I want to apologise for the length of time it has taken me to write up (hopefully you’ll forgive me once you’ve read it!) and to warn readers of a sensitive disposition that some of what follows might be upsetting (I’ve had people cry when I’ve told this story IRL). With all that out of the way then, sit back and listen to how I survived my first (and hopefully last, for a while at least) near-death experience and (perhaps more interestingly) how it has changed me for the better.

As many of you will know I have become quite the jet-setter in recent months and so it should come as little surprise to you to find out that 5 weeks ago I was again airplane-bound and sun-kissed. Despite a ridiculously long wait in the airport (9 hours overnight, the result of silly buses and my own stubbornness) and a serious case of dehydration (I literally stepped off the beach onto the coach for the airport) I was cheery; excited about the next stage of my holiday.

Climbing the stairs to the plane my only thoughts were for how ridiculous I must have looked (still in beachwear and flipflops, hair full of seasalt, sand falling everywhere I stepped) and how soon I could get to sleep. I lucked into a WINdow seat and managed to stay awake long enough to see that the seat next to me would remain free for the flight (feet up!), that the aisle seat was filled with a giant Ukrainian man (honestly one of the biggest humans I have EVER seen in my life) and to hear the pilot say we were expecting at least 40 minutes of turbulence so seatbelt signs would remain lit. Headphones in, hood up – I was asleep before the plane took off.

Then, atleast an hour into the flight, I was awoken with a start. It felt to me like when you shake yourself awake from a bad dream – that ‘falling down a step’ feeling that jolts you out of sleep. I looked around to see if anyone had seen me wake myself up, only to find that the other people on the flight were also looking around worried. Just awake and baffled by what I was seeing, I started taking my headphones out to hear what was going on (to be honest, the Nikki Minaj I was listening to might have been adding to my confusion) and as I did – the oxygen masks fell from the panels over our heads.

Yep.

And all I could think was ‘Why did I sleep through the safety demonstration????’. Luckily, some other part of my brain took the initiative and pulled the mask over my head. The plane was in chaos. People were crying, panicking and shouting. And the pilot was making announcements but they were in Spanish and I couldn’t work them out (although I do recall him saying ‘this is a perfectly normal situation’?!). I remember looking around and thinking it was really odd that there were no air stewards anywhere – surely they should be helping people? And, just as I was thinking that, the plane went into a nosedive.

Yep.

And because I was sat by the window (henceforth FAILdow) I could see that it was a nose dive. The inertia of falling so fast pushed us back into our seats like it does on a rollercoaster. Cups and papers flew around the cabin. People went Nicolas Cage-style batshit crazy. I eventually put my headphones back in (in part in hopes of making my ears stop popping) but before I did my head was filled with a chorus of people praying, swearing, pleading, screaming. I was lucky really because from my seat I couldn’t see much of the cabin but I can picture two things clearly.

[This is the part that makes people cry, you have been warned]. First, across the aisle from me was a couple both of whom looked to be in their 80s. And amidst the chaos, they were just sat staring longingly into each others eyes. Just happy to be together in their last moments. I’m not sure I’ll ever forget that. Secondly, there was a mother and two children (aged around 10 and 7) in the seat in front of mine. From the moment the plane started dropping she was saying to them ‘I need you to know that mummy loves you, that mummy will always love you’. She was preparing them for death. I know I’ll never forget that.

And what was I doing? you ask. I was completely calm. I knew that I was about to die and was completely at peace. Ridiculous really given that, in the weeks leading up to my holiday, I had been having crippling panic attacks over silly things like doing the filing at work. Yet in a moment where all about me were losing their heads, my anxious brain was quiet for once. And not in an ‘I’m incapable of thought’ way, no – more in a ‘Whatever was I moaning about before?’ frame of mind.

We fell like that for what felt like 2 minutes (I really can’t be sure) and then the plane eventually leveled out but we were really low. The air stewards reappeared and the pilot came over the speakers to explain that we had hit a pocket of turbulence which had caused the plane to de-pressurise (hence the falling oxygen masks). The second drop (or ‘the plummeting’ as I like to call it) was the planned response to that situation. Because the cabin had lost pressure he had had to drop from around 30,000 feet to 10,000 feet as fast as possible because there wasn’t enough oxygen in the cabin – people would have started losing consciousness. The only problem now was that we were too low to continue flying so would need to make an emergency landing at Valencia.

And so we did. And it was fine. Upon landing there were tears of joy, whooping and hollering, people actually touching the ground in thanks as they got down the steps. We were herded into a waiting area and told that we would need to get on another flight in around an hour to get to Barcelona. And around 50% of the people there refused – too scared, or traumatised or tired to face getting into the air again. But I (and here’s the reason for the title) got back onto a plane. And I sat in a window seat (with Ukrainian man on the aisle, of course). And I did it because sometimes you have to be brave or risk always being fearful. And, thank goodness, the second flight was fine and the landing perfect.

I arrived in Barcelona looking like a beachcomber, wild-eyed from having faced my own mortality, and walked straight off the plane into a torrential downpour. It is really no wonder that when I fell through the door of the hostel (redfaced, talking at a hundred miles a minute, soaked to the skin) the owner literally reached for the phone to call for help (whether for me or for his own protection is unclear).

And so that’s the story. I had an actual near-death experience. And I responded to it without panicking and with actual bravery – I’m not sure which of those things is the more surprising!! And better still – since the event itself, despite a recent bout of sleeplessness, I have been feeling much more positive about life, the universe and everything. There’s something about being in such a horrible situation that makes your average day-to-day nonsense issues seem completely manageable. And I have been very much carpe-ing the diem. My holiday in Barcelona turned out to be one of the best I’ve had because I pretty much just said yes to all opportunities offered – meant I went to places I wouldn’t have before with people I might not have met otherwise. Wunderbar!

So, blog faithful, please rest assured that the next blogpost will be back to normal and will be more timely (I already have something lined up) but I hope you’ll agree this story bore inclusion here because both my time in Spain and my outlook in general have been alphabettered by this situation. That and I honestly feel had I not spent most of last year focused on improving myself I might not have responded in such a positive way. The thing I am most proud of is that I came away from this thing with a smile on my face, I’m not sure everyone would have, and that is testament to the person I’ve become through this process. Proof positive that I’m actually alphabetter than I was. Brilliant.

With that in mind, I started looking for something to kick it all off. I wanted something that would be an actual challenge. Something that I could not be sure I would be able to manage. Something that you, my dear readers, would be surprised to find me doing. Something completely different to everything that had gone before. And I found it.

It involves heights (not my favourite thing), upper body strength (I choose my library books based on how big they are so my arms won’t hurt), flexibility (I can’t, and never have been able to, touch my toes) and grace (Ha!). And it is a course rather than a one-off session so, no matter how rubbish I am, I’ll have to go back and try again the week after. And it involves putting myself in actual peril (sort of, there’s certainly a chance I could fall onto a crash mat). That’s right – for 2 hours each Tuesday evening until mid-March I am going to be attempting to learn the arts of Static trapeze and Aerial hoop. A is for Acrobatics.

Right, just in case you don’t know, a trapeze is a short horizontal bar hung at a height from ropes. Static trapeze, as the name suggests, involves performing movements such as drops, balances and hangs while the bar stays in one place. The art is in making it look effortless (eek!). The aerial hoop (sometimes called lyra or cerceau) is a circular steel apparatus used in much the same way. Hoops sometimes have flattened tops or a hand loop to help performers move around. Most commonly seen at the circus, aerial acrobatics have been being performed since the mid 19^th century and have been recently popularised by acts such as Cirque du Soleil.

I arrived at the Circomedia site in Kingswood eager to start alphabettering again, feeling that familiar mix of trepidation and excitement in the pit of my stomach. Then, upon entering the studio, that feeling gave way to full-blown fear. The ceiling was strewn with trapezes and ropes, hooked up out of the way. As we were warming up I found myself staring at them, hoping that somehow they were actually much longer than they looked – that perspective was playing tricks on me. Nope. As we let them down I realised all were at least 9 foot off the ground which, even with a crash mat underneath, seemed a really long way up. I started to get properly scared.

In total there were 7 of us, plus the instructor Ziggy, in the class. Only one girl had done any work on the trapeze before but a few had regularly done pole dancing (which requires the same mix of upper body strength and flexibility) so were more confident. Ziggy started off by showing us the basics – how to get onto the trapeze, how to move from sitting to standing, a simple balance called ‘Stag’ and then (very importantly) how to get off. Watching her move so gracefully between shapes I got more and more anxious. I wasn’t sure I had the arm strength to even hang from the trapeze. And I knew I wasn’t bendable enough to make the ‘Pike’ shape necessary to get onto it in the first place.

Each girl got up and went through the various motions with Ziggy correcting form where necessary. Once completed we gave a round of applause and the next one went up. In no time at all it was my turn. I stood on the crash mat, clearly terrified. Ziggy was calm and confident – not a doubt in her mind that I would be able to do what she had asked. I took hold of the trapeze, jumped… and failed to hook my legs. I stood back on the mat, dejected. Ziggy was reassuring ‘Your hands were too close together… I know you are strong enough to do this’. I nodded, took a deep breath and grabbed hold of the bar again. This time I managed to get my legs over the trapeze – brilliant. Slowly I moved my hands up to the ropes and soon was sitting on the bar like a swing. So far so good.

‘And now we’re going to go up to standing,’ Ziggy said. ‘Are we?’ I asked, nervous. ‘Yep!’ And I did. And it was scary – but only for moments. Ziggy had me move my weight to the balls of my feet and my hands up to shoulder height which felt much more secure. I felt good. As I did the ‘Stag’ balance (which requires taking one foot off the bar) the other girls clapped and I felt glorious – like I had actually accomplished something. I managed a successful dismount and stood watching the other girls with a grin on my face.

The rest of the class followed a pattern of Ziggy showing us a move and then us practising it in turn. As the time wore on my confidence improved and my fear subsided but, disappointingly, my arms also became less and less effective. And, as my arms turned to jelly, getting onto the trapeze itself became increasingly difficult. For the final move (bird’s nest) I couldn’t muster the strength to even hold onto the bar and ended up dangling from my knees above the mat – my aching limbs overriding any concerns about falling.

I actually did this one!

The time flew by and soon we were warming down and getting ready to go. In two hours I had learnt how to get on and off the trapeze plus four key balances (stag, star, mermaid and bird’s nest). It would be fair to say that I made less progress than others in the class but everyone was so supportive that that was no issue – and given how scared I had been upon arrival I felt even getting onto the trapeze had been a massive success.

Luckily, as I have to go back for the next few weeks, I really enjoyed myself – in spite of the painful arms and bruised legs (almost as bad as the ones from pole dancing). I’m excited to see how much I can improve, whether I can make any real progress over the next few weeks. My current goal is to be able to get onto the trapeze unaided, if I can do that I will feel like a champion, anything above and beyond that will be a bonus. I will, of course, keep you updated and might even manage to get some pictures of my high flying antics along the way. For now though, I’m just pleased that my alphabetterings have started again and that I didn’t back down and do something simple. If I can keep being this brave then we’re in for a fun few months!

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Don’t forget to let me know, through the ‘Suggestions’ page if you have any ideas for future weeks!

Except I’m not done. As you may have gathered from the ridiculous amount of time it took me to write up ‘Z is for Zombies’, the last couple of months haven’t been brilliant for me. I am in a new home, doing a new job, am struggling to cope with my PHD, I have had insomnia and am currently suffering from panic attacks. My life is completely different to what it was a year ago. And more and more I think that this blog could help. How? Here’s just a few reasons for starters….

1. Blogging keeps me focused on my own wellbeing and, even when I’m not thinking about myself, trying new things & meeting new people has an inherent positive effect on my life.

2. It gives me a routine – it makes sure that I can’t just sit in my house eating granola and watching the OC…. at least not every day.

3. It keeps me writing regularly – which is good for my brain and, in turn, good for my PHD.

4. It provides an escape – from work, from my University deadlines and from everything else going on in my world.

5. It makes me happy. Both doing new things and writing about new things. And having other people read those things. I enjoy the whole process.

6. I just like it, alright??? Seriously – those other reasons weren’t enough for you!?!!

So I’m starting again, with a tiny difference. I will still try 26 new things, in order alphabetically. They will still need to be activities that are novel to me and that better me in some way (so no repeats from last time). Standard alphabettering. The difference is in the timescales – weekly just isn’t feasible but I’ll aim to put something up at least every 3 weeks. And maybe this time round I’ll FINALLY get someone in Greenland to read it!

First post will go up by the end of February. I hope that at least a few of you are as excited about that as I am.

When the first reports started on the news we all assumed it was a publicity stunt. We waited for the punchline. Then the videos started appearing – videos that ‘proved’ it was true. We remained unconvinced. ‘They’re actors’ we said. ‘Flash mob advertising’ we said. We pointed out flaws in the footage – the blood looked too red, the groaning and screeching sounded ‘rehearsed’, real brains don’t bounce like that… We laughed at the people believing the hype, how foolish they would look when the curtain fell and the reality of the situation was revealed. How gullible would you have to be to believe something like this?! We updated Facebook in ironic fashion ‘Keep calm and carrion. Lol’. We kept living as we always had – shopping, working, going to the pub on Fridays. People told us that there had been deaths but these were always ‘friends of friends’ – ‘my girlfriend’s sister’s teacher’ or ‘my neighbour’s best friend’s cousin’ – made up people. We stuck to our guns.

And then people we knew started seeing things, people we trusted … in Birmingham, Cardiff, towns that we knew. Towns that were close. And then the people we knew stopped replying to messages. People we loved. And then the news stopped. The television stopped. The phone networks went down. Still we struggled to believe it – denial a much easier emotion than all-out mind-numbing terror. But we knew, deep inside, that it had been true all along, that life as we knew it was gone forever. That, henceforth, our days would be spent simply trying to escape, literally fighting for our lives. I struggle to write it here, it still seems so ridiculous, but the facts are these – the undead have risen and are walking the streets of Bristol. All we can do now is try to survive.

OK… so that’s not wholly accurate but, for just under 3 hours on Thursday 6^th September, it felt entirely true. You see… I, together with a crack team of zombie-fighting heroes, spent the evening playing Slingshot’s interactive game ’2.8 hours later’. Battling through Bristol’s backstreets to find a safe house where we could be free from the zombie horde. And I, being the unshakeable logical sort, spent the entire night convinced I was going to die.

In basic terms, ’2.8 hours later’ functioned as a giant game of tag… except that instead of being limited to a playground, the game extended across the entire city centre…. And instead of one person being ‘It’, a whole horde of zombies were doing the catching…. And instead of becoming ‘It’ when tagged, players were bitten and died a horrible death (another slight exaggeration – in fact, in the event of capture, players were marked with a UV pen on the hand as a sign of their infection).

At the start, players were given a map and a set of co-ordinates where they would find someone with the next clue. The aim of the game? To collect all the clues and make it (without being caught) to a party to celebrate the survival of the human race. Easy.

I arrived at St Nicholas Market certain of my fate. I was not fast enough to outrun anyone; let alone a flesh-eating monster. More than that though, I was terrified. I felt like I would freeze on the spot at the first sign of trouble – stuck like a deer in headlights awaiting my impending doom. Stood with my team (all boys, all athletic, all ready for action) my future was clear. I would be caught on the way to the first checkpoint and would spend the remaining two and a half hours trolling around wearily after these guys, feeling like a failure and ruining their fun. Luckily for me their enthusiasm was infectious (ha!) and by the time we reached the front of the queue and were given our first set of coordinates, I was feeling a little bit excited – hopeful. ‘Maybe this might even be fun‘, I thought.

Now, as the name suggests, this activity was a fairly long one and to describe everything that happened would take an age so, as I often have along this journey, I’m going to have to stick to a list of best bits. Here, written up as a set of rules for survival, are the lessons we learnt and the (often funny) ways in which we learnt them:

Zombie survival rule #1: No going backwards

Full of adrenaline (the boys) and fear (me) we set off down an alleyway opposite St Nicholas market in search of the first clue… heard a growling in the distance and ALL turned around and headed back the way we had come. Silly. If the aim of the game is to make it to the end you can’t keep turning round. Andrew (he’s Crossfitter than you, map-reading maestro) suggested a solution. No going backwards. Zombie encounters would be dealt with by running as fast as we could past, round or through the horde. No hanging around, second-guessing, waiting for them to strike. We got through or we got caught. Simples.

I should say here that I wasn’t a major fan of this rule, always happy to retreat to safety at the first sign of trouble, it did help in that moment when the monsters appeared though. Rather than thinking ‘which way should I go?’, I just started running and maybe that split second I saved was how I managed to escape for so long.

Zombie survival rule #2: Never go into the dark spooky building

Several times throughout the evening, our coordinates took us into unlit, unsafe buildings across the city centre. And, each time they did, something in the hind-brain told us to turn back. We knew it was a trap, we’d learnt that from every horror film ever made… but we also knew that the spooky exciting memorable bits most often happen in the haunted basement and we didn’t want to miss out on those.

Despite deciding to join in our brains were very clear that we should be flighting rather than fighting our way through. The first time we were directed into a building (an unused police station) we tried to find a way to avoid it. We bargained with the co-ordinate giver for a different route, Dono (first blog mention, once swam home with his dog) jumped over a wall to try to find a shortcut through the building. And then, when we realised there was no option but to head on in towards our fate, we found we were much more scared than we had been on the outside.

Christy (Alphabest supporting actor, mixtape master) who had been baiting the zombies in the town centre (running round them in circles) got so scared by a scream in the distance at Bridewell police station that he kicked a door in to try to escape! Similarly, Sammo (1^st time alphabettering, not actually Australian) who had been an oasis of calm as we wandered through the shopping centre, came barreling out of a room in the Dutch House shouting ‘WE CAN’T GO THAT WAY!!!‘ completely terrified by a zombie woman sat in the centre of a room (you literally just had to walk past out of her reach).

For my part, every time I realised another building was coming up my heart dropped: confined spaces + crippling terror + the undead = rising sense of panic and doom. But then, when we made it through successfully, the sense of accomplishment was completely worth it. The buildings were both the best and worst parts of the whole experience for me.

Zombie survival rule #3: Never let down your guard (unless you’re hungry)

Dono gets a special mention here. Why? for stopping to get a Burger King during the end of days. I couldn’t have eaten had I wanted to, so full of adrenaline and panic was I, but Dono managed a whopper meal and carried on running. Hero.

Zombie survival rule #4: Fear makes you do funny things

Even pretend fear. Or fear of things you know are pretend.

Fear made us sneak our way through Castle park like a low-budget SWAT team even though there were no zombies. Fear made me convinced that every person in the distance was a zombie waiting to eat my face. Fear made Dono disappear for 10 minutes (while the rest of us wondered where on earth he could have gone) because he decided to walk halfway round the city to get to us rather than run across a courtyard with a zombie in it – that he had already managed to get past once. Fear caused vandalism (Christy) and flight (Sammo and Donno) and rule breaking (Me)…..

Zombie survival rule #5: Not everyone will survive

Yes – it had to happen, I’d known it from the outset, but, after more than 2 hours of successfully evading the hungry hun, I had started to believe I might just make it. Then, as Temple Meads loomed into view, I felt a horrible sense of foreboding. ‘Don’t worry‘ Sammo smiled, ‘we’ll definitely all make it now!‘. Jinxed.

We headed into the building and through a series of unlit corridors and rooms, eventually coming out into a large space (like a school hall) with pillars. We could see several zombies in the distance so, when we heard a (clearly human) voice calling us from the stairwell were more than happy to head that way rather than face the foe. In the stairwell was a woman with an injured leg, asking for help to get down the stairs. I hung back, skeptical, but my boys were eager to get her to safety. As they stepped forward to help, a zombie lurched up the stairs towards them and we scattered.

I headed back the way we had come (breaking zombie survival rule #1 – for shame!) only to find the door was locked. Turning round I realised everyone else was gone, and the zombies were spread out across the length of the room – like the Gauntlet off of Gladiators. I could hear Andrew shouting me on as I ran, nearly making it to the door before a tap on my arm told me that my game was up. ‘Calm down, calm down‘ the zombie whispered, breaking the illusion, before drawing a star on my hand in UV pen. Infected. Rubbish!

Thankfully (for me) not much of the game remained after my capture and we were soon at the safe house where those of us untouched by zombie hand (every one but me) got to have a nice cold drink while I was done up to look like the infectious beast that I had become. And that was that – the apocalypse over, man’s triumph. Having become part of the horde, I can’t say I was wholly pleased.

It’s hard to draw together a conclusion for this one – it not being either a typical fitness activity, or an event that everyone will have a chance to undertake, or even similar in style to my other alphabetterings – but here goes…. For me this felt like a fitting finale (say that three times quick) because it required courage, because it was unlike anything I had done before and because I couldn’t have done it at the start of the year. Had I not been running regularly, and meeting new people, and facing my fears, and trying new things, I wouldn’t even have considered signing up for a game like this. And, although I was worried about it to start with, I gave it my best effort and almost came out on top.

I am proud that I could finish the blog with something so fun, with such a lovely bunch of people and with an event that I’m sure I’ll remember (if only due to my crippling night terrors!?) for a long time to come. Perfect.

Then something innocuous will happen, something inconsequential (like the post arriving, or dropping a glass) and Anxiety will come tumbling in, bigger and bolder than ever before, reminding you of all the mistakes you’ve made and all the reasons you’ll never succeed. Keeping you awake and stealing your appetite so that you don’t have the energy to fight back. Flooding your consciousness with potential problems so that you can’t see where the real issues are and can’t begin to face them.

Strategies for everyday stress become redundant. No amount of tapping or back massages or pretending to laugh will help now, Anxiety knows those tricks and won’t let you think clearly enough to use them. And they are small scale solutions to a massive problem, like putting a plaster on a severed artery. Or trying to stop a mudslide by standing in front of it, arms outstretched. No, when anxiety brings it’s ‘A game’ you have one option – force it to pay attention, show it who’s boss. Go big or go home. How? By going Nicolas Cage-style batshit crazy of course!

Primal Scream Therapy was developed by Arthur Janov in the early 1970s and is based around the concept that adult neuroses are caused by unresolved childhood pain. Therapy involves reliving traumatic incidents and expressing the feelings, through shouting and screaming and physical acts of aggression, to release the tension. Oft-criticised due to lack of empirical evidence of its impact, Primal Scream Therapy rose to fame in part due to its use by celebrity fans including John Lennon, Steve Jobs and James Earl Jones (who claimed it cured his haemorrhoids?!).

I should probably say now that, having read more about the practice of Primal Scream therapy, I’m fairly sure my experience was atypical in a number of ways. For a start, my ‘therapist’ Helen, had never been trained and was just offering the service as a way to ‘help people’ (this is what happens when you find your mental health professionals through Gumtree). Secondly, Helen felt it best to do the yelling in the woods ‘so we don’t bother people’ – because, of course, people strolling through a forest on a Thursday morning aren’t going to be in anyway alarmed by hearing a blood-curdling scream in the distance. Lastly, Primal Scream Therapy tends to be a very long process, delving into the root of negative emotions, spending months trying to resolve issues – Helen felt that you might need ‘up to 2 sessions – just to get it all out’.

So here’s what happened… I met Helen at the entrance to Ashton Court (a country estate in Bristol) and, as we walked into the woods together, we talked about my anxiety and how the process might help. Helen felt that Primal Scream Therapy worked by resetting the brain, like turning a computer off at the plug when the screen was frozen. Although concerned about the metaphor, my computer once died in just that situation, this sounded like just what I needed – an opportunity to ‘let it all out’.

Unlike traditional (qualified) therapists, Helen did not focus on childhood issues but instead asked me to focus on my recent worries. She told me to try to pull together all of my frustrations, anxiety and anger from the last few weeks. She said to picture all of my issues as a ball of clay, getting bigger and bigger with each additional problem. In my mind’s eye, what started as a marble soon developed into a golf ball… then a bowling ball… a football… that boulder from Indiana Jones… the planet Saturn… The more time I spent thinking about all my problems, the more things occurred to me. I felt overwhelmed, nervous, unable to cope and, disappointingly, worse than I had in ages.

I looked angrily at Helen. ‘Let it out,’ she said. And I really wanted to, but 29 years of being told not to throw tantrums stood in my way. I couldn’t. I’m not much of a shouter, I don’t like to make a scene. I started to cry. I wanted to go home. Putting up with sneaky old Anxiety’s scheming ways was easier than this.

I started walking away, caught my foot on a branch and fell over. As I tumbled towards the ground something in my head snapped. ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!’ I bellowed, spinning round angrily towards the branch that had literally caused my downfall. Expletives tumbled from my mouth like coins from a slot machine. I kicked at the branches and leaves on the ground. I threw things. I was oblivious to all else in the world. I went batshit crazy. For two minutes of my life I ranted and railed at the $*!?ing universe for the tough time I’d been having and then, as quickly as it had appeared, the anger was gone. My mind was quiet. I looked over at Helen, who was beaming widely. ‘OK, time to go home’ I said.

The walk back to the car was one of the strangest of my life. I was feeling tired and odd, emotionally drained – almost hysterical. Helen was excitedly talking about her pet parrot Harry. What must have been no more than a 7 minute meander felt like a 7 hour hike. Finally we made it through the gates. I said goodbye to Helen, got into the car and sat for several minutes trying to work out what had just happened. Had it been a worthwhile thing to do? Was I feeling better? Had my breakthrough been the result of Helen’s ‘therapy’ or just an inevitable breakdown after weeks of stress?

In those moments in the car, and for some days afterwards, I felt calmer and more able to cope than I had done for ages. I felt like a weight had been lifted, that my anxiety was no longer front and center – that I was able to start sifting through the pile of things I had to do. I had more energy. I could finally sleep. Can I attribute any of that to the ‘therapy’? I’m not so sure… Helen’s version of Primal Scream Therapy wasn’t traditional and the actual moment of release came when I accidentally fell over – who can say that wouldn’t have happened had I tripped at home?

I’ve thought about it and I reckon the answer is that I wouldn’t have let myself throw a tantrum at home. I would have felt bad, bottled it up and carried on. This ‘therapy’ gave me the permission to shout and swear and make a massive scene. It allowed me, a 29 year old woman, to behave like a stroppy toddler for a while which, in turn, helped me to function better as an adult. I’m not sure I’ll be doing it again any time soon (primarily because I think I might get banned from Ashton Court) but it is comforting to know that I have a plan of attack for the next time Anxiety brings the big guns – and that’s definitely alphabetter than things were before.

6 weeks without a blogpost, 2 weeks since my planned triumphant return and I had failed to do anything beginning with ‘X’. I had an impending sense of terror – that the blog would sit unfinished forever, like a book without a final chapter, dinner without a cheeseboard, like running 25 miles of a marathon and then giving up. Incomplete. Worthless.

I had made a plan, after weeks of struggling to think of anything beginning with X (I decided ‘having an X ray’ wasn’t bettering myself and it turns out xylophone lessons are really hard to find) to do a treasure hunt (‘X’ marks the spot). I had paid for and downloaded the (school-trip style) directions and questions but was uninspired. As I traipsed around town, I felt like the only thing I was bettering was my knowledge of Bristol. Not good enough! Not after you’ve all been kept waiting for so long!!

Frustrated and angry, I stomped down Park street knowing I would have to write a sub-standard blog; that I’d let you all down. And then, from the pit of my despair – salvation! Inspiration arrived, as it so often does, out of nowhere…. but could I really do it? Yes – it was a bit crazy but no more so than pretending to laugh in a room full of strangers. Yes, it required courage – but I’d managed that when I bared my belly (and boobs) (and bum) (and bits) in a pool in Portsmouth. I might make myself look foolish but it would be worth it. Desperate times call for desperate measures. My fate was sealed….

Headstrong, I strode towards a group of hooded teenagers and demanded of the tallest (I figured he was their leader) ‘Do you think you could teach me to skateboard?’. He looked at me bewildered, as if I were speaking a different language. I persevered. ‘I am writing a blog about trying a new thing each week – I thought this week I’d try skateboarding’. He looked at his mates and shrugged, in the way only teenage boys can. Disheartened I turned to leave, just as he said ‘Sure, I’ve got nothing better to do,’. I span back round, overjoyed, and grinned ‘Where do we start?’.

As we all know skateboarding was invented when Marty McFly went back to 1955 and broke a kid’s scooter in order to get away from Biff (obvs). People saw how fun it looked and a craze was started, increasing in popularity over time so that there are now approximately 18.5 million skateboarders worldwide (75% of them boys). The X games (my reason for categorising this an ‘X’ activity – give me a break, ‘X’ is a tricky letter!!) is an annual extreme sports tournament commemorating that fateful day. Skateboarding events within the games include vert skating (on a half pipe) as well as park and street skating.

After some discussion with the others, my teacher, Connor, decided it would be best just to ‘give it a go – after all, you might be a natural!’. I frowned – of all the things I might have an inherent aptitude for, skateboarding seemed an unlikely one. I struggle to stay upright in my day-to-day life. The addition of a rolling platform would surely only add to my woes. I tried to remain positive but was more than a little nervous as I put my left foot onto the board and tried to get going.

As the wheels started rolling under my feet, something clicked in my head and I jumped off – the board skittering away into the distance. Connor looked at me, unimpressed. I collected the board and started again. I found it really hard to get the right amount of push with my ‘floor foot’. Too much and the board flew out from under me. Too little and it barely moved. More worryingly, any time it did start rolling at any speed I jumped off.

Connor, who had been sat watching my endeavours, quickly diagnosed the problem, ‘You need to stop being so scared of falling off. Everyone falls off’. The others nodded and started chatting amongst themselves about the various horrific injuries they had sustained over the years. One even rolled up his sleeve to show me the scar he had from where his arm was pinned back together. I grimaced. If I hadn’t been scared of falling off before I definitely was now, but I couldn’t give up without giving it a proper go.

I took a deep breath, got back on the board and pushed off hard. As before, the board whizzed away… with me still on it!! I kept going until I ran out of path and had to leap to safety (we hadn’t covered stopping yet). I practically skipped back to Connor to start again. I had visions of hanging off the back of cars like old McFly, skidding across ramps like Tony Hawk. I WAS a natural. I jumped back on and set off again. Except this time, in my excitement, I completely forgot to balance. At all. The board went one way, I went the other and I landed (arse-first) on the floor. Ouch. By the time I stood up (it took me a few minutes – my bum really hurt), Connor had collected the board, ‘Keep going!’ he said. Connor was wise.

Although my pride and coccyx were dented, I did as I was told. I got back on the board and made it all the way down the path a few more times, albeit in a slightly less gung-ho fashion than before. And I liked it. I liked that I had done something on the spur of the moment. I liked that I had kept going even when it became difficult. I liked the feeling of rolling along balanced on a skateboard. Most of all I liked doing something I’d never done before. Brilliant.

After about an hour, the rain clouds started looking shifty and I decided to call it a day. I thanked Connor (et al) and hobbled home; achy but feeling alphabetter than I had done in weeks. And that’s what is important this time.  I don’t think I’ll be jumping back on a skateboard any time soon, but it helped me find my mojo. It reminded me of why I’m writing this blog and how much fun it can be.

I am fired up for the finale! excited for the exit! Y will be good, Z even better.

You, my friends, are in for a fun couple of weeks!!

For those of you who haven’t heard of her before, Rhonda Byrne is the mastermind behind ‘The Secret’ – a DVD and book which has sold over 21 million copies worldwide. Drawing on ‘ancient wisdom’ and ‘the natural laws of the universe’, ‘The Secret’ explains the broad principles of the law of attraction – that by focusing on positive or negative thoughts, one can bring about positive or negative results; like attracts like. If you think miserable thoughts, or feel sad, you attract back to you events and circumstances that cause you to feel more sad or miserable. Conversely, if you think and feel positive and happy, you attract the nicer things in life.

Where ‘The Secret’ lays out the broad philosophy and ideas, in ‘The Magic’ Byrne sets out a series of daily tasks and lessons – a handbook to be followed. And I wouldn’t be following it alone! Christy (who has been mentioned so often, he might need a ‘best supporting blogfan’ credit soon) agreed to join me on my adventure. After setting out a list of wishes and hopes, things we wanted the universe to provide (you’ve got to have a dream, to have a dream come true), we started working through the tasks, excited to start ‘living the life of our dreams!’.

Obviously I’m not going to talk you through each task set – Here’s some ‘Best bits’:

Count your blessings

Every morning (before doing anything else) we were to sit down and write a list of 10 things we were grateful for. I am not a morning person, so this worried me – little did I know that the more difficult thing was writing the list!! The first day was fine – I was thankful for friends, family, my job, this new opportunity; the ideas kept coming. Then, when I sat down to attempt day 2, I found I wanted to write the same things again. And again on day 3. Looking through my notebook, I have written pretty much the same list for the first 7 days but have (cunningly) tried to make them look different (day 1: thankful for husband, day 2: thankful for marriage, day 3: thankful for relationship…). After a week or so, I settled into it and the things I was grateful for became more specific (e.g. thankful for the message I got from Jim this morning).

Christy, meanwhile, was surprising even himself with the things he felt grateful for at 7am each day. Highlights include:

• Eggy bread
• Rechargeable batteries (just naming things you see?)
• The Legend of Zelda
• Light
• Horn Sections
• Gratitude itself (!?!)
• The Breakage Remix of Ain’t Nobody by Claire Maguire

Brilliant. It’s like a stream of consciousness! But conscious gratitude which, after all, is the aim of ‘The Magic’ game.

The Magic Rock

Byrne introduces the magic rock as something that has ‘been a proven success with people the world over’ (I’m not going to go into the language in the book here but she certainly does make some big claims!). We had to find ourselves a rock that would fit into the palm of our hand, be smooth without sharp edges and ‘feel really good’. We then needed to talk to our rock each night, telling it about the best thing that happened that day.

I drew a face on my rock and called him ‘Chris Rock’ because he often said offensive things about other rocks. He was lost somewhere in Cambridge

This is Christy’s. His is called ‘The Rock’ and he is the most electrifying rock in all of sports entertainment.

As you may imagine we struggled to take this task seriously. I just kept forgetting, leaving him at home on my various weeks away. When I did remember, it felt contrived – I just felt silly.

Daily tasks

Aside from our daily lists and our magic rock, we also had to be thankful for a specific thing each day – for example on Day 4 we were grateful for our health. Some of these tasks were quite time consuming and we both struggled to fit them in. Others just involved a change in mindset, and these were much more useful for me.

On Day 7, we focused on the ‘Magical way out of negativity’. According to Byrne, the answer to any negative situation you want to resolve is to focus concentrated gratitude on it until you feel better inside. So, if you notice yourself feeling negative, stop immediately and say ‘but I have to say that I am grateful for….’. As I’ve mentioned I was in quite a negative frame of mind at the time and so this was a real challenge. It made me realise how often I was feeling bad for myself or taking things for granted. In the end, I was stopping myself before a negative thought was fully formed and replacing it with something positive – and I felt happier. My glass was suddenly half full, at last!!

Conclusions

We didn’t manage to get through all the tasks (we missed a couple of weeks when I had Labyrinthitis and then couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to start again). However, I did continue some of the practices (daily lists, replacing negative comments as above) so we can at least try to measure whether my wishes have been granted by the universe. Being a researcher, I made a handy chart:

As you can see some good things happened (PhD, job extended, new car) and some bad things happened too (car broke, more debt, got fat). Overall though, I think the good outweighs the bad. So can I conclude magic is responsible for that?

I could, but I won’t (I remain a skeptic). However, I do think that the process has made me see my life more positively – to not just focus on the bad things. It has also made me more open to taking opportunities and chances – case in point, I’ve spent three years talking about doing a PhD and have never got round to applying before. There’s some logic in the idea that being positive in your actions will lead to positive outcomes, I’m just not willing to accept (yet) that that is the ‘magical power of the universe answering wishes’. But if you’re listening, Universe, a lottery win could change that… I’ll leave it in your hands.

In school, other children were picked for plays, concerts and the choir. In music classes, other people were asked to perform for the class. I would sing, and people would respond with apathy. They didn’t say anything positive, nor did they clasp their hands to their ears and run out screaming. I can’t remember anyone ever praising my singing ability. The underlying message was loud and clear – singing was not for me. And so, over time, I just stopped. These days, I sing when I’m on my own (I’m singing along to this right now) or when the music is too loud / there are enough other people with me that those listening won’t be able to hear my voice.

The sad thing is that I really enjoy to sing! Since January I have been driving more than 300 miles a week and from the moment I close the car door to the minute I pull into the driveway of my guest house I am singing at the top of my lungs. And, sadder still, I now can’t bring myself to even attempt to sing publicly. Friends will say ‘how does that tune go?’ and, although I have the melody in my head, I’ll make an excuse rather than hum a few notes. Although on my mental list of things I should do as part of this project, I hadn’t even attempted to book it in as I knew how hard I would find it. Then, last week, a strange thing happened.

My job involves travelling to schools around the country, observing lessons and interviewing staff. Last week, as I walked into the staffroom of a school I’d previously visited in February, the TA rushed towards me ‘I’m so glad you’re here this week – I’ve got a brilliant idea for your V activity!’. I was taken aback. In the last visit, I’d spent a morning talking to the TA while the students were in an assembly and could recall mentioning the blog, but was surprised at her excitement. Also, week ‘V’ had been pretty tough to plan for; the only other suggestion proffered being ‘vajazzling’ – not exactly my idea of fun. I braced myself… ‘Vocal coaching’ she grinned, ‘We’ve got an African choir in and they’re teaching the children to sing. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind fitting you in somewhere!’. ‘If you’re sure that’s alright…’ I whimpered, eager not to offend the woman I would be spending the next 2 days shadowing. ‘I’ll sort it out now!’ she yelled over her shoulder, skipping out of the door.

Told they could fit me in on Tuesday lunchtime, I walked into the hall to find a group of people huddled around a laptop looking at my blog. Surreal. The choir, a group of 10 secondary school students and their teachers on an exchange programme from Pretoria in South Africa, were really excited about the possibility of being on the internet – despite my protestations, completely convinced that being part of my little blog would make them famous. They were enthusiastic, cheerful, excited. Any anxiety I had been feeling went out of the window. Their teacher suggested they sing something to me, to show me what they could do. Awesome. I sat down with the TA, my heart skipping a beat as they launched into one of my favourite songs – ‘Homeless’ by Paul Simon. As they sang they danced and clapped – full of joy. Beautiful.

‘OK, your turn!’ the teacher grinned, and I was brought back down to earth with a bump.‘Why don’t you sing us something, and we’ll work from there?’. I didn’t know where to start, what to sing. 14 pairs of eyes watched me expectantly, as I failed even to find the words to express my predicament. ‘Alright’ the teacher said, ‘We’ll do call and response’. I nodded. She called over one of the students, Angelique, who started me off by singing a 4 note melody for me to repeat back. To my surprise, I did it. ‘Good‘ the teacher said, ‘too quiet though’. We carried on, Angelique singing, me echoing, the teacher nodding. After a couple of minutes, she stopped us. Then she lead me through some scales. ‘OK,’ she said, ‘want to know what I think?’

I swallowed hard – the moment of truth ‘This is why I never auditioned for the X factor’ I thought, panicked. ‘You have good rhythm’ she said, ‘and you hit most of the notes…’. I smiled, that was much better than I was expecting. ‘Your range is pretty limited though and your singing far too quietly – if you put more power behind each note it will come out clearer’. I nodded, still overwhelmed at hearing anyone say something positive about my singing. ‘Now, shall we sing a song together?’.

As the words of the song went up on the projector, I literally bounced with joy – we were going to be singing ‘N’kosi sikelel’ i’Africa’, the South African national anthem. A song from my childhood, to be sung with an African choir – Wonderful. I explained that I knew the words (much to everyone’s surprise) and, after a quick run-through to make sure I could remember them all, we were ready. The teacher counted us in and then we were singing. I struggled to get my words out as I was smiling so much – those three minutes of singing by far the most fun I’ve had on this whole adventure so far. As we got to the last chorus, the school bell rang, lunch was over. I thanked each of them personally, helped put all the chairs away and headed back into class.

So… does this mean I’ll now be serenading my friends? Or stepping up first at karaoke? No, I don’t think so – I’m not a performer, and never have been. What it means is that I can sing along to the radio even when other people are there, I can join in with a chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’, I can actually answer when you ask ‘how does that tune go?‘. Not major progress, but definitely a step in the right direction and definitely alphabetter than it was – that’s good enough for me.

Then, as I started Year 10, something happened that resulted in an ‘F’ grade, a letter home to my parents and a black mark on my academic record. Yes, I spent one lesson each week, for an entire term, sat outside the headmistress’ office – sent out of class for my behaviour. ‘What could have prompted such a change?’ you ask, ‘Had I fallen in with a bad crowd? Started experimenting with drugs?’. No – the answer is much simpler. In September 1997, my PE teacher told me to jump on a trampoline in front of the rest of my year group. And I flatly refused.

‘Trampolining?‘ you ask, bemused, ‘but that’s just bouncing up and down!’. And then it dawns on you, for a girl with massive body image issues, the idea of wobbling about on a platform in front of 60 of her peers (including that boy who she secretly fancies even though he never even acknowledges her existence) is like some kind of nightmare. Up in front of everyone, boobs, bum and thighs all flapping in different directions – like a walrus doing a bungee jump. I couldn’t imagine anything worse. They could write to my parents, they could kick me out of school even – I was not getting on that trampoline.

When I started alphabettering myself I knew that I was going to have to face my catapedaphobia at some point and, in fact, booked trampolining in several times (B is for bouncing, J is for jumping…) but when the time came to go and do it, something always came up. I always found an excuse to do something else, or a reason I couldn’t go. Even after ‘N is for Naked‘, even with my confidence high, I still felt my bouncy body would be too much for others to bear. Last week, crossing the finish line of the race (another on the long list of things I thought I couldn’t do) I resolved to stop making excuses. I booked in for an urban rebounding class and didn’t give myself the opportunity to find a way out.

Urban rebounding is an exercise routine based around jumping on a small trampoline (rebounder). Created by martial arts expert J.B. Berns, in 2000, rebounding is said to provide a high-energy cardio-vascular workout that is gentler on the joints than traditional exercise classes – the rebounder absorbing the shock of impact much better than a traditional gym floor. Unlike traditional trampolining, rebounding involves bouncing just inches off the surface of the mat; no backflips or somersaults involved.

I was feeling nervous before I left the house so I took some preparatory steps to try to keep my wobbly bits in check. Sports bra was an obvious first step (mine is industrial-strength, much needed for all the running I’ve been doing), then tight vest-top (strapping my stomach in), running skins (to make my bum and thighs behave) and then a t-shirt and shorts over the top. Yes, I might faint from heat-exhaustion, and it was quite hard to move, but there was no chance anyone would be bothered by my flailing flab.

The class I went to in Cambridge was held in a village hall. I walked in to find rows of tiny trampolines being set up. As the other members of the class filed in, the instructor Lee gave me a quick tutorial. The object of rebounding is to jump only a couple of inches of the surface while completing exercises (star jumps, high knees etc). Lee made it look easy and so, as I stepped on I felt alright. I started moving only to find the rebounder was much more bouncy than it looked – I was wobbling all over the place, in front of a roomful of strangers. Rubbish. I stepped off the rebounder, down-hearted, feeling just as I had feared I would and contemplated making a break for freedom. I’d given it a go, hadn’t I? I was eyeballing the door when THIS came on over the speakers and I knew things would be OK. If nothing else I could spend an hour listening to my beloved WubWubs- dubstep saved the day again.

The class started with a quick warm up, small bounces and stretches performed on the rebounder. I started off out of time, and bouncing much more slowly than most but, as time went on, I found my feet. By the time the main exercising started I was sorted – hitting the beat and changing in time with Lee’s instructions. So focused was I on getting the moves right (and on not falling off) that I barely thought about my bouncing boobs at all! And the class flew by, it felt like we hardly started before Lee told us to warm down.

All in all, I really enjoyed it. There is something really funny about a room full of mums concentrating really hard as they bounce on tiny trampolines in time to Flux Pavillion’s ‘Bass cannon‘; it’s worth the admission fee as a spectator sport alone. Having said that I’ve enjoyed other fitnesses classes (specifically Bhangra and Hula hooping) more so I’m not sure I’ll be back. It is nice to think that I’ve managed to let some skeletons out of the closet, finally facing a longstanding (albeit irrational) fear. But I also feel, if I’m going to truly put this to bed, I need to do some actual trampolining. If I start up again once I get past Z, it will be high on the list.

As we are now into week U, and I have even more exciting things planned, this will only be a short post – mostly pictures of the dress I made.

This dress was designed by the multi-talented Rachael and can be found at her lovely blog ‘Talk2TheTrees’ here. The instructions were really very easy to follow and, putting it together on the sewing machine, it took me only 45 minutes. Here are the results:

I’m really pleased with it – an effective simple way of using the lengths of fabric I have sitting in my cupboard. I’ve already got my next one planned!

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Last chance to sponsor my Race for Life efforts here – Thank you