One month to go! Some thoughts on running the virtual London Marathon...

It was early Wednesday morning. Outside it was dark but the skies were beginning to illuminate, the dawn of a new winter’s day. Running along a country lane, I thought I was alone – only to turn my head to realise that there was someone close behind me, perilously close to overtaking me. 

And it wasn’t just anyone – it was my friend of 25 years. This wasn’t good news.

Decisive action was needed, so I stepped through the gears and ratcheted up my pace. It was a risky move, as overdoing it could mean having to slow down later. Whilst I couldn’t maintain the pace, I still managed to finish – without being overtaken. And to my surprise, I ended up with my best 5k result since the summer.

As I basked in the glory of this inconsequential victory, I was reminded that there is often a capacity to go further that we don’t realise nor reach. What we need is something – or someone – to push us to greater lengths.

It was this thought that encouraged me to sign up for my biggest ever running challenge – the virtual* London Marathon on Sunday 3 October to raise funds for Open Doors. I’ve never done a marathon, not even close. Whilst I’ve long fancied the idea – even a half-marathon – it’s always felt beyond me. But with training, and for a cause super close to my heart, it feels doable. Just.

Today marks one month until race day. It seems like only yesterday I first signed up! To mark this occasion, I thought I’d share an eclectic mix of reflections and suggestions from my training so far…

Podcasts and prayers

I love to get things done. Even if I have a day off or am on holiday, I must do something to make me feel as though I’ve achieved something, even if it’s reading a chapter of a book!

Whilst going out for a run is an achievement in itself, I like to maximise the time spent running to do other things – such as listening to podcasts. The subjects of these fall into two categories: football and faith. On the football front, this largely comprises The View From The Lane and The Last Word on Spurs. Whilst on the subject of faith, this tends to be weekly sermons from Passion City Church and Embassy City Church, as well occasional episodes from Premier Christianity: The Profile and Unbelievable.

When not listening to podcasts (or occasionally music), I’ve been keen to use some of the training runs to pray for Christians in countries on Open Doors’ World Watch List, which documents the 50 places where it’s hardest for people to be a Christian. As you might well imagine, running isn’t always conducive to detailed and beautifully crafted prayers (not that I’m good at that anyway!), so short, mumbled arrow prayers are often all I can muster. It’s all rather messy, but thankfully God gets what I mean.

Healthy cakes!

I’m 12 weeks into my training plan, which I’m enjoying – for the most part. The biggest challenges have been the intensity runs (running at different speeds) and the longer runs at the weekend. Not only do my weekends largely revolve around these extended runs, I’m normally wiped out for the rest of the day (and sometimes beyond!) once the run is done.

But in truth, I expected all of this. What I hadn’t accounted for, somewhat naively, was how much I’d have to explore my nutritional needs. I’ve always had a fairly balanced diet, but it wasn’t until I’d begun my training that I realised some alterations had to be made — before and after a run, and during it — to ensure I’m looking after my body and make life a little less taxing when running.

Thankfully, a superb book by Anita Bean called The Runner’s Cookbook has been an able guide. It’s full of nutritional advice (e.g. how to prepare nutritionally for runs of different distances) along with over 100 recipes, including running snacks as well as cakes and desserts which minimise the use of sugar and fat. Handily, each recipe comes with a brief summary of its nutritional qualities and when it’s best to consume.

Small joys

Running can feel gruelling at times. Whether it’s taking a steep climb, thirsting for water running in the searing heat, or battling the last two miles of a 16-miler, there have been plenty of moments that have provoked a familiar, weary question: ‘When will this run end?’ Alongside the immediate and broader goals, there have been smaller moments of joy that have provided some welcome added motivation.

First, there was the run a week ago when the sun had set and hundreds of birds noisily grouped together to journey off somewhere (I’m sure someone can tell me exactly what they were doing!). It was fascinating watching and listening to them as I ran wearily around a neighbourhood.

Second, there was the merry band of helpers at the Very Long Half Bath Marathon (as pictured), who willed me and the other racers towards the finishing line, even mentioning us by name. A lovely touch.

And third, there’s been the sweet satisfaction of pushing through the pain and completing an arduous training run, hitting stop on the Fitbit and finding out how I got on, and slowly walking back home whilst catching my breath and strength. Job done, until the next run. Didn’t I tell you I like getting things done?

#RunForTheirLives

Above all, my biggest motivation are my brothers and sisters around the world who are suffering, simply because they follow Jesus. It feels strange to even write this, given that I live in a country where I can freely be a Christian. But in places such as North Korea, India, Vietnam, Nigeria and Iraq — to name but a few — people can’t always do that. And yet, despite the pressure, persecution and pain, they keep going, faithfully giving their all to serve Jesus.

Whilst completing a marathon brings personal achievement and satisfaction, it’s the opportunity to do so whilst helping suffering Christians that compels me more than anything else. It’s why, when I feel especially drained of motivation and energy, thinking about them drives me on. My struggle to get back out on the streets, or reach the finishing line, is a reminder that so many Christians feel the same — only about the far, far, far bigger issues of life and faith. Knowing this galvanises my efforts and prayers, and my determination to run this race for them, and in doing so raise funds for them and awareness of their plight.

**

I’d love to raise £1,000, with all funds going towards Open Doors’ relief fund, ensuring that aid and assistance reaches those facing emergencies.

Let me tell you about a family who has benefited from this fund.

Praveen and Shanti — whose names have been changed for security reasons — are from India. They became Christians after God healed Shanti when a local pastor prayed for her. But their new faith led to hostility from the wider family. Angry that the couple left Hinduism for Christianity, the family refused to give up land that Praveen had inherited.  

Consequently, the couple set up their own shop, but it didn’t make a profit. When the pandemic arrived, bringing lockdown, it was a struggle to even put food on the table. Their sons couldn’t work as daily labourers, either. So they prayed, fervently. 

“As an answer to our prayers, your organisation has come to our help and provided materials to refill the shop,” says Praveen. “Now the shop is running well and is a stable income source for our family. We can pay our house rent without a struggle and meet all our basic needs.” 

Your support will go directly to helping people like Praveen and Shanti. Not only will it give them immediate practical help, it will tell them that they are not alone, that around the world there are people thinking and praying for them.

If you could contribute in any way, no matter how small, it would make a huge difference. I’d be immensely grateful — as would Christians around the world. If you’d like sponsor me, or want to find out more information, simply click here.

Thank you!

*By way of brief explanation, ‘virtual’ means doing the run on a route of my choice on the day of the London Marathon; some 50,000 runners are doing this alongside the 50,000 or so tacking the ‘live’ race. And yes, if I complete it, I get a medal. Wahoo!

The story I share

China has long intrigued me. I’d always wanted to visit but never thought it would ever happen. None of my friends seemed to share my wish, and given the country’s magnitude, being a lone traveller and not knowing anyone who lives there, how could I make the 24-hour return plane journey — and the associated expense — worthwhile? 

But then opportunity knocked. My brother and his wife have a little boy, and in South Korea first birthdays are a big deal, equivalent to a 21st birthday in the UK. My whole family were invited. Having been to South Korea once before, for my brother’s wedding, I was keen to explore more of Asia this time, and so I arranged to take in two extra cities: Hong Kong and Beijing. 

**

First stop was Hong Kong, for three days, and from there I went to South Korea. I stayed for a week, culminating in the strangest first birthday party I’ve ever been to. It’s called doljanchi and the set up is more akin to a wedding ceremony, featuring professional photographs, a smart dress code, buffet and a video played showing snaps of the baby’s first 12 months. The crowning moment is when the baby chooses, before everyone, an item from a table that supposedly foretells their future. Oblivious to the prying eyes of 60 excitable guests, my nephew eventually gravitated to the solitary bank note. To him it was something to play with and possibly eat, to excited onlookers it represented a future flush with cash.

The following day, I made the short hop west to Beijing. As the plane began its descent, the nerves ratcheted up a notch. For the lone traveller who can only speak English, Hong Kong is a breeze — after all, it wasn’t so long ago it was under British rule — but China’s capital was a wildly different ball game, even if preparations for the 2008 Olympics have since made the city easier for internationals to navigate.

The train journey from the airport to the city centre did little to dispel my nerves. I sat opposite a man who stared at me. He continued to do so even when I looked at him. I surveyed the carriage, longing for someone to offer a welcome smile and assure me this was a trip ripe with possibility and fun. Nothing. I felt increasingly isolated. The prospect of three days in Beijing filled me with quiet dread. Wasn’t this supposed to be a holiday? 

Soon after exiting the train, nerves turned to panic. Despite having a map and English directions to find my hotel, I still managed to get spectacularly lost. Even in London I do my utmost to avoid asking someone for directions, so by the time I had mustered up courage to ask a Chinese stranger for help my stress levels were off the chart. Predictably, it was an utterly hopeless, even comical, exercise. He couldn’t speak a word of English. I thought the map might be of some use, enabling him to at least point me in a hopeful direction. It wasn’t. To his credit, he tried to help — or at least that’s the impression I got — but the whole episode not only added to my confusion and stress, it added to a growing sense of inner foreboding towards the whole trip. 

Thankfully, after walking several roads multiple times — and praying! — I reached my destination. It was a small and quaint courtyard hotel, tucked away on a hutong, one of the innumerable alleyways that comprise Old Beijing. The hotel turned out to be the highlight of my stay — which probably says a lot. The staff were a delight, going above and beyond what I booked. They offered me fresh fruit at every opportunity, and on one evening, the manager invited me to have dinner with him before making Chinese tea for me — a delicate and refined process that involves far more than dunking a tea bag in a mug and stirring it. They made me feel like royalty — and all for £27 per night. Most touchingly, at the end of my stay one of the staff helped me out with my bags to the hutong, before waving me off. After walking some 100 yards, I looked back and he was still waving.

**

A reliable companion for the duration of my trip to the Chinese capital was the Lonely Planet Guidebook to Beijing. From tips on language and etiquette to background information on Tiananmen Square and the Great Wall of China, the book was my best friend for three days. It featured one particular piece of advice that made me think twice about the intentions of three Chinese students who looked to build conversation with me on my second evening in the city.

I was wandering around Tiananmen Square taking photographs when the students approached me. They were bubbly and friendly, asking me questions and sharing about their studies. Ordinarily, I would willingly reciprocate, savouring the opportunity to exchange snippets and stories from our respective backgrounds and cultures. But was this too good to be true? The guidebook said that there is a tendency amongst young Chinese students to befriend unsuspecting British tourists in order to practise their English. However, this can often lead to polite requests to join them at a bar for a drink and chat, only for a hefty bill to be left with you. And of course, the bartender is in on it all. 

As we walked aimlessly in front of the The Gate of Heavenly Peace for five minutes or so, my concerns eased. There seemed no intent on their part to head anywhere else, leading me to assume that we’d soon naturally drift off in our separate directions. And there was an infectious innocence to them. If I hadn’t read the guidebook’s warning, there was certainly nothing to arouse suspicion. But then I have been told by friends that I’m sometimes too trusting. 

“Do you want to go for a drink?” one of them asked, just as I assumed our encounter was drawing to a close. 

“Um…No, I’m good. But thank you. I’ll be on my way…”

“Just one drink. We’d love to find out more about England and practise some more English.” I’m terrible at saying no at the best of times — all the more so when alone before three charming Chinese students. Although the alarm bells were ringing louder, saying no felt cruel. If they are genuine, I reasoned, rejecting was a missed opportunity to honour their friendliness and further immerse myself in the local culture. Plus, it was some human interaction, which I sorely missed. And it was for one drink only.

“Okay, just one soft drink.” 

They took me to a tea bar, where a waitress led us behind a velvet curtain to a secluded room. We all ordered soft drinks and I settled in. Each student talked about the careers they want to pursue, and I relished being the spokesperson for all things Britain, like where London is in comparison to everything else in the UK. Talk of one of the girls being single and wanting to visit England led to some awkward laughs and a rush of blood to my face. I was lapping up the attention. Those alarm bells were nowhere to be heard.

But then they discussed ordering tea — and the one they had their eyes on just happened to be the most expensive one going. Spotting the possible implications of this, I interjected politely, “You go ahead, but not for me.” They ordered, the tea arrived and — yes, shame on me — I drank some. The tea in China is excellent and I was having too much fun. Once drunk, their attention turned to the next expensive drink on the menu — wine. At this point, I said I had to leave. My enthusiasm for light conversation quickly drained as we awaited the bill. And then it came.

“You are our guest — you pay?” one of the group said with a smile that no longer felt sweet. It was a betrayal, or so it seemed. All three of them looked at me as if it wasn’t even a question. I felt backed into a corner with no option but to agree. A stronger person would have questioned it but courage escaped me, or perhaps reluctant grace overcame me. As the group began to gather their bags, I grabbed my phone to work out the damage in sterling. Surely it won’t be that bad? £20 tops?

£60.

Sixty pounds.

SIXTY POUNDS. FOR FOUR SOFT DRINKS AND SOME TEA.

I paid it. 

Inwardly I was seething as we exchanged quick goodbyes and went our separate ways. The fun and seeming goodwill of the previous two hours now felt hollow. I had no appetite to see more of Tiananmen Square. I made a beeline for the metro and standing in the carriage I wondered how I had got so spectacularly conned. Yes, I was annoyed with the students, but more so with myself. I had been warned.

Earlier that day I stood amongst passengers on the metro wide-eyed as I took in the surroundings. But now, the carriages much emptier with it approaching 10pm, I could only look to the floor. I felt flattened, drained of wonder and energy. Even as I wallowed, I knew it wasn’t a big deal — I was safe and still had money to survive. But I was furious that I allowed myself to get needlessly sucked in. I hate wasting money, and this felt one mighty waste of money. And what was meant to be an interesting evening exploring one of China’s most fabled landmarks had left a sordid taste, and I feared it might blight what was left of the trip. 

**

The morning arrived and anger had turned into irritation. A couple of hours later, as I hit the streets mid-morning for a bike tour of the city — the breeze in my face, the cacophony of everyday Chinese life in my ears and the alluring smells of fresh Chinese food wafting up my nose — the joy of travel had returned. The rest of the trip wasn’t so bad after all.

But here’s the interesting thing about the evening looking back: seven years on, it’s still the one story from my whole trip that I tell others about the most. In fact, of all stories from my travels, it’s still the one I share more than any other. A timeless anecdote that I love to share and which people seem to savour hearing. I remember telling my brother who found it hilarious — he couldn’t get over how much I’d been taken for a mug. I had a good laugh with another friend who nearly experienced something very similar — the difference being she wisely kept away from any tea bar.

But should I be surprised? The best stories we tell others aren’t the ones where everything goes as planned, nor are they always the ones awash with a Hollywood ending. Rather they tend to be the ones that, at the time, we desperately try to wish away. But years later, as we gather over the dinner table or a pint in the pub, we find ourselves retelling the story before a captive audience itching to discover the ending — which, as it often turns out, involves a good laugh at our expense. And we’re laughing with them. It’s a far cry from any late-night angst-ridden journey on the Beijing metro. The hardest tales can turn into the best of stories.

Not all horrible moments will find redemption in this way. But occasionally they will, providing the spark for laughter, conversation and friendship which can be priceless. 

Actually, perhaps that’s taking it too far. Let’s just say this particular £60 now feels far better spent. Just. 

Umbrellas of Vienna

Exiting the train station my destination was Vienna’s fabled city centre. But as the streets grew quieter, I realised I was heading in the opposite direction. Frustration and weariness were creeping in, until I passed a passageway that changed everything. 

Overhanging the passage’s length were a myriad of coloured umbrellas — the blues, reds, oranges, yellows and pinks beautifully complementing the tall beige buildings standing either side, the flowers from pots and hanging baskets, and the empty wooden tables and chairs from a restaurant. A gorgeous conglomerate of colour.

There I lingered a while, taking photos and people-watching. You could tell the locals from the tourists — the former hastily walked through disinterested in the quaint surroundings, whilst the latter lazily pondered, looked around and took selfies.

Vienna’s umbrellas will always be a colourful reminder that getting lost and going off the beaten track need not mean missing out on the odd unexpected discovery. Finding them can provide a moment to savour and delight, and give some much-needed motivation to get back on the road.

It is well with my soul

A favourite all-time song of mine is 'It is well with my soul' by Horacio Spafford. The words are all the more remarkable given the story behind it. After already losing his son, Spafford lost his four daughters on a ship that sunk in 1873 on its way to Europe. On the journey to join his wife (who survived) he passed the point where the ship earlier carrying his family had sunk. There he began penning this song. I've thought about the song a lot this year, bringing solace and hope during some tough (relatively minor!) moments. So here is my own rickety version…

Contentment at Boston airport

It was a rare moment of blissful buzz and contentment. On a Friday evening at Logan International Airport, having spent three days seeing Boston, USA, I was heading to Michigan for a friend’s wedding. Checked-in, I grabbed a Dunkin’ Donut and sat amongst the quiet throng at the gate where much that I loved came together in one moment — travel, anticipation of seeing friends, people-watching, donuts. And I had no worry — an oddity in itself for me. I can vividly recall savouring it all. Strange as it is, one of my favourite places is Logan International Airport, simply for the provision of this moment. 

A taste of Vienna

It was a café like no other I had experienced. Normally the sole focus of any trip to a coffee establishment is a book, my laptop, an acquaintance or two, or even the coffee itself. But here, in Vienna’s Café Dommayer, it was so much more. It was everything. 

It was my first evening in Vienna and my Airbnb hosts had very kindly invited me to join them for the annual Summer Night Concert at Schönbrunn Palace. On our walk there we passed Café Dommayer. My hosts tantalisingly spoke of its coffee, delicacies and history. But for them words would not suffice, they wanted me to experience it for myself, and so despite time being against us, they excitedly ushered me in. 

Coffee houses in Vienna are an institution, a mainstay of its cultural fabric with its own distinct way of life. The first one opened way back in 1683 when, as tradition goes, Austrians chased away invading Turks who left behind something rather odd — coffee beans. Regulars over the years include famous names such as Sigmund Freud and Leon Trotsky, and at this particular establishment, Café Dommayer, Johann Strauss II performed publicly for the first time. 

In 2011, UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organisation) listed Viennese coffee houses on the intangible cultural list for Austria, saying that they have “a very specific atmosphere…where time and space are consumed, but only the coffee is found on the bill.”

Walking into Café Dommayer felt like entering into a bygone era, with small chandeliers, velvet red couches, thonet chairs and marble tables, along with waiters dressed in waistcoats and bow ties, all contributing to a classical, formal vibe. “This is Vienna!” my hosts proudly kept telling me. 

As we settled into our seats a lady sitting two tables’ away quickly grabbed my attention. Wearing a scarlet red tweed jacket, and with hair neatly bound in a bun, she studiously read the newspaper through her lowered oval-shaped glasses. But for the occasional glance and sip of coffee, her position and posture barely seemed to move, as if the surroundings offered little that was new or noteworthy. This is her everyday. If coffee houses such as this one typified Vienna, it felt as though this lady typified its clientele. 

Newspapers are an integral part of the furniture at Viennese coffee houses. But you won’t find them lazily folded together or hastily placed in a holder. Instead they are attached to wooden stick holders to neatly preserve their structure and encourage relaxed reading. Once finished the holders are placed in a station fixed to one of the walls, primed for its next reader. 

I am fortunate in that my hosts were not only able to guide me in my etiquette, but they also provided a running commentary on our surroundings. A large chunk of our chat involved discussing the waiters. It is a position that carries great honour, and they pride themselves on giving away little by way of friendliness. You could say they are surly— and to them it’s a high compliment. 

It was difficult to briefly tear myself away from the surroundings to choose what to have from the menu. But I soon realised that this in itself is part of the café’s cultural milieu given the sheer number of different coffees available. The challenge in choosing was made all the harder by not knowing what they all meant. I asked for help from my friends, and they highly recommended a melange (French for mix), which is one shot of espresso and a splash of hot water topped with hot frothy milk (or in other words, a cappuccino with a little extra water). To accompany it I opted for a slice of Austria’s famous sachertorte. 

I was firing away question after question at my hosts when our waiter came first with our cakes and then the coffees. The cups were dainty and each one was accompanied with a small glass of water to cleanse the pallet. Each glass had a teaspoon balanced on it to indicate that the glass has been freshly filled. Yet another quirk to this most fascinating of establishments. 

Unfortunately we couldn’t linger for too long once we finished our coffee (the melange was good but I missed having a bigger mug) and cakes (the sachertorte was tremendous, as expected) because the concert was due to start and we wanted to get a good spot. Our hasty exit felt like an insult to our hosts and Viennese tradition. Unlike some modern coffee shops, where extended stays can feel like an imposition, sticking around is encouraged, even if just one coffee is ordered. Viennese coffee houses are places for old school relaxation and social interaction. Little wonder that it’s said that they are like “an extended living room” for people. And with no laptop in sight, I wondered if those wanting to work know they will be better served — and perhaps more warmly embraced — elsewhere. 

I arrived into Vienna a few hours early feeling apprehensive and unprepared. There is a magnitude to the city’s history and status, and travelling alone and only staying for three days, I had little idea how to best navigate the city. I didn’t even know where to start. I thought reading the guidebook on my journey from Prague to Vienna would help, but it only added to the fear.

But little did I know that a quick trip to a classic Viennese coffee house would provide the perfect riposte to my fears. I had sampled a quintessential part of local life and tradition, and as I walked with my new friends to the concert I felt lighter. The task and privilege of seeing Vienna no longer seemed so overwhelming because within hours of arriving I had already tasted so much.

The little girl at carousel number 10

Is there a more life-sapping duty than waiting at the baggage carousal at the end of a flight? After spending an hour, five hours or (gulp) 12 hours in the pressurised cabin of a busy plane, with little room for manoeuvre and slim enjoyment by way of food, the last thing anyone wants is to collectively gather around a tediously slow conveyer built waiting for luggage to arrive. 

I was in this situation a couple of weeks ago. I’d just arrived in Edinburgh from Bristol and it was approaching 11pm. In front of me was someone who clearly hadn’t read the script for these situations. She was excited and energetic, seemingly enjoying the delights of carousel number 10. 

She was around 5 years old. 

As one large yellow and grey rucksack emerged, the little girl jumped on it, dragged it off the carousel and just about carried it to her parents, almost crashing into me in the process. But there was a problem. “No darling!” a lady with a Scottish accent hurriedly said as she rushed towards her daughter. “That’s not our bag — that’s someone else’s!” 

Those of us who had front-row seats to this adorable little drama raised weary but hearty smiles as the bag was returned to carousel. It was a heartwarming and welcome interlude from the draining wait for luggage. 

It’s a story that still lingers in my head. Waiting is a mainstay of life. Beyond the nuisance of waiting for luggage, there is the waiting for a spouse, a new job, a house, or whatever. The desires that fuel our waiting can be so much that we jump on the first hint at an answer to our longing, convinced it is our time. But this isn’t always the case. A closer look may reveal that what we hoped was the answer is not quite right for us. Not this time.

This happened some years ago. A job came up that looked perfect. I applied but on hitting send an overwhelming sense of uncertainty came over me. I prayed it away, convinced the feeling was nerves and certainly not of God. But it didn’t work, the unease persisted, and so I withdrew the application and peace returned. It may sound super-spiritual (I wish that was the case because that’s easy to ignore!) but it was the right decision, something I believe has been confirmed in the years since. 

The little girl from carousel number 10 is a personal reminder to me to not jump on the first hint of my desires being fulfilled. It pays to have a little look at the approaching luggage before wheeling it away to see if our name is written on it. And if it isn’t our luggage, hopefully what’s rightfully ours won’t be too far behind… 

When I raced a dog...

I’m quite proud of myself. The autumn has arrived at a quick and chilly rate, and I am still managing to go out running. Well, occasionally. Normally when the summer fades into view, so does any attempt to get outside for a hearty jog. But progress is being made. As for how long this continues, time will tell.

Anyway, I was on one such run last weekend when ahead of me on the entrance to a street was a lady walking her dog. She was wrapped up in a warm winter coat and scarf, with her hands tightly put in her pockets and walking on the spot to keep warm, whilst her dog, a cute pug, did its business. 

The lady could see I was approaching so she kindly made way for me to pass. But as I passed, her dog immediately started running alongside me. He clearly wanted a race and fancied his chances (with good reason). This took the poor lady by surprise who, because the dog was on a leash, suddenly had to engage in a little run of her own.

So there we all were — me, a stranger, and her pug dog, all running along a street towards a path, me and the lady in fits of giggles. I kept running thinking the dog will surely stop at any moment. But alas not, this dear dog kept on running. This happened for a further 25 yards or so, until eventually the dog either tired or got bored, and slowed down. I could then run on and the lady was able to catch her breath. We were both then able to wave each other a relieved goodbye. 

Sometimes it takes events out of our control to break social convention. Whether we’re on public transport, walking the streets, waiting in a queue or being served at a supermarket, it feels as though, for the most part, we tend to keep ourselves to ourselves. We avoid eye contact, keep words or grunts to the bare minimum, stay glued to our phone or book or newspaper. 

But then something unexpected and unnerving happens which smashes through the unspoken awkwardness of the moment: coffee is spilt over an arm on the tube, a baby waves across the room at the old man in the corner of the coffee shop reading the newspaper, the ticket machine is too complex to work out or the cash machine is broken, a child’s toy drops in front of the elderly couple on the train, the plane is delayed from taking off, two people walk around the corner only to bump into each other, the queue is kept waiting by the angry customer telling the whole shop about their annoyance, a dog decides to race a random runner…

These happenings sometimes have the lovely habit of uniting people together — be it through hearty apologies, shared exasperations, collective eye-rolls, kind offers of help or simply warm smiles and giggles. And what’s more, they can bring a lightness and laughter to our lives that outlasts the moment itself. The worry that was weighing us down now doesn’t feel as heavy. Or we like to recall the moment back in our head because it always raises a welcome laugh or smile. Or we end up telling others about it, a story to add to our own personal archive to bring out in the pub, over the dinner table, in the office. Perhaps even one or two strangers become friends. 

So here’s to not being too scared when life’s little moments and activities take an unforeseen, daunting turn. A new story may well just be unfolding and the ending could be rather satisfying.

The kindest thing I ever saw ...

I love stories about human kindness. It’s little surprise, then, that when The Guardian wanted to hear from readers about their own tales of humanity’s sweet side for their Upside series, I had to get involved. There were a few stories I could have chosen, but it was a recent observation at a train station that came to mind. I sent the story in and it was included in the piece. It’s one of many inspiring stories featured. So if you’re looking for a heartening, uplifting read, grab yourself a cuppa and enjoy these stories…

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2019/aug/26/upside-kindest-thing-i-ever-saw

Happy in Prague

It’s Tuesday afternoon on a hot June day in Prague. I’ve spent the last four hours sampling the streets and sounds of the fabled city and I am feeling my legs and, crucially, my stomach. I’ve come to the popular expat hangout Globe Bookstore and Café. It’s not as grand as I expect (the Globe reference has deceived me) but I’m not disheartened. I like the rugged, vintage feel, with creaking floorboards and homemade posters advertising local events on noticeboards and the backs of bookshelves.

A dimly lit hallway leads from the bookstore to the café. I settle into a seat outside in the shaded courtyard. The air is warm but not stifling. Occasionally a gentle breeze passes through and brushes welcomely against my clammy skin. An indie acoustic playlist filters through the windows, accompanied by the pleasant clattering of crockery. As I soak in the calm surroundings it then dawns on me: this is my happy place. It’s beautifully quiet, I am about to enjoy a pub meal whilst reading an unputdownable holiday book, John Mayer is on the playlist, and I am in Prague (a city long on my to-visit list) in just the most delightful bookstore-cum-café.

I place an order and return to my book. 

A few minutes pass when the casually-dressed waiter brings out an order for another table. An alluring aroma follows him which stops me in my reading — the gorgeous whiff of freshly fried chips. My order of club sandwich and chips feels validated and cannot come soon enough. But first, the beer. I’ve ordered a locally brewed IPA which arrives in a dimpled pint glass. It’s refreshingly cold with a sweet, caramel aftertaste that lingers long on the palate. The meal soon follows and is equally delectable. I could stay here for the rest of the day. 

Whilst eating I casually drift between reading and people-watching. There are three of us outside. An Asian girl sits opposite reading. Only a few pages of her book look left to read. I always feel that if I do nothing in a day but complete a book, the day’s a resounding success. I feel excitement for the girl that she may leave this place having completed her book. Go, girl! To my left is a Czech man who spends most of the time speaking on the phone. At one point I notice his head arched back, eyes closed and mouth pouting. Clearly the latest phone conversation is boring him stiff. To my horror his eyes open and he clocks me. He shakes out of his posture and I return to the last of my thick-cut chips. Not awkward at all…

I arrived here leg weary and hungry, and a little irritable. But I am leaving with renewed strength not just in my legs and stomach, but also my heart. Everything about this place, and this moment, has nourished my soul.