
of Dad, but as he aged, he walked slowly behind.
Two or three times a day, the pair of them would disappear off for a stroll.

But in the area where we lived, there had been trouble with youths. And one day, Dad came home shaken.
He explained how he’d 
told a group of children to get down off the roof of a neighbour’s garage.
‘They spat at me and racially abused me,’ he said, shaking his head in disbelief.
We reported it to the police.
Then, a couple of weeks later, Dad and I heard shouting outside our home.
We looked outside to see a man being racially abused by a group of youths.
I took out my phone and began filming evidence as stones were thrown towards the man.
When the aggressors picked up a big log, Dad and I flew out to intervene.
The incident was reported to police.

A couple of weeks later, it was early in the evening and I was upstairs in my bedroom. I’d been diagnosed with MS and sometimes had to rest.
I heard loud voices and, wondering what all the commotion was about, stuck my head out the window.
I spotted my nephew hurrying towards our house.
‘What’s happened?’ I shouted down.
‘It’s Grandad,’ he said. 
‘He’s been attacked in the park.’
My heart thumped in fear.
I raced downstairs and my nephew and I dashed over to the park. There, I found Dad lying on the ground.
He was crying out in 
agony, and I crouched down by his side.

‘In a balaclava,’ he muttered, desperately trying to tell me who’d attacked him.
Poor Rocky was trembling in fear.
We called an ambulance, who took Dad to hospital.
He was conscious, but 
in great pain.
‘Pull the blanket over my shoulder,’ he asked, as I sat beside him. ‘There’s a draught.’
At hospital, it was discovered that Dad had suffered a broken neck and 
three broken ribs.
I couldn’t believe that someone would do this to 
a kind and defenceless 80-year-old man.
A wave of dread washed over me when doctors told me that he would need surgery, but would likely 
be paralysed.
‘But least he’ll still be 
alive,’ I said.
I rang Mum and she hurried with my brother 
to join us.
Dad was due to be transferred to another hospital.
But by the next morning, his condition had further deteriorated.
He looked so fragile as he lay unconscious, surrounded by tubes and wires.
‘Come on, Dad, you’re a fighter,’ I whispered. ‘You need to get back here, you need to get back 
to your allotments – you know we can’t do it!’
But four hours later, with my heartbroken 
family gathered round, Dad 
slipped away.

He’d died 26 hours after he’d been attacked.
As we struggled with our grief, we discovered that a 14-year-old boy and a 12-year-old girl had been arrested and charged in connection with the attack 
on Dad.
A postmortem found he’d died as a result of his neck injury, which had caused spinal-cord damage.
We held Dad’s funeral, 
and I cried as our community took us in their arms and surrounded the hearse in a mark of respect.
Months later, I sat in Leicester Crown Court, 
where I listened to the sickening cruelty that Dad had endured.
The boy, now 15, had racially abused, kicked and punched him.
As my poor Dad slumped to his knees, the boy had taken off one of his slider shoes and slapped Dad in 
the face with it.
Dad had tried to get away, but the boy had prevented him from leaving the park.
The girl, now 13, had encouraged the attack, and filmed it on her phone while laughing.
I was horrified when I saw the footage.

'Come on, Dad, you're a fighter'

After the attack, they’d 
left Dad crumpled on the ground, and ran off to join friends, laughing and bragging about the attack.
At the end of the six-week trial, the boy and the girl, who couldn’t be named 
for legal reasons, were convicted of manslaughter.
Later, they returned to court for sentencing.
The boy was sentenced 
to seven years in custody, 
and the girl was given a youth rehabilitation order 
of three years and made subject to a six-month curfew.
I held my head in despair. It felt too lenient.
I filed a request for the boy’s sentence to be reviewed. But the Court of Appeal rejected moves to have the sentence increased.
I started campaigning 
for tougher sentencing of youths who commit this 
sort of violent crime, and 
I also wanted parents to be accountable for the criminal actions of their children.
Those responsible for 
Dad’s death weren’t adults, but they knew the difference between right and wrong.
Now, we’ve kept only one of his allotments because we can’t tend to all three.
Rocky hasn’t been the same since Dad died. We all miss him terribly.
The park where he was attacked is on our doorstep, and whenever we walk out 
of the house it’s a reminder of what happened.
But it won’t drive us away, and in time, we hope to mostly remember all the happy times we spent together as a family in 
our loving home.

My son was keeping quiet about his new relationship and when I found out why it was too late. By Sheila Morrison, 76

There was a knock on our living room door, then it swung open.

'The food smells great, Mum,’ my son Neil said, walking in.
He popped round every Sunday for a full English brunch and a catch-up.
I’d always been close to Neil and his sister Lisa, but losing their dad when they were still teenagers had brought us even closer.
And when I’d remarried, they’d got on well with their stepdad George.
I really hoped Neil would meet someone new too. But he’d taken his split with the mum of his two kids hard and since then he’d struggled to find a lasting relationship.
My caring, naïve son seemed to keep picking women with problems. He thought he could help them, but would always end up being hurt by them.
Now, as we sat down to eat, he chatted about what he’d been up to at work and with the kids.
Neil wasn’t one to talk about his feelings, so I was surprised when one day soon after, he opened up.
‘After work and the pub, I come home to an empty flat,’ he sighed, sadly. ‘I just want to find someone to care about and love.’
‘You will, son,’ I reassured him.
Then a few months on, his daughter messaged me saying, Dad’s got a new friend.
Do you know who she is? I asked.
My granddaughter worked in retail and she told me this woman he’d taken up with was a known shoplifter.
Neil deserves better, I thought.
When he stopped appearing for Sunday brunch, I thought he must be caught up in this new relationship, although he hadn’t mentioned her to me at all.
And when his usually regular texts fizzled out too, I began to worry.
‘This isn’t like him at all,’ I said to George.

A month on, I spotted a news story online that said police and emergency services had been called to an address on Neil’s street.
I texted it to Lisa and said, 
I hope Neil’s OK.
But later, the police called asking to come and see me.
Minutes later, there was an officer at my door who said, 
‘A body’s been found, and we think it’s Neil’s.’
They asked for a photo and when I showed them one, they confirmed it and my world fell apart.
‘Neil was just a normal guy,’ I said to George when they’d gone. ‘Who’d want to kill him?’
Breaking the news to Lisa and Neil’s children was awful. They were as devastated as we were and couldn’t understand why Neil was gone. He was just 49.
In time, police confirmed a woman called Elizabeth Sweeney had been arrested on suspicion of murder and that they’d been in a relationship.
That must be his mystery woman, I thought, reeling in shock.
We were told Neil had died of blunt force trauma to the head and neck, but that was all we knew.
Desperate to know what happened, I asked a police officer, ‘But how was he killed and where was he found?’
‘We can’t tell you for legal reasons,’ he replied.
And my heart broke all over again when the undertaker gently warned me off seeing Neil because of the extent of his injuries.
What on earth had this woman done to my boy?

'Who'd want to kill him?'

Weeks later, we held his funeral and his children chose a beautiful song called If I Would Have Known by Kyle Hume.
Tears rolled down my face as I listened to the lyrics, I would have given anything to say goodbye.
And I really would’ve done.
Drowning in grief, my mind played tricks on me, convincing me I’d spotted Neil in town.
The lack of detail from police felt like a void and, grasping for answers, my family and I would try to fill it with theories and speculation.
Around eight months later, I got a phone call from a friend to say Sweeney had appeared at a pre-trial hearing and pleaded not guilty to Neil’s murder and now it was plastered all over the news.
We’d had no warning at all.
‘The papers say she beat him with a kettle,’ my friend said.
I gasped in horror as she revealed more details of the charges.
After repeatedly attacking Neil on his head and body with a kettle, Sweeney had dragged his body into the shower to try to wash the blood off before covering him with a duvet.
Sweeney was also said to have tried to clean the kettle and her shoes to destroy evidence.
I broke down, thinking how brutal the attack had been and how much my son had suffered in those final moments.
Eventually, the day of the court case arrived.
‘Are you OK, Mum?’ Lisa said, taking my arm.
I nodded, but I felt scared of what more would come out.
Appearing at Aberdeen High Court, Elizabeth Sweeney, 36, denied murder.
The court heard Neil had met drug addict Sweeney after she’d fallen asleep on a bus and he’d given her cash.
He’d told friends he was trying to help her get off drugs.
But they’d started a relationship and after being spotted with bruises on his face he’d confided in a pal that Sweeney was abusing him.
My mind flashed back to how Neil had stopped coming round for Sunday brunch.
He probably didn’t know how to explain his bruises, I thought.
After lodging a special defence of self-defence, Sweeney’s barrister told the court she’d woken on the day of the incident and formed a belief she was in danger.
But I knew my boy would never hurt anyone.
She’d then launched the fatal attack, during which Neil had sustained more than 70 injuries, which were likened to those of a car crash victim or someone who’d fallen from height.
It had then taken Sweeney three days to call the police. During that time, she was seen coming and going from his flat and was also caught on CCTV going on a 10-hour drinking session.
When they showed grisly police bodycam footage of Neil’s battered body in his blood-soaked flat, I had to leave the court.
As we waited nervously for the jury to consider their verdict, I worried about which way it would go.
Back in court, Lisa and I gripped each other’s hands as they delivered their verdict.
Guilty!

'You did nothing to get help'

The jury had rejected her lies and we’d got justice for Neil.
A month later, we returned to court, to see Sweeney jailed for life to serve a minimum of 18 years.
Judge Andrew Miller blasted Sweeney for partying after bludgeoning Neil to death, saying, ‘You did nothing to get help for Neil Jolly or arrange for his body to be recovered. Instead you appeared to have spent that weekend giving little thought to his fate.’
Even now, I struggle to believe Neil’s gone and I still find myself waiting to hear that knock on the door on Sunday morning.
I wish with every fibre of my being that he’d never met that awful woman because if he hadn’t, he’d be alive today.
I’m tortured by what he went through in his final moments too, trying to defend himself on the floor as blows rained down on him.
My kind and lonely son was trying to help a woman in need, but she took advantage of him.
No one – man or woman – deserves to have their life taken in such a violent way.
You read about it on the news and see it on TV but never expect it to happen to your family.
I wish my son had confided in me too because maybe then I could’ve helped him.
There’s still a stigma around male victims of domestic abuse, but it needs to be talked about. Men need to walk away and tell someone before it’s too late.

Elizabeth Sweeney has lodged an appeal against her sentence.

Looking down at her fingers, Louise gasped. What on earth was happening to them?

When I felt the stabbing sensation in my side, I recognised it immediately.

Wincing in pain, I pulled into a lay-by and rang my parents.

‘Mum, I’ve got another kidney stone,’ I gasped down the phone.

‘Get to the doctors,’ she urged. ‘We’ll meet you there.’

I’d had a kidney stone removed three years previously and the discomfort in my stomach was familiar.

Scans at hospital confirmed my suspicions.

‘It’s a fairly small stone,’ the doctor told me. ‘You should be able to pass it yourself without surgery.’

Dad drove me home, my prescription slip clutched in my hand.

Fortunately, a friend agreed to stay with me overnight and keep an eye on me.

We’d just finished dinner the following evening, when I was overcome by a violent wave of nausea.

Suddenly, I was fading in and out of consciousness.

‘Louise, stay with me!’ my pal urged.

She rang an ambulance and waited with me until it arrived in the early hours of the morning.

The journey to hospital was a total blur.

I was only vaguely aware of Mum arriving and of the staff taking my blood pressure and heart rate.

Then everything faded to black…

When I woke, I was woozy and confused, my stomach still in agony.

‘What’s going on?’ I croaked to the doctor.

‘You went into septic shock,’ he replied. ‘We’ve been fighting to keep you alive for four days.’

Despite their best efforts, they were unable to discover exactly what had gone so wrong.

And though I felt dreadful, I knew I needed to fight.

My 25-year-old daughter, Lauren, was not going to lose her mum.

Days passed and, to my horror, my hands and feet started turning black and purple.

Not only that, but they felt icy cold, like they were stuck in a freezer.

‘What’s happening to them?’ I asked, groggily.

‘We had to restrict your blood flow to save your major organs from the sepsis,’ the doctor explained.

At first, I was too ill to think about it.

But as I began to improve, I panicked.

'We’ve been fighting to keep you alive'

‘Am I going to lose all my fingers and toes?’ I asked.

But doctors couldn’t be sure.

I prepared myself for the worst.

When Lauren visited, she was distraught.

‘But what will you do without your fingers?’ she said tearfully.

‘The main thing is, I’m alive,’ I told her. ‘We can still go on holiday, we can still celebrate Christmas together.’

Besides, I had other things to worry about…

After being in hospital for two weeks, my muscles had started to waste from lack of use.

I’d also lost the hearing in my right ear.

Six weeks on, doctors told me it would soon be time to go home.

While portions of my hands and feet had recovered, all my fingers and the toes on my right foot were still black and dying.

‘We’ll have to amputate,’ my plastic surgeon said, ‘but we’ll save as much of each finger and toe as we can.’

It was a lot to take in.

Upon leaving the hospital, at the age of 44, I had to move back in with my parents.

My dead toes meant my balance was wobbly and gripping onto things became impossible.

I couldn’t cook, shower, or even use a kettle by myself.

Four weeks after my release, I had all the fingers on my right hand amputated.

I was awake for the procedure, which meant I could look down and see my fingers being removed.

It was like something from a horror movie.

But the staff were lovely and so reassuring.

‘This is such a unique case’

Next month, on my 45th birthday, I had the fingers on my left hand and the toes on my right foot removed.

The doctors played Happy Birthday on repeat over the speakers.

‘You can change the music now!’ I laughed after the 50th rendition.

Though I’d seen how much was removed during surgery, I still gasped when my bandages were removed.

The remains of my fingers were swollen, bruised and had stitches in the tips.

I cried from pain and the shock.

But I was made of strong stuff, and knew I’d get through this.

Not long after my second surgery, I was transferred to a prosthetics laboratory.

‘This is such a unique case,’ said the doctor. ‘Usually, we’d use remaining fingers to model the prosthetic, but obviously that’s not possible.’

Then, one of the technicians leant over to peer at and old photo of my hands that the doctor was holding.

‘My fingers look a pretty similar size to Louise’s before the op,’ she said.

And in an uncanny twist, it turned out she was right!

We’d had identically sized hands and fingers before my amputation.

It meant, along with old photos, doctors were able to figure out the correct dimensions to use.

Each of the fingers was carved from wax, then the moulds were made to create a silicone prosthesis.

I even got to choose the nail shape!

Finally, 18 months later, my fingers were ready.

When I first saw them, I couldn’t believe it.

They looked just like the real thing, right down to blue streaks for veins and intricate creases around the knuckles.

I was overwhelmed with gratitude to the team.

But, even so, the fingers were more for aesthetic purposes than practical use.

They didn’t bend, and the lack of sensation at the tips made picking things up difficult.

Though my dexterity was improving, I was still struggling to adapt.

Thankfully, there were plenty of solutions online for my lack of balance.

I installed a stool in my shower and in front of the hob so I could still cook.

But there were fewer options to improve my grip.

The stumps of my fingers were too thick to get underneath objects and pick them up the usual way.

I was constantly smashing plates or dropping my dogs’ bowls, spraying kibble all over the kitchen floor.

As a naturally independent person, it was maddening.

Determined to succeed, I tackled simple tasks – like buttering a piece of toast or using a make-up brush – with different methods and techniques.

Instead of swiping my phone screen with my fingers, I’d use my thumbs.

Reorganising my cupboards and buying specialist tools also helped.

Two years on, I finally felt ready to move out of my parents’ house.

A few months later, I was out for dinner and drinks for my friend’s 50th.

‘Hi John!’ said my friend, waving over at a guy standing at the bar. ‘How are you doing?’

It turned out he was her cousin’s ex-husband.

We all got chatting, and gradually everyone else peeled off until it was just me and John talking.

I wasn’t wearing my prosthetics, and I noticed him spot my missing fingers.

In the end, I explained the whole story to him, and he listened sympathetically.

‘Could I take you out to dinner?’ he asked at the end of the night.

‘That’d be lovely!’ I said.

I’d certainly never expected the story of how I lost my fingers to lead to anything romantic!

But we soon became a couple.

And he was a great help around the house with everything I was still struggling to master.

Now it’s been three years since I lost my fingers.

The nerve pain has continued far longer than I expected, and I rely on painkillers every morning and night.

The psychological stress has also left me with PTSD and flashbacks.

But I can’t forget I was on death’s door for a few days, and I’m so grateful to be here.

And, fingers crossed, things can only get better from here!

Louise Marshallsay, 48, Swansea

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Arrowwords are brilliantly easy to get into (and seriously hard to put down). The clues are printed directly in the grid, so you simply follow the arrows and fill in the answers as you go. It’s intuitive, enjoyable, and wonderfully moreish - whether you’ve got five minutes before dinner or a full hour to properly switch off.

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I bundled my little buccaneers onto one of Thames Rockets iconic red RIB boats for a high-speed tour as part of an event to celebrate the release of LEGO Ninjago: Destiny's Bounty Adventures - an exciting new family board game.

After pulling on our lifejackets, we hopped on board at London Eye Pier for a quick-fire tour along the Thames, led by our pirate captain - an actor/comedian, who delivered jokes: Hook, line and absolute sinkers! But we lapped up the cheesy pirate-punned gags, which brought a smile to everyone's face.

As we cruised towards Tower Bridge, we took in all the sights and iconic landmarks - The Houses of Parliament, St Paul's Cathedral, Shakespeare's Globe and Tower of London to name a few. Then, we held on tight, as our red rocket picked up speed and we blasted along at 35mph across the famous docklands of London - twisting, turning and rolling over the waves.

There were squeals of absolute delight from my son Reuben, 8, as the spray hit his face. His brother Odhran, 10, waved his hands in the air and threw some shapes, as he sang along to Queen's 'Don't Stop Me Now' and other high-energy tracks that blared as we ripped along the water.

After the rush of excitement, our crew headed back towards the London Eye, where we disembarked. The whole experience lasted 50 minutes. The pirate-themed tour is a private charter at £675 for a group of 12 passengers - perfect if you want to push the boat out (pardon the pun) for a child's birthday party. But Thames Rockets operate a range of experiences for all ages, and it's a must-do for thrill-seeking kids, teens and adults visiting London. I previously took my 18-year-old niece out on a Thames Rocket, and she also loved it!

The company run all kinds of special themed rides, such as Thames Lates, and seasonal events, such as Meet Santa! and it's a unique way to catch London's New Year's Eve fireworks display. Or you could choose a combined ticket experience, such as Rocket Up at The O2, where you can ride a speedboat before doubling up on the thrills by also climbing the roof of The O2 Arena. Thames Rockets prices start at £59.95 for an adult and from £49.95 for a child (14 years or under). But it's worth keeping an eye on the company's socials and on websites such as lovetovisit, Buyagift and Red Letter Days to try and secure the best price. Also, look out for Blue Light Card discounts and partnerships with National Rail. Arrive 15 minutes before departure and remember to bring warm layers, as it can get nippy out on the water.

But the fun wasn't over for me and my mateys as we disembarked. We strolled across to Draughts in Waterloo. This board game café and bar, is located in Leake Street Arches - a pedestrian railway tunnel that's famous for being London's largest legal graffiti space, where anyone can spray paint freely within the law. Draughts has a library of more than 1,000 board games to choose from, but we were there to try out the brand new LEGO Ninjago: Destiny's Bounty Adventures by asmodee, a leader in tabletop games and The LEGO GROUP.

Rather than family games night competition - adventure and teamwork are the anchor to this new board game that's suitable for kids aged 8+. Two to four players team up as ninjas to move around the board and go on adventures facing serpents, pirates and even a postman! The ninja warriors Nya, Zane, Cole and Kai are under attack from some of their most dangerous villains, so kids must triumph in this board game that features four minifigures, LEGO bricks and sets of cards. Can the ninja's ship be saved? To defeat the villains, players must unlock their ninja potential, upgrade their skills and work together using their unique abilities to thwart the villains' plans.

Odhran and Reuben enjoyed the story element to this game. As LEGO minifigure collectors, they were thrilled with the exclusive Nya that's unique to Destiny's Bounty Adventures and unavailable anywhere else. They loved the little box of accessories that came with each minifigure in the game - allowing you to upgrade the character's skills. We had great fun playing LEGO Ninjago: Destiny's Bounty Adventures, as we sipped on tea and ate breakfast baps. It'll take another few gos before the rules of the game fully sink in and I find 'How to Play' instructions on YouTube easier to follow than written guides, but this is a engaging game that sparks the imagination and is perfect for LEGO fans. It offers up something a bit different for family games night. LEGO Ninjago: Destiny's Bounty Adventures is available from Amazon, Very, The Entertainer and other retailers, priced £34.99.

Closing date for issue 9 is midnight 8th October 2026. Only one entry per person, per issue for our competitions.

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If you like to mix it up, this one’s for you. Each issue is packed with sudoku, word searches, logic puzzles, codebreakers and more—perfect whether you’ve got five minutes spare or an hour to properly unwind.

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This autumn, give yourself a rewarding routine that actually feels like a treat. Subscribe to Take a Crossword, Take a Puzzle, or Arrowwords today and enjoy 3 issues for £5.

After a terrifying diagnosis, 
my family 
and friends stepped up 
in the most incredible way. 
By Lesley Calder, 60

As the packed-out stadium buzzed with electricity, 
Pete Townshend slowly raised 
his pick, then struck up the unforgettable opening chords of The Who’s My Generation.

Then, as Roger Daltrey stepped up to the mic, the crowd erupted.
‘Woo!’ I cheered, not caring that I’d be hoarse the next day.
My hubby David, 60, had recently taken early retirement from his job in marketing.
To celebrate his new-found freedom, we’d been going to as many live shows as possible, rocking out to our favourite bands, including The Who 
and Fleetwood Mac.
We also had plans to take a long tour of France and Spain, before jetting off to more far-flung destinations.
But the day after The Who concert, I felt really run down.
‘Maybe I’m getting a cold,’ 
I said to David, between coughing fits.
‘Why don’t you go lie down?’ he suggested.
But over the next week, my symptoms worsened.
I’d gone from feeling fit as a fiddle to becoming breathless just folding the laundry.
When I woke up in a sweat one night, I wondered if it was something more serious.
As I went back and forth 
to the GP, my list of symptoms grew to include bleeding 
gums and a persistent ear infection.
One afternoon, after I’d had a blood test, my doctor rang.
‘You need to get to A&E,’ he said urgently. ‘But you mustn’t drive yourself.’
‘My hubby can take me,’ I replied.
David was in Cambridge for the day, but he rushed back to our home in Bishop’s Stortford, Hertfordshire, to take me to hospital.

There, the consultant told me I’d got leukaemia and that it was serious.
‘Have I left it too late?’ I asked, terrified.
‘If left untreated, you’d only have weeks to live,’ he said. ‘But we’re going to do everything we can to get you through this. You’re not a lost cause.’
All I could think of was how David and our son Max, 22, would cope without me.
But there was no time to panic as I began treatment, starting with 10 days of chemotherapy.
It was vicious, but my family 
kept my spirits up.

'You're not a lost cause'

When I was forced to miss Max’s graduation from Anglia Ruskin University, he stopped by afterwards and we toasted his success with a glass of non-alcoholic fizz.
Three months of the most gruelling treatment put me in remission. But I still needed a stem cell transplant to try to prevent the leukaemia from returning, and all my family offered to be tested.
My sister Ann was found to be the best match and a month later, I received her life-saving cells. If it hadn’t been for her, I wouldn’t 
have made it, and 
I was grateful for 
what she’d done.
Knowing Ann had saved my life inspired Max to sign up as a potential stem cell donor too – it’s quick and easy to do the painless mouth swabs.
‘I want to help others like Auntie Ann helped you,’ he explained.
He registered 
as a donor with DKMS, an international charity dedicated to the fight against blood cancer and blood disorders.
The more I learnt about the charity, the more impressed 
I was with their work.
So I started volunteering 
with them, helping out at fairs and going into schools to talk 
to students about stem cell donation.
I loved it so much, that I founded the DKMS Herts & Essex Volunteering Hub, dedicated to raising awareness and recruiting potential donors.
To raise vital funds for the charity, I decided to climb 
Ben Nevis, joined by a group 
of friends.
It was gruelling, but I’d beaten cancer so there was no way I was letting a mountain defeat me.
As we climbed, strangers were so encouraging.
‘I’m going to register when 
I get home,’ one chap told me. ‘And I’ll spread the word to others.’
The moment I reached the summit, it finally hit me. I’d come so close to dying, yet here I was – alive and stronger than ever. Tears filled my eyes as I gazed out over the spectacular landscape below.
Best of all, our trek raised £2400 for DKMS, which we knew could help register over 60 potential donors.
The number felt significant as I celebrated my 60th birthday just a few months later.
Since starting the hub, over 200 people have registered, which is amazing. But we’ve still got a long way to go. Max has been called on to donate after discovering he was a match for an anonymous patient.
It’s five years now since my diagnosis and I finally feel like I’m back to my old self.
Ann’s incredible gift meant I beat leukaemia. We raise a glass each year to celebrate the transplant anniversary. I’ll never forget her selfless act.
I’m proud of Max for donating too and I will continue to encourage others to give this life-saving gift.

Max, 28, told Take a Break, ‘When I realised how lucky Mum was to find a donor, I knew I had to sign up. Joining the register was the least I could do. It’s very much a full circle moment and I’m happy I was able to pay it forward.’

● To register as a donor, please request a swab kit online at dkms.org.uk/register and to support Lesley’s fundraising efforts visit dkms.enthuse.com and search for ‘Lesley Calder’.

One minute Sinead was dancing on her wedding day, the next she was in hospital…

The minute I got together with Nick, I just knew I wanted to marry him.

We both wanted 
the same things in life 
and we shared the 
same interests.
He made me feel safe, loved, and excited about 
the future.
We went on little adventures together, like to Switzerland 
and Milan, and enjoyed long weekends away.
Days with Nick were never boring.
After two years we welcomed our son.
Then, the following year, Nick and I were enjoying a woodland walk near to my childhood home, when he got down on one knee.
‘Yes!’ I cried, bursting with joy.
Our wedding plans were soon 
in motion. But then we were dealt a surprise…
We found out I was pregnant again! This time with a baby girl.
Soon, I found myself with two children under two.
So, we paused the wedding and poured all our love into family life.
When our baby daughter was 18 months old, Nick and I finally dusted off our wedding day plans.
‘Where shall we get married?’ 
I asked.
‘Has to be Scarborough,’ Nick grinned.

'I don't want anything stuffy'

The coastal town was our happy place.
Before kids, we’d holidayed there.
Later, it was where our children had their first seaside paddles and ice creams.
We were so fond of it, at one point we were going twice a year.
One afternoon, we decided to drive around Scarborough, when we spotted a cliff-top hotel overlooking Robin Hood’s Bay.
That’s the perfect venue, I thought straightaway.
It was intimate, had stunning 
views, and was family-friendly.
We copied the guest list from 
the children’s christenings, which was around 70 people.
‘It feels just the right size,’ 
Nick said.
‘I don’t want anything stuffy,’ I added. ‘No three-course 
meals. Let’s do a barbecue, fish and chips, and ice cream.’
He nodded enthusiastically.
‘A seaside wedding,’ he smiled. ‘That’s our style!’

Our kids, two and four, would be at the heart of it.
Family, fun, and a relaxed atmosphere was our goal.
First, I found a beautiful white dress with lace detail.
Next I settled on a local florist, ordered cupcakes instead of a tiered cake, and booked all the essentials, such as hair, make-up and a DJ.
It was shaping up to be my dream day.

We even rented a cottage 
and spent a lovely week in Scarborough beforehand, soaking in the excitement.
Finally, the big day arrived.
The sun shone as our families gathered for the celebrations.
Before I knew it I was gliding down the aisle in my dress, my heart thumping.
Then I saw Nick, his eyes welling up.
The barbecue went down a treat, as did the bright blue cupcakes – all the kids’ faces 
were soon turquoise too!
Guests laughed, danced, and we had photos taken on the cliff top as the sun set.
At 10pm, as the evening wound down, I said to Nick, 
‘It’s been perfect, everything 
we wanted.’
‘I’ll say my goodbyes,’ Nick said, giving me a peck on the cheek.
‘You can, but I’m having a dance first!’ I winked.
The DJ put on the classic Cotton Eye Joe by Rednex and, as I’d line danced in the past, I grabbed a friend’s hand and headed to the dancefloor.
As I threw some shapes, I was having the time of my life.
Then it came to the first jump.
I kicked my left leg high, only it somehow got caught in the hoop of my dress.

'Is this really your wedding?'

Suddenly, I was falling.
Then… crash!
I hit the floor.
Pain ripped through my leg.
‘Oh no, what have I done?’ I gasped, staring at my shin, which had twisted horribly to the side.
My loves ones rushed over, lifting me on to a chair.
Ice was fetched while someone rang for an ambulance.
A doctor and paramedic – who were among the guests – checked me over.
‘It’ll be all right,’ my brother reassured, putting glow sticks around me to cheer me up.
I texted my parents, who’d already gone to bed.
Don’t worry, I’m fine – just a little accident, it read.
I sat smiling through the pain.
But when I tried to stand at midnight, agony like nothing I’d ever known shot through me.
‘It’s like my leg isn’t attached!’ I sobbed.
The ambulance arrived at 4am.
‘Is this really your wedding?’ the paramedic asked 
in disbelief.
‘Yes,’ I winced.

Then she slid my leg into 
a vacuum brace.
‘Don’t get blood on the 
dress,’ one joked, as they 
inserted a cannula.
‘Yes, protect the frock!’ I laughed weakly.
Nick held my hand in the ambulance as we rattled towards Scarborough General Hospital.
Rolling into A&E in full wedding gear, I could feel the stares.
Nurses even peered through glass doors.
‘Is this a hoax?’ one gasped.
‘I wish!’ I said through a smile.
Despite the pain, even I could see the surreal and funny side to the situation!
By dawn, I’d had a CT scan, X-ray and bloods taken.

A consultant explained the verdict.
‘You’ve fractured your tibial plateau – a serious break near the knee joint,’ he said.
Surgery was needed.
It would involve plates, screws, and months of recovery.
I blinked back 
the tears.
‘All this from dancing to Cotton Eye Joe,’ I cursed.
Nick returned to the hotel to collect the kids, gifts, and to check out. When he came back, his face crumpled.
‘I can’t believe our perfect day ended this way,’ he said.

My first night as a wife, Nick had to give me 
a bed bath.
‘Not quite 
how I pictured married life starting,’ he smiled.
The kids visited, but burst into tears at the sight of me in a gown with wires and cannulas attached.
My son wouldn’t come near me which broke my heart.
Next day I was transferred to 
a hospital nearer home, but was told the swelling was too severe 
to operate.
I’d have to wait.
Two weeks passed.
I FaceTimed the kids daily, 
but seeing them run into their grandparents’ arms while I lay 
in a hospital bed crushed me.
Friends tried to cheer me 
up, sending memes of Cotton Eye Joe.
Even Nick joined in.
I know it’s too soon, but 
I couldn’t resist! he typed alongside one.
At last, three weeks later, 
I had surgery. It involved 
seven gruelling hours under anaesthetic, where two 
metal plates and screws 
were inserted to hold my 
leg together.

Luckily, it was a success.
Physio began immediately.
‘Try to move it,’ my physio urged.
The pain was overwhelming, but I knew I had to fight.
Finally discharged 
with a wheelchair, life was unrecognisable.
For the first six weeks of marriage, 
I couldn’t climb stairs without someone hauling me up.
I couldn’t drive or take the kids to the park either. My wheelchair wasn’t self-propelling, 
so I was totally dependent on 
others. Parents, friends and neighbours all helped.
My village 
ferried the kids 
to parties, brought 
meals, one 
even gifted 
me money for 
a private carer.
But still, I cried with frustration.
‘I’m supposed to be a newlywed, not a patient,’ I wailed.
‘You’re still my bride,’ Nick replied, kissing my hand.
It will most likely take two 
years until I’m fully recovered.
I’ve got a rotating knee brace, and I’ll probably need a knee replacement down the line.
I’m more susceptible to arthritis too.
But my goal is clear – to walk again on two legs, to chase after my children at the park and to reclaim normality.
I’ve got a scar, a metal-filled leg, and a story that makes jaws drop.
But one thing’s for certain…
I’ll never, ever dance to Cotton Eye Joe again!

Sinead Seviour, 34, 
Shrewsbury, Shropshire

Pamela DeNeuve, 76, had given up on men, until a witty message changed everything

As I chattered away, my friend Sheelagh almost spilt her coffee. ‘Honestly,’ she chuckled. ‘At this point, you might as well just buy a dog!’ I’d just told her about my latest dating disaster – a chap who’d confessed on our first date that he had a sexually transmitted disease! You couldn’t make it up.

My love life had always been a bit of a joke. After divorcing at 28 and raising two little ones alone, romance took a back seat to keeping food on the table. I juggled my sales job with cleaning offices during the evenings and weekends too. Even when I did go on dates, nothing worked out.
Before I knew it I was 50 and fed up. Sheelagh kept telling me, ‘You’re the person we all come to for advice – you ought to make life coaching your full-time job.’ So encouraged by her, I decided to give it a go and, amazingly, it took off.
But my health took a knock. First, I needed an emergency hysterectomy, then I battled high blood pressure, as well as an autoimmune condition. Then, just when I thought I’d finally found ‘The One’, and after moving in together, he dumped me. I was 55 and had to move into a tiny bedsit by myself.  
Determined to get back on my feet, I became vegetarian, gave up alcohol, and told my friends: ‘I’m celibate from now on. There aren’t any good men left.’ But Sheelagh kept urging me, ‘Don’t you dare give up.’
Still, before I knew it, I’d turned 70 and was convinced my fire had gone out for good. But a fellow life coach told me to show myself some compassion and get back out there. So, reluctantly, I tried the dating apps again, and found that nothing had changed. I was matched with one gentleman who’d been married four times, and another who announced he was impotent.

'I'm celibate from now on'

Then one day, a profile grabbed my attention. The chap had written: I live in a trailer park and only have one tooth. That made me laugh, so I had to find out more. Turned out, Greg, aged 72, was charming and wonderfully honest. We clicked and went for ice cream. There was no great thunderbolt, but I liked him. ‘If we’re going to be together, we have to be completely honest with each other,’ I said. ‘Exactly,’ Greg agreed.
When my 75th rolled round, I did something bold – I invited him to spend a week with me at a hotel while I attended a conference. As we set off, I confessed, ‘I snore, and I have hair extensions so don’t touch my hair, and I’ve brought some condoms!’ Greg nearly drove off the road laughing! That week, we spent time talking, giggling, and yes, after 20 years of me having no sex at all, I rediscovered a passion I thought I’d lost forever.
Sadly, my dear friend Sheelagh passed away before seeing me truly happy, but I know she’d be thrilled, especially now Greg and I are engaged. Now, my life coaching is full of older ladies asking me for my romance tips. It’s wonderful seeing them take life by the horns again. I’m the proof it’s never too late to find love!

• Follow Pamela on TikTok 
@pameladeneuve to join her online class for older ladies looking to find love

Lyndsey was on a date, when she began to get a really creepy feeling about the man sitting opposite…

Picking up my phone, 
I opened up a dating app and started 
swiping through the different profiles.

It wasn’t long before my phone flashed up with a match.
He’s a bit of all right, I thought, while clicking on to the profile of a good-looking, dark-haired man.
His name was Harry, he was 21 and in his third year at university. He listed his interests as the gym, pizza and going to the cinema.
As someone who liked to keep fit too, it sounded as if we would get on well.
But as I always waited for the guy to message first, I started swiping again to see if anyone else caught my eye. I’d just come out of a long-term relationship and was using the app as a way to dip my toe back into the dating pool.
I wasn’t looking for anything too serious and so far, chatting with different guys on the app had taken my mind off my ex-boyfriend.
Suddenly, my phone pinged with a message notification.
Hi Lyndsey, how are you? You look really nice in your pictures, the message read.
Hi Harry, thanks, you’re too kind, I replied.
Messages went back and forth, and talk soon turned to what we were looking for on the app.
I’m not looking for anything serious because I’ve just come out of a long-term relationship, he messaged.
I was relieved we were on the same page.
Me too, I texted back.
He seemed really kind and charming from his messages. Then after two weeks of chatting online, he asked whether I would like to meet up.
Even though I thought he was nice, I wasn’t sure.
‘I think it would be good for you,’ my flatmate, Gavin, said encouragingly.
I had a good feeling about him so I decided to take his advice.
I messaged Harry back and after we added each other on Facebook, we arranged to have a drink in a pub that my friends and I went to regularly.
I’m not familiar with that area. Send me your postcode and I’ll come and pick you up, he messaged.
But I was more comfortable meeting by the bus stop.
OK, I’ll meet you off the bus, he agreed.
On the night of my date, I excitedly put on my favourite top and jeans and then hopped on the bus.
As I jumped off at my stop, 
I saw Harry.
‘Hi, nice to meet you finally,’ he smiled, hugging me.
He was just as charming in real life as in his messages, but I could tell he was nervous.
‘Let me buy you a drink,’ he said at the bar.
‘I’ll have a white wine, please,’ I smiled.
We collected our drinks, and then found a table.
‘I don’t usually drink,’ he joked, as he sipped his pint, across the table from me, ‘because I get drunk really easily.’
It was now clear that he was an awkward person.

'I think it would be good for you'

He told me he was from America and his parents were both Indian.
The more he drank, the flirtier he became.
True to his word, he obviously couldn’t handle his drink.
But that didn’t slow down 
his drinking.
Out of the corner of my eye, 
I spotted my flatmate and his friend at the bar.
I hadn’t told Gavin that I’d be here, so I knew it was a lucky coincidence.
Then Harry sat next to me.
‘I’m having a really good time,’ he said, edging closer.
He’s a bit full-on for my liking, 
I thought.
But I didn’t want to be rude.
‘Me too,’ I half-heartedly smiled.
As the night went on, I knew he wasn’t the guy for me, and 
I wouldn’t be meeting up with him again.
Checking the time on my phone, it was getting late, so I decided to call it a night.
But in that moment, it was as if a switch had flicked and he was a totally different person.
‘I was under the impression we’d be going back to your flat together,’ he snapped.
As he leant forward, his intimidating behaviour took me by surprise.

Something was telling me to get away from him as quickly 
as possible.
‘I’m sorry if there was any miscommunication,’ I apologised.
But he just became more verbally abusive.
‘Why did you lead me on?’ he spat at me.
I was scared Harry would follow me if I walked home on my own, so I walked over towards Gavin.
‘Hey,’ I said, joining him and his friend. ‘I’ve never been happier to see you.’
As I told him what had happened, he looked 
around the room.
‘Don’t worry he’s gone,’ 
he said.
I turned around and the table we were sitting at 
was empty.
I felt so relieved.
‘I’ll add this to my list of bad Tinder dates,’ I joked, trying to make light of the situation.
But the truth was, it scared me how quickly Harry had changed.
The next morning, I woke up to lots of messages, all from Harry.
I’m really sorry for my behaviour, the message read. 
I really don’t know what came over me.
But my gut told me to keep well away. I didn’t text back but the messages kept on coming.

Would you like to go to breakfast with me? I want 
to begin a relationship with you, 
I read.
I was confused and scared.
I told you I’m not looking for anything serious. I felt threatened by you last night, I typed back.
You’re a slut. All night you were flirting with me, you’re such a c**ktease, he typed back.
I wasn’t putting up with his abuse so blocked him.
It took me a while to date again, but eventually, I met my boyfriend on an app.

'What would have happened?'

Times passed and one night, I was sitting in my flat with Gavin when we decided to watch a 
TV show called Shocking Emergency Calls.
I wasn’t really paying attention when the programme started but I knew it was the episode about a girl who found her flatmate dead – her throat had been slit.
Then suddenly a picture of 
a man flickered on the screen and I screeched.
‘Lyndsey, what’s wrong?’ 
Gavin asked, staring at my horrified face.
‘Don’t you recognise him?’ 
I gasped, finally finding the words.
‘Is that the guy from the pub?’ he asked.
It was Harry.
Something bad must have happened to him, I thought, thinking he was the victim.
But as I paid attention, I felt 
the colour drain from my face.
We listened as the documentary played out the harrowing 999 call that Maxine McGill had made after she found her friend Alice Ruggles on the bathroom floor in the pool of her own blood.
‘Her ex is an absolute psychopath,’ Maxine said, as a picture of Harry flashed up on 
the screen.

Harry Dhillon wasn’t the victim.
My Tinder date was a murderer!
I listened in horror to how he had controlled, stalked and then murdered his ex-girlfriend Alice by slitting her throat from ear to ear, after he couldn’t accept that their relationship was over.
At the end of the episode, 
I heard how he was found guilty of murder and handed a sentence of at least 22 years in prison
After that I couldn’t get Alice’s murder at the hands of Harry out of my head.
I read all the news reports about the case in horror.
What would have happened if I’d taken him home? I thought.
I had so many questions whizzing around my head.
I have never been so grateful that I paid attention to my gut feeling about him.
I think about Alice all the time and how we were both taken in by his fake, charming persona.
If I had given Harry a second chance and ended up in a relationship with him, I very easily could have been the one found dead by my flatmate.

Lyndsey Smith, 25