Ten things you should tell your children about 'sexting'

7. In my job working in Child Protection we are at the forefront of the current epidemic of children and young people sending indecent images of themselves or other people on their mobiles or via social networking sites like What’s App, KiK, Instagram, SnapChat, etc. The eponymous dick or clit pic.  Really, I mean come on. The genitals are like nature’s little joke. Why on earth would you want to photograph then anyway? On a daily basis we see cases where children have either sent the images themselves or shared an image that was sent to them. Few seem to realise that this is actually a criminal activity that risks them ending up on the Sex Offenders Register.  Here’s a handy guide to help you educate your child  and yourself about the very real risks associated with so called ‘sexting’.
   
   
   1.   The sending of indecent images of a person under the age of 18 is a criminal offence. It matters not one bit if it was consensual or not or if you were the one who took it or you just shared it with your mates.  It is illegal.
   
   
   2.   In the US there have been a number of suicides of young people after indecent images they had shared appeared on social media sites
   
   
   3.   An image on the internet has no natural lifespan; once posted it can be copied by many others including those who may be predatory abusers. It can be seen on the other side of the world within hours.  
   
   
   4.   CEOP (Child Protection and Online Exploitation) is aware of cases where self-taken indecent images (which were not produced as a result of grooming or facilitation) have ended up on paedophile chat sites and forums. 
   
   
   5.    Crimes involving child abuse images fall under Section 1 of the Protection of Children Act 1978, as amended by section 45 of the Sexual Offences Act 2003 to extend the definition of children from under 16s to under 18s. It is a crime to take, make, permit to take, distribute, show, possess, possess with intent to distribute, or to advertise indecent photographs or pseudo-photographs of any person below the age of 18. 
   
   
   6.    The consequences of this to the person who takes or shares them are far reaching. A prosecution for any of these offences means that an offender is placed on the sex offenders register for a duration that is commensurate with the sentence they receive. Even though the times are generally reduced for those aged younger than 18, this can still mean in some cases a considerable time spent on the register.  Does you child really want to risk this?  Although the focus in the UK is education rather than criminalisation, in the US, children have been prosecuted for taking and distributing indecent images of themselves or others. There is nothing to say that the UK standpoint may not change in the future
   
   7.   If indecent photos of a young person come to the notice of a school or the police then they have a duty to pass the information on to their local authority Children’s Social Care department. This means that the child’s name and details of the incident will be recorded on their database indefinitely. In the future, if your child wants to become, say a sports coach, a volunteer with children or in fact any job that requires a CRB (now called DBS) or local authority check, this information will be disclosed.  In years to come does you child really want a future employer to know they sent ‘dick pics’ or photos of themselves masturbating to classmates?
   
   8.   If you think that this is something that only happens with older teens then think again.  I have had cases of children as young as nine - and it wasn’t an isolated incident.
   
   9.   Once you have pressed ‘send’ you have lost control of your photos. You may think it’s safe to send it to your partner because he/she loves you, right? So what happens when they don’t anymore? Or you do something to upset them? There are women (and probably some men) who are still having to spend hours each week tracking down photos of themselves that have been uploaded and shared to porn sites. Is that really what you want for yourself?
   
   
   10.   Do  not let your child join KiK. Of all the social networks this is the worst and the one which produces the most reports. Unlike other apps, you don't have to register. It is totally anonymous. A paedophile's dream.  If your child already has a KiK account, delete it. End of.
   
   Sexual experimentation and pushing the boundaries is normal for young people but maybe explain to them that they should try and do it without the use of their phone camera. Below is a short video produced by the NSPCC. Share it with your child and start the conversation.
   
   

   
   
   
   
   
   

50 Shades of Domestic Abuse

Well, its out now, isn't it. Fifty Shades of Grey. We've had the book, we've got the film, what next? The multi-positional Ana and Christian dolls complete with rolls of gaffer (not gaffa) tape and cable ties?

I have a huge problem with Fifty Shades, in fact I have quite a few, not least the fact the the book is probably one of the worst written piles of doggy do that I have ever read and clearly written by a repressed, middle aged, Middle England, middle class women for other repressed, middle aged, Middle England, middle class women. It coined the phase 'mummy porn'; porn that was suitable for mummies who hadn't had sex since the birth of Little Jonny some years before. Suddenly it became okay to read 'porn' on the train, on the bus, on the beach.

But this is porn of the worst variety because it packages up sexual violence against women as a very thinly veiled love story.  Let's be clear. This is not a love story. This is a story about an older man using his wealth and power to corrupt a young virgin (she'd have to be a virgin wouldn't she), to subjugate her and coerce her into performing acts that she would not otherwise have done. It is not a voyage around the sexual awakening of a young woman or any other such rubbish. It is a film, written and directed by women, that advocates sexual violence against women. So much for the sisterhood. It is not about BDSM. It is about a middle class, middle aged, Middle England woman's totally false view of BDSM. BDSM is consensual. It doesn't require coercion. The BDSM community are very unhappy about how they are portrayed and rightly so.

Fifty Shades is not a harmless little love story with a bit of naughtiness thrown in. It is a story about control,  coercion, rape, stalking and sexual assault. What does that add up to? Domestic abuse. Fifty Shades is a story that glorifies domestic abuse against women. No more, no less. Every woman and man that goes into the cinema and watches this is condoning domestic abuse. Every penny spent on the book, the e-book and the film goes to a women who condones domestic abuse for her own profit. For someone who has worked on serious case reviews into domestic homicide, this makes me feel sick. Is it an wonder that so many quality actresses wouldn't touch it with a bargepole?

It may sound harsh but look at the facts of the film. Would you accept someone turning up to your workplace unannounced, following you on a night out, letting themselves into your home without your permission? Is the correct response to the admission of virginity a violent act of rape? Is coercion the same as consent?

Most young people already find out about sex from the plethora of porn that is easily accessible giving them a totally unrealistic view.  Sex is that thing where men have huge penises and can keep going for hours and women just mewl in a horribly kittenish way while having multiple orgasms.  The last thing we need is this saccharined version of the 'virgin gets a rough f*ck' you can find on any 'PornRUs' website. This film tries to make domestic abuse acceptable. It is a terrible lesson to our children and one that they will access with even more ease than 'Hot High School Sluts'.

In my work I see the sharp end of domestic abuse and everyday sexism. Feminist has become a pejorative term.  I support the No More Page 3 campaign and you only have to read the comments made by men on their Facebook page to understand that respect for women has an awful long way to go.  Women have fought for over a century for equality of opportunity, to be treated as equal citizens, as human beings rather than the chattels of men. When I see how many young men in their late teens and early twenties are involved in domestic abuse, quite frankly I wonder what the point has been.

When the 'hottest movie release of the year' is a film that glorifies and glamourises control, coercion and sexual violence while at the same time normalising a powerful man's domination and subjugation of a naive young woman I wonder if we have moved on at all.

And before you start saying its only a bit of harmless fun I would suggest you do a little reading around the subject. Find out how often porn and the sort of everyday sexism depicted in Fifty Shades is a factor in sexual assaults. You might be surprised.

On a slightly lighter note, should you feel the need to handcuff (with consent) your significant other to the bed and gaffer tape his/her mouth, just be aware that when you pull it off you will get the mother of all lip waxes. Be warned.

And finally, to all those of my friends who have seen Fifty Shades, quite frankly, I'm disappointed in you. I thought you were better than that.

An Evening with Il Divo...or How Can Four Blokes (and one small woman) Make So Much Noise?

Last week I had a very last minute opportunity to go and see Il Divo when a friend who had tickets found herself suddenly unable to go. I left work and hotfooted it down to the Bournemouth International Centre in a real pea souper to listen to four blokes singing classical music - or, as it turned out, musical theatre.

I like Il Divo. I like any many who can hold a tune to be honest. The way to a man's heart may be through his stomach but the way to mine is definitely through a beautifully rendered song.  I signed the Marriage Register to the sounds of Il Divo singing Unbreak My Heart and we all know how that ended so perhaps I should have stayed well away but anyway, ticket in my hot little hand, I sprinted up the steps to the Circle, arriving half way through the first song so I had to wait at the entrance until there was a suitable break in the music.

The sound was amazing. You know that expression? A wall of sound. That was what it was.  I could feel it in my kidneys.

It wasn't until I was shown to my seat that I became aware that I was definitely one of the younger members of the audience. I was surrounded by a sea of grey heads interspersed with bald ones - those being the long suffering husbands who had been dragged along, clearly under duress from the body language of a few. I've never been to  concert where there were so many walking sticks!

By the third song I realised that an evening with Il Divo was not going to be exactly what I thought. I don't suppose I have ever really thought about the demographics of their fans, there being far more important issues to ponder, generally speaking.  The fact that that I bought my mother one of their CDs for her birthday should probably have been a little pointer.

The audience were, by and large, femmes d'un certain age who, for one night only, were transported back to their young, horny youth. By the third song I realised that these guys could fart in a bathtub and get a standing ovation.

The evening was rife with sexual innuendo of the sort that made women of their generation giggle like school girls and women of mine cringe ever so slightly.  Carlos, the Spanish one with the fabulous voice, seemed to spend much of the evening talking about 'making lurve' to these beautiful women. I only hope he wasn't around when the house lights went up!

Still, in the more upbeat numbers, it was good to see the 'femmes' cast off their walking sticks, like Lazarus rising from the dead, and shake their booty in the aisles. Go girls!

The music was amazing and had the added bonus of Lea Salonga, who I first saw in Miss Saigon when dinosaurs still walked the earth.  Anyone who has seen Les Mis will probably have seen Lea as she has played both Eponine and Fantine.  She's also teeny tiny but with a voice that could take the roof off.

What was quite nice to see was the lack of phones held in the air to film the concert. Clearly this sort of this was Not Acceptable judging from the glares I got from the lady next to me any time I tried, hence the rather fuzzy photo. However, at the intermission I was very impressed at the number who whipped out their phones and posted status updates on Facebook.

Whatever you feel about Il Divo, you can't ignore the fact that their harmonies are beautiful, making the hair on the back of your neck stand up and I'll be honest and say there were a few teary moments for me but for me the beauty of the evening was watching all these 'laydees' behaving really rather badly. I never expected to find myself in a situation where women only slightly younger than my mother were shouting out some really quite bawdy stuff to some hot young men. I'm sure when they started out they had visions of young women mobbing them at the stage door. I think a day in the life of an Il Divo groupie is more likely to involve a trip to the arthritis clinic than hot sex in a hotel room - although I think a few of them would have happily given it a go, pacemakers and artificial hips permitting.

As a lesson it growing old disgracefully, it was spot on. Femmes d'un certain age, I take my hat off to you!

Ten Reasons You Know Your Son Has Gone to University...

1. You don’t trip over five pairs of smelly trainers when you come in through the back door

2. Your food bill has suddenly halved and your shopping list no longer includes a jumbo pack of chicken dippers (usually consumed in one sitting at 3am) and eight litres of milk

3. You hear those immortal words ‘In a minute…’ half the usual number of times when you ask someone to lay the table (well I do still have one at home)

4. Your fridge seems  unusually empty without the usual fridge pack of beers which are kept chilled for that impromptu party invite

5. The house isn’t filled with the strange cacophony of his increasingly dodgy taste in music – well, dodgy to me anyway

6. You have woken up a least once in a blind panic because that familiar head hasn’t poked round the bedroom door at 4am to say ‘Mum, I’m home’. Then you remember he’s not gone out, he’s actually gone – for a while anyway

7. You come home from work and the kitchen looks the same as you left it in the morning rather than the aftermath of a mortar attack

8. In his bedroom, the wardrobe has replaced the floordrobe

9. You have two bottles of Diet Coke that have been in the cupboard for longer than a day

10.  There is no-one telling daft jokes at the dinner table, gently teasing his sister, giving you hugs every day, inspiring you, educating you, making you laugh, making you cry, making you smile. That lovely face that you have looked on almost every day of his life, that you have watched change from a chubby baby, to a messy toddler, to an awkward adolescent and finally to a handsome young man is no longer a daily feature of your life and probably will never be again. And you realise that he has left a hole in your life that you could drive a juggernaut through. And you also realise that all those friends whose kids have already left, whose over-emotional Facebook statuses you had quietly scoffed at (while hitting the ‘Like’ button, of course) when they left for university had been telling the truth.  It really is like someone has cut one of your limbs off.

It’s part of the paradox of parenthood. You want them to spread their wings, to go out in the world and make their mark, be their own person, have their own life but damn, it hurts too. The most important relationship in your life has changed subtly and will never be the same. The years that you have invested in their life and their upbringing has, inevitably, come to this, the moment they leave and though you always knew it would happen, when it does you  realise that all the preparation in the world hasn't made you ready for this moment.

Say No to Atrocity Porn

It has been over a week since James Foley was brutally murdered yet you don't need to go far to find a photo of him, clad in orange, in the last few moments of his life. A full and courageous life that ended in the most horrible way imaginable. His murderer, because that is what he is, has even been given a nickname, Jihadi John. It sounds like Postman Pat or Fireman Sam, all soft and fluffy. And don't editors just love alliteration?

Why not just call him what he is; a brutal, morally bankrupt murderer who has now been afforded the 'celebrity' status he failed to achieve as a South London rapper, if the most recent newspaper reports are to be believed. Meanwhile, James Foley is reduced to 'beheaded journalist'  because he is no longer a person but a story, a commodity, as editors and journalists elbow each other out of the way to find another way to string out his tragic death.  Was it staged? Where did it happen? Who cares? I don't. But I care deeply about the death of this man. I care deeply about the emotive language that is used to describe an act of murder. I will not look at the photos. I do not want to see the last moments of anyone's life yet editors and journalists the world over have actually watched the video of his murder,  all in the name of journalism, you understand. That is not journalism, it is voyeurism. How does it make them any better than the sick individuals who actually watched the video before it was taken down? So much for supporting one of your own. And all the while we become more and more inured to scenes of death.

Facebook, Twitter and all social media in between is awash with photos of dead Gazan babies, people with their faces shot away, the aftermath of a suicide bomb. It is Atrocity Porn - and it seems to be addictive. It is all to further whatever particular cause the image relates to, apparently. Maybe so, most likely not. All I can say is I do not want to see it. Every image is of a person, not a casualty, not a body, a person who moments before was living and breathing, who had a family who loved them. These images are out there for anyone to see including those family members.

The British broadcast media thinks nothing of showing graphic photos of death -  with a little rider that some people might find them disturbing or upsetting of course. Damn right I do! So here's an idea. Don't show them. Don't show them on the lunchtime news while children may be watching. Don't even show them on the evening news. Have some respect. Don't show them at all. Is it any wonder that Hollywood now seems to produce films that are woefully short on story but very long on increasingly graphic and creative ways to torture, maim and kill? We see so much real horror on the small screen that they need to really up the ante to grab your attention. What a sad reflection on society.

So I say to editors and journalists everywhere. If this was your father, mother, son, daughter, brother or sister would you show these obscene photos of their death? No you would not. So why is it acceptable to show it when it is someone else's family? Why do we need to see these photos? We should all just say no to Atrocity Porn and it starts with you.

Read the original article in  The Huffington Post

Product review - NAZTECH N3050 FM TRANSMITTER & CAR HOLDER

The nice people at My Trendy Phone have, once again, very kindly asked me if I wanted to review one of their products. I'm no techie but it's always good to see what is on the market and try out something I might not otherwise be aware of.

I decided that the Naztech N3050 FM Transmitter and Car Holder which also doubles up as a car charger might well be a useful addition to my car as I am one of those people who is constantly losing their phone under the seat or running down their battery just before I need to make an important call (not whilst driving of course!)

My reviews are always totally honest as otherwise there would be no point doing them.

It is a robust piece of kit that you plug into the lighter socket in your car - I'm sure it is no longer called that but you know what I mean.  There is an adjustable holder for your phone and it functions as an FM transmitter, car charger and speakerphone, enabling you to talk handsfree.  It has a decent sized gooseneck that you can move around in order to find the best possible position in your car and is infinitely bendable. Now there's a good technical term! It is compatible with the iPhone 4 and 5 as well as most other smartphones. A great little smartphone cable is included that is just long enough to run from the USB socket to your phone but if you want to use it with an iPhone you will need to buy a dedicated one.  The downside of that is that you get a bit of a tangle of cables around the gearstick so unless you know where to buy a very short iPhone cable I would say this is probably more suited to smartphones.  That said, I do use it to charge my Kindle in the car now and it is perfect for that as it reaches to the passenger seat.

I liked the fact that it was solid and felt very durable but I did struggle to find a good position where it was out of the way of the gear stick. In fairness though, my car has six forward gears so it would, I think, be less problematic in a normal five speed car.  You can play your CDs through the Naztech N3050 by tuning your radio to white noise and then setting the same frequency on the LCD display. It took a while to find the best frequency to use but once I did it worked well.

The big downside I found though was that with your phone that close to the radio there was, inevitably, interference. The only way round this is setting your phone to Airplane mode. The downside of this though is that you can't receive any calls so if this is one of your main reasons for buying it, you might want to bear that in mind.

I struggled a bit with the speakerphone as in almost every incoming call the caller couldn't hear me very clearly although I could hear them well. This was probably made worse by the fact that my lighter socket is very low down so I found I had to keep leaning down a bit to be heard.

All in all, I felt that the quality was good. It was very easy to assemble and the instructions were good.  There were a few little glitches but they were as much to do with the positioning of my lighter socket than any design inadequacies. I would certainly recommend it as an FM transmitted and a car charger, maybe less so for the handsfree capability. Before purchasing any piece of kit like this it is probably worth considering the layout of your car as this will impact on its functionality. That said, it has worked well overall and now, after several months of use, I have had no problems with it.

This single life

I can't believe that the Six Nations has come and gone and I haven't had time for a quick blog. It was a great tournament with a really exciting new England side. We didn't win the tournament but we took home the Calcutta Cup, the Triple Crown and our very own Wiltshire boy, Mike Brown, won player of the tournament. Bring on the Rugby World Cup, we are ready!

One of the reasons I haven't had time to blog much, or indeed work on my next book, is because I have had to go back to work full time, not by choice but by necessity.  The law in this country stacks the cards against the single parent. Having previously spent most of our joint income on raising our children, the Ex is now only required to give me the equivalent a day's pay. He earns more in a week than I do in a month, yet I am still expected to shoulder the lion's share of the burden of paying for our children, hence the need to return to full time work.  Although I have always worked, bar a few years when we trotted around the world with him in the good old days of the film industry when they put you up in nice hotels or apartments, it is a long time since I have worked full time. It has been a bit of a shock to the system and for the past two weeks my house has looked, for all intents and purposes, as if it has been burgled. I could really do with a cleaner and someone to do my ironing as I don't get home much before 6.45pm but there is no money for that.

Lack of time aside, I have been lucky to land a great though not spectacularly well paid job working in child protection. It makes me realise just how many feckless parents there are who are completely unable to prioritise their children's needs above their own. I know all about that!

A year, post-separation, I am loving life and the new found freedom I have. No more walking on eggshells, no more pandering to someone else's moods, the children are happier and we have made our lives as a unit of three, not four. We have no contact with The Ex's family, all bar one of whom didn't even bother to send us a Christmas card. Bizarre behaviour after 23 years. His tenuous grasp of the truth means that I have had to suffer emails from his siblings asking what I have done with all his money (a few home truths were exchanged on that one!) and constant excuses for his shabby behaviour. To be honest, I'm bored with it all.

The Ex remains nothing more than an occasional visitor in the lives of his children and to be honest, we quite like it that way. He barely knows his children any more, who are more inclined to send his calls straight to voicemail than answer them. They didn't even acknowledge his birthday. Statistics show that 1 in 4 children lose contact with the absent parent within two years of separation and we are well on the way to that. But who is the loser? Not us. The Boy and Girl have been saving their  money to take me out for lunch on Mother's Day, the Girl and I went on a road trip to Brighton to see Haim and I've just booked tickets to see Elbow at the 02 in London with a friend.  I am back in contact with many old friends and my free time, such as it is between ferrying the children around, is my own to do with what I like without having to ask anyone else's permission.

My ukulele group continues to be a source of huge joy and friendship and as we are becoming better known, the requests for gigs are coming thick and fast. I love the gigs. They are so much fun! Last night we did a charity gig for WaterAid in Bath.  It helps me channel my inner rock chick!

The future feels very positive, despite the financial strictures of being a single parent and the emotional strain of being the only parent 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. I feel I have re-found the real me. The one who loves new adventures, loves to laugh and believes that life is for living, not merely existing. The past year has also empowered me to ditch other people in my life who were dragging me down so what I'm left with is a fabulous core of truly great people. If you are one of them, thank  you!

The idea of being single in your middle years can fill some people with horror but I'm here to tell you that it's actually pretty great. My children are spreading their wings, getting ready to fly the nest and make their own mark on the world and I am ready to write the next chapter of my life story.

Swing Low, Sweet Chariot...It's Six Nations Time...! So here's my Girl's Guide to Rugby

WARNING: This blogpost has naked men and shameless sexism!

Yes, it's that time of year again, the start of the Six Nations. Long-time readers of my blog will know that I love rugby, well England rugby really. I went to the very first rugby world cup in Australia, got inadvertently tackled by an All Black in Bahrain - and I didn't spill my beer - and have sat on Murray Mexted's shoulders and sung 'Hi Ho Silver Lining'. I forget why now but he played No. 8 for the All Blacks and was very tall and the rugby club had a very low ceiling.

So that all you lovely people can share in my love of the Truly Beautiful Game, here is my Girl's Guide to Rugby which gives you all you need to enjoy the Six Nations.

The Game:

Firstly there are two types of rugby. Rugby League is generally played by rugged northerners who think that Rugby Union is only played by effete ex-public schoolboys and have never really forgiven Jason Robinson for giving up League to play Union for England. I mean, it's not what tough young blokes from Leeds do is it? Rugby League teams only have 13 players, probably because they've all gone South to play proper rugby. Rugby Union, or proper rugby as I like to call it,  is played by two teams of 15 brawny men with well muscled thighs and six packs that would make a lesser man weep.  They play with a funny shaped ball, which leads to countless double entendres, and which neither rolls or bounces straight. If you think it's going left you can almost guarantee it will go right. Mind you, predictability of bounce doesn't seem to help England's footballers that much.

The aim of the game is to get the ball over your try line or, if you don't have the ball, stop the other team getting it across theirs. This can be done either by fair means or foul depending on whether the referee is looking. The try line is the line underneath the funny H-shaped sticks at each end of the field. But, just to make it a bit more interesting, you can't throw the ball forward. Yes, I know, it makes no sense. You are trying to get the ball up the field but you have to throw it backwards. If you do throw it forward, that's a forward pass (obviously) and you will be penalised, unless you are French of course, which might mean you have to have a scrum. That's a sort of rugby 'group hug' which is the best place to spot a well-muscled thigh, or occasionally, as they tend to hang on to each other's shorts, a flash of firm buttock. Scrums tend to be very popular with the ladies. Just to make things more interesting though, you can kick the ball up the field.

You can stop your opponent getting the ball over the try line by tackling him. Tackling takes many different forms but all of them are painful. Rugby, like love, hurts. You can't tackle people above the shoulder or pick them up and dump them headfirst on the ground. The referee tends not to like that and will generally rummage around in his pocket and pull out a piece of red cardboard. This means that you have to go back to the dressing room and can't play in the match anymore. You will also be a symbol of loathing to rugby pundits the world over who will denounce this unacceptable play which just 'isn't rugby'.

When you get the ball over the try line, most of the opposition, and a few of your own team will jump on you, making a sort of human Jenga. That will hurt too. If the try is awarded, then the glory boy can come on and try and kick the ball through the sticks which will give you extra points. The glory boy is often easily identifiable as the one with hardly any mud on his shirt. Whether or not the glory boy manages to get the ball through the sticks, there will be comparisons with The God Jonny Wilkinson, either in the form of 'Jonny would have got that' or 'well,yes, that was good, but Jonny was better.'

Scoring:  You score 5 points for a try and then if you kick the ball over the sticks you get another 2 points for a conversion. Converting what to what has never been entirely clear. You can also get 3 points for a drop goal, which is when you pick up the ball mid-match and try and kick it through the sticks. Generally they miss and it is almost impossible to mention a drop goal without mentioning Rob Andrew and The God Jonny Wilkinson in the same breath. Those were two of the finest drop goals in England Rugby history.

Terminology:

Try - that's when you get the ball over that line I was talking about. No-one really knows why it is called a try when you have actually succeeded.

Conversion - see scoring above
 .
Penalty - the best way to score points without doing anything. Wind up the opposition so they get really mad and break lots of rules

Drop kick - Aahh, Jonny... sorry, a drop kick can be taken at any point in the game but the ball must touch the ground first before you kick it.

Knock on - this is when a player fumbles the ball then drops it and knocks it forward. Well you try hanging on to a muddy, greasy egg shaped ball!

Rucks and Mauls - these generally resemble playground scraps in inner city comprehensives or kick out time at a Cardiff nightclub.  In a ruck, the ball is on the ground, usually under a pile of bodies, which means that you can't touch it with your hands. You have to 'ruck' it out with your feet. And no, I don't know why. That's just the rules. In a maul, the ball is off the ground and the players have to stay on their feet. A rolling maul is when the players try to push the ball up the field, with players breaking off and rejoining at the back. It's a bit like a manic version of The Locomotion.  You can get a right telling off for collapsing a maul. Others players can join in the bundle but only from the back. If they join from the side the ref will blow his whistle and give the other team a penalty. However, in the thick of it, anything goes. It's not unusual for eyes to be gouged or body parts bitten off in a ruck or a maul

The scrum - Scrums involve eight players from each team in a 3-4-1 formation. In the front row you have a hooker.... no, no! Not that sort of hooker. The hooker is the player who is responsible for  hooking the ball out with his foot. And if his knee happens to make contact with the opposing hooker, accidentally  of course, so much the better. He is supported by two props, who, well prop him up really. behind him are a bunch of big, heavy blokes whose job it is to push.  They all kneel down and then the second row of the scrum put their hands through the legs of the front row and hang on to their todger. The last row then does the same to the second row. This is possibly what made it so popular in public schools, that and the communal baths after the match. The ref will shout instructions for the team to engage in the scrum. The instructions change with alarming regularity, as do the rules of the scrum but whatever happens, the props will generally use this as an opportunity to give their opposition numbers a playful punch or dead arm.  On the shout of Set, they will hurl themselves together like rutting stags with lots of grunting.  The scrum half will feed the ball into the hooker who will try and hook the ball through his legs and out of the back of the scrum to their team mates. A scrum is no place for the faint-hearted or those who are easily provoked. There is often a lot of conversation in the scrums, often along the lines of 'I'd like to give your wife/girlfriend/mother/dog one'.  At the end of some tournaments, the front rows often comment wryly that their opposite number talked to them more during the scrums than their wives had in the previous ten years.

The Players:

The team is split into two halves. The forwards and the backs.

The backs, all eight of them,  are the pretty boys of the team, often fleet of foot and able to get through an entire game without getting a hair out of place. They generally don't have noses or ears resembling a box full of organic vegetables. They are often very fast. South Africa's Brian Habana very nearly outran a cheetah and probably would have if they'd made the cheetah carry a rugby ball too. Their job is to kick and run the ball up the field while preventing the opposing backs from doing the same.

The forwards are the engine room of the team and like most engine rooms are not that attractive to look at and tend to smell a bit.  They will have flat noses and ears that stick out at alarming angles with all manner of lumps and bumps on them. They generally have thighs like tree trunks and are definitely more attractive from behind than from the front. Their job is to ruck, maul, scrummage push and shove and win the ball for the backs. Forwards have occasionally been known to score tries but they often look like hippopotamuses lumbering across the plains. They are man mountains, most towering well over 6 feet. Simon Shaw was 6' 8, a mere minnow compared to Martin Bayfield's 6'10 and Scotland's Richard Metcalfe, who stood at 7' tall.

The Teams

England. They generally wear white and have a nice little rose on their kit.

Italy - they always come last.

The rest... Gah! Who cares!

And just to finish up here's a totally gratuitous photo of James Haskell naked, and let's face it, you (or do I mean me?) can never get enough.

Never Google 'naked rugby players' - it's
not for the faint-hearted!

Guest Post: E-Learning - The Education of the Future?

Classrooms of today bear very little resemblance to our classrooms of 20 or even 30  years ago. While frontal teaching is still the preferred form of classroom management in most schools, educational facilities are increasingly turning to different types of e-learning in an effort to cut costs, increase scholastic success and prepare the students for the new technological age.

 

Universities and other institutions of higher education have been putting their courses online for over a decade but the growth of e-learning for elementary (primary) and high school (secondary) students is relatively new. The explosion of new e-learning tools, forums and platforms -- both free and with varying degrees of cost -- speaks to the need that online learning fulfils for 21st century schoolchildren.

 

There are numerous reasons that schools are incorporating more online learning in their classrooms. Even though e-learning programs demand that each child has his or her own laptop or tablet, entire school districts are investing in the equipment because they believe that, in the long run, the children will perform better and learn more than they do in a conventional learning situation. The United States Department of Education's Evaluation of Evidence-Based Practices of Online Learning reviewed  50 independent research projects and concluded that online learning is more effective than traditional face-to-face instruction.

 

Some of the reasons for expanding online learning include:

• It's cheaper. Even taking into account the cost of the laptops/tablets and access to the online programs, online learning requires fewer staff members and no text books.
•  There are more possibilities presented by e-learning programs. Teachers can set up lessons that are asynchronous (independent learning), synchronous (group learning) or blended.
• Classes can flip. Flipped classrooms are becoming more and more popular, especially in high schools where the students are more capable of learning independently. In a flipped classroom the students review pre-recorded material online and then do the "homework" in the classroom where the teacher is available to assist.
• It's easier to adapt online learning to varied learning styles than with conventional learning. Students who learn online tend to automatically adapt the learning strategies to their own particular learning style. The teacher's time is not occupied with developing different techniques for individual students since the students can adapt the materials to their own particular learning style on their own.
• Online learning is flexible. If a student must be absent from the classroom for a period of time, s/he can easily access the material and complete the assignments online.
• Homeschooling parents have more opportunities to present their children with more and varied information and materials. Homeschooling kids can also connect online and engage in a virtual classroom while enjoying all the benefits of a homeschooling environment.

The benefits of online learning are no longer in question. The role of the teacher in the online classroom, however, is not always clear. Many education professionals, parents and community members are curious about how a classroom teacher facilitates an online lesson. Many people wonder, if the lesson is online, what does the teacher do?

 

Interestingly enough the teacher's role in online learning is as important as ever. The teacher creates the lesson, facilitates it, guides the students and evaluates their successes in the same way that teachers have always worked. Effective teachers:

 

• create new learning environments that allow the students to explore and experiment, think critically, reflect, work creatively and create new knowledge.
• make learning more effective by using customized tools that aid preparation and programming assessment
• customize learning experiences
• build partnerships beyond the classroom

 

Teachers in an e-learning classroom adopt new roles and skills but continue to serve as the central figure in the student's learning. As educational leader Lowell Milken has noted, "The most direct and enduring way to reach the mind and imagination of the learner is through the mind, imagination and character of the outstanding teacher." This holds as true in the e-learning classroom as it ever did.

Here we come a-wassailing...

Who has a bucket list? Me! And on that bucket list is 'Go Wassailing'. What? I hear you shout. It also has 'Take a Hot Air Balloon over Ayers Rock' but the opportunity for a cheeky wassail presented itself before a trip to Oz, sadly.

I'm the first to admit that I haven't really been a fan of Christmas since round about my 10th birthday and I discovered Santa wasn't real.Quite who that man in the red suit with the reindeer and sleigh that my brother and I SWEAR we saw one Christmas Eve, I have no idea. Christmas seems to have become this revolting fest of consumer-overspending where people drive themselves into debt to buy Little Sally and Little Jonny the newest toy/laptop/iPad/XBox just so they can ignore them for the rest of the  year.

It doesn't help that Christmas starts round about August so by the time December arrives, we are all heartily sick of 'White Christmas', Mariah Carey, Slade and effing chestnuts roasting on an effing fire! And then there's the Christmas Album. Jeez, who doesn't have one these days?  You  mean you don't have Mojo Nixon's 'Horny Holidays' or the Yin Yang Twinz 'We Wish you a Merry Twerkmas'? Really?

What I do like is old traditions - well not wife-beating and drowning witches, obviously - but I have always fancied the idea of a bit of a wassail. The first thing I discovered was that wassail is a noun, not a verb. Wassail is the drink you drink, not the act of drinking it. The second thing I discovered was there are two types of wassailing, One is when you take a communal bowl of wassail from house to house wishing them good health and the other one is when you go to an apple orchard and toast the trees with the wassail, thus encouraging a good harvest in the autumn.

It traditionally takes place on Old Twelvey Night, which pre-Gregorian calendar days, was 17th January. Now it takes place on or around 6th January. So, last Saturday, myself, a friend and her son set off to Ashley Wood Farm in nearby Fonthill Gifford to experience our first Wassail.

The venue was stunning; a huge barn, set in glorious Wiltshire countryside overlooking a lake. The weather had been absolutely vile all day so we were lucky that about an hour before the start of the evening's festivities, the rain cleared and we were treated to a beautiful starry night.

At 6pm we set off by torchlight to an orchard close by, led by the White Horse Morris Men (and women). In the orchard was a large fire surrounded by 12 smaller ones, representing the Twelve Apostles. (There goes myth number two, that it is a pagan festival). The biggest and best tree was selected and a toast made to it, before the wassail was poured over the roots - what a bloody waste! Bits of cider soaked toast are placed in the forks of the branches and lots of noise was made, banging pots and pans and even a couple of gunshots to wake The Sleeping Tree Spirit and scare off the tree demons. Apparently, there was method to the madness of stuffing bits of toast in trees as it apparently encouraged birds and insects and, thus, pollination.A wassail song was sang and the trees blessed, then the twelfth fire, signifying Judas Iscariot, was kicked out with great gusto. There was a slight comedy moment when the Fire Engine was seen racing to the farm, no doubt somebody had reported a large number of fires burning in a field.

The Wassail Toast is read

Then it was back to the barn for food, dancing and drink. The torches had, by now, burned out and we discovered the first slight oversight of the evening as we all stumbled and slipped our way back through a very muddy orchard in the pitch black.

Local company, Toby's Kitchen, provided a great barbeque with proper burgers and sausages and even celeriac soup and with the temperature hovering just above zero, his red hot barbeque was a popular place to hang around.

The dance band struck up a tune and the White Horse Morris started to strut their folky stuff. I'll be the first to admit that I'm a little bit suspicious of men who skip, especially while waving white hankies, but their enthusiasm was infectious and before long myself and my friend were doing the Wiltshire Six Hand Reel with gusto. And I had completely underestimated how tiring all this skipping lark is. No wonder there was barely a beer belly among them. What was really nice to see was several  young people in the Morris and in the band. I would imagine admitting that you like to spend your weekends skipping around with bells on your legs might well leave you open to a certain amount of banter.And being an accordion player in a folk band is unlikely to have quite the same cachet as being the lead guitarist in a rock band.

Having shown our willingness to join in with a bit of audience participation, we found ourselves constantly whisked onto the floor for a bit more country dancing.  I even got a proposal of marriage after my polka - all those country dancing lessons at primary school were finally paying off!

'You polka very well, my dear' said my dance partner (that will probably also give you a rough idea of the age group we are talking about). 'I bet you say that to all the girls,' I replied.

The best dance was a Swedish one which involved lots of polkaing and waltzing which enabled me to channel my inner Strictly Contestant. It was one of those dances where you change partners after ever few minutes and it was actually very enjoyable to be waltzed round the floor by men who had grown up with waltzing. By the time we left, I was almost ready to join up...almost!

So, I have wassailed. I can tick that off my list and start looking forward to that hot air balloon over Ayers Rock.

Happy New Year!

So, goodbye 2013 and hello 2014.  Last year was, for me, my annus horribilis (that's annus, people!)  Not just for me though, for an awful lot of people I know. I've never been superstitious about the number 13 but I certainly wonder whether there might just be something to all this triskaidekaphobia business. How could it be that so many people had such a bad time. I'm talking about cancelled weddings, unexpected and very early deaths, marriage and relationship breakdowns, illness, plague and pestilence (almost).

Anyway, it's over now and I, for one, am really looking forward to this  year. After all, it can't be as bad as last year can it?

Here is my 'in a nutshell' review of 2013.

In 2013 I have:

Loved 
Laughed 
Fought
Cried 
Lost 
Refound old friends 
Met some amazing people who I hope will be around forever (you know who you are)
Busked
Gigged
Discovered I was more resourceful than I ever thought possible
Dreamed
Achieved
Learned some pretty tough lessons
Been to too many funerals
Lost some wonderful friends who left handprints on my heart
Discovered who my real friends are
Not employed a hitman though I have been sorely tempted
Counted my blessings
Started my next book
Survived!

This year I am hoping to be more active on my blog now that family stuff has quietened down a bit and I already  have some people lined up to do guest post.

Here's to 2014. Please let it be good for me and everyone else I know who has had a truly shitty year!

Happy 18th!

I can hardly believe that it's been 18 years since you made your way reluctantly into the world, 3 weeks late, a shade under 11lbs, effectively signalling the end of my bikini wearing days and the start of one of my greatest journeys.

You started off doing things your way and eighteen years later, not much has changed! It wasn't the easiest birth and the post-partum haemorrhage you set off left the delivery room looking like the scene of a slasher movie, while the three units of blood I had transfused put an end to any plans I might have had to be a blood donor, it being the height of the mad cow outbreak. Quite appropriate some might say.

But it was worth it. Every minute that I thought they had stitched my stomach to my navel, every awkward shower I took while hooked up to my trusty drip, every moment that I wondered if I would ever feel normal again, every minute I spent like Daisy the Dairy Cow, attached to an industrial sized (or so it seemed) breast pump that reminded me of the milking machines on my uncle's farm because you refused to breast feed, every failed attempt at controlled crying, every mile I drove around the Dublin hills trying to get you off to sleep, only for you to wake up the moment we got back home, every tear of exhaustion, every split lip, grazed knee and bumped head. Every single moment was worth it because you are, in fact, amazing. You and your sister are my greatest and proudest achievements.

Despite everything you were a dream baby, sleeping through the night from birth, happy, smiley and content. You crawled at five months and walked at 10 months and from then on you were on a voyage of discovery. Every plug socket, every button and knob, every video recorder, every radio, every television. They were all fair game in your mission to retune the world. What you couldn't fiddle with, you climbed on. Your record was five split lips in seven days because whatever you climbed on, you invariably fell off. My life was one long round of half-drunk cups of coffee and bloody cotton wool.

At 15 months, you suddenly decided that sleep was for wimps. We tried everything. Relaxing oils, calm, quiet bedtime routines, music, but the only thing that got you to sleep was going for  drive in the car. Except of course you woke up the minute we got home. In the end, I spent hours sitting on your bedroom floor trying to creep ever closer to the door but the moment I tried to leave you would wake up and cry for me. With your sister due in a matter of months we brought in our secret weapon...Grandma.  In a few days she managed to do what I had failed in for months and peace was restored to our house. It was achieved just in time for Emily's arrival. You loved her from the moment you saw her and, apart from a bit of a wobble in France, you have remained staunch friends and allies. You have always looked out for her because she's not as strong as you are.

As you got older you developed a fascination for knowledge. You weren't interested in story books. You wanted to know facts.  Each morning you would wake me up with the same words. 'Mummy, did you know...' and then you would regale me with fact, after fact, after fact. You were incredibly observant and constantly amazed us with the things you noticed. I still remember walking up the path to Legoland and you suddenly shouted, 'Mummy, look at that bug', and pointed to a green insect on a green leaf about 30 feet away. How you saw it I will never know. It's a talent you still have today. Only last year we were watching a film on DVD and you commented that the sound man was in shot running along with a boom mike. No-one else had noticed and in fact it took two goes of going back over the film until we found the shot you were talking about. It must have lasted about a second and we struggled, even in slow motion, to see it.

You went on your first plane journey at the age of three weeks and by the time you went to school we have lived in Ireland for two years, Portugal for seven months, Cyprus for six months and the Czech Republic, on and off, for eight months.  You were a seasoned traveller and every country gave you more opportunity to increase your knowledge.  When you started school your teacher commented that you had a general knowledge far in advance of your age. Everywhere you went, Pooh Bear went too...until that day we left him in the toilets at Heathrow Airport. You were distraught. We arranged for family and friends abroad to send you messages and postcards from Pooh, who had decided on a whim to go and travel the world, at least until we had time to track down a replacement. Who knew there were so many different Winnie the Poohs and that yours, bought by a relative in the US, was simply not available in the UK. In the end, we bought the closest match we could find. I could barely see the difference. We engineered a reunion. You looked at him for a split second and said, 'he's very nice but he's not my Pooh Bear.' Foiled!

You were a very high maintenance child. Always needing stimulation, not good with your own company, no television babysitting for you. You were independent, persistent, assertive, confident and extroverted, qualities we admire in adults, less so in young children. You also couldn't bear labels in clothes, seams in socks and any other kind of physical discomfort. Taking you to the hairdressers was a nightmare as you would complain for days afterwards of the bits of hair itching you.  The someone introduced me to Mary Sheedy Kurcinska's book 'Raising your Sprited Child' and it all fell into place. But all the same everyone loved you and you loved everyone else.

With your Godfather, Ciaran Senior

You loved school from the first moment. It gave you more opportunities to soak up information which you did, all except for vowels. You didn't quite get those! At one stage I thought you would never learn to read because hit, hat and hot seemed indeciperable to you but then it all suddenly clicked and you scrambled your way up the Oxford Reading Tree at top speed.

When you were 8, we moved to France. Like everything else, you met the challenge head-on. I can still remember your first day at school in France. I dropped you off in the playground and left you looking more than a little lost and bewildered. Maitresse wasn't exactly the nurturing kind! I parked a little way from school and phoned Janie and Grandma and bawled. Janie offered to adopt you! When I picked you up at the end of the day, you skipped out of school shouting 'au revoir' to your new school friends. The Ecole Publique Claude Nougaro couldn't have been more different from your nice little prep school on the edge of Windsor Great Park.

In many ways you loved France but the education system beat you down. It wasn't for you. A child with an enquiring mind is not exactly a welcome addition to a French classroom. After four years you had lost your sparkle. Even Monsieur Peyssoneau said so. You were  bilingual and had shown you can bloom wherever you are planted but it was time to think about moving on.

At 14 we moved back, down to the West Country, an area we didn't know and had no links with. It was another adventure that you met head on.

The English system suited you so much more and you thrived in an environment that nurtured individuality and intellect. You made fantastic friends who will probably be with you for life...

took up rugby...

 and rowing...

and were the Year 11 Prom King (don't worry, I would never embarrass you with the 'official' Prom King and Queen photo in that godawful crown!)

It was the right decision. You've done all the things you wanted to do be it Bestival, Glastonbury and Reading or your DofE award or just taking advantage of all the things that living in the depths of rural France didn't offer you.

Sorry Mrs Farr, he really didn't have tonsillitis...

This year has been a difficult one for you and for all of us. We could not possibly have foreseen what was going to happen. Despite Dad's sudden departure from our lives just weeks before your ASs, you struggled on with them and did well (OK, well the less said about Chemistry the better but you were always going to drop that!). We fought a pitched battle with the school over Biology and won and you now have offers from Universities that had previously said they wouldn't take  you.  You led that battle, you weren't afraid to take on your teachers or to speak out and you are now showing them that we were right and they were wrong.

I know you have sometimes felt that you have to be the Man of the House when you should still be young and carefree and you have unfailingly supported your sister, who has found this situation harder than all of us, but you have grown so much as a person and I am more proud of you than you will ever know. I'm sorry Dad didn't think it 'worth it' to come down and spend your 18th with you and maybe his card will arrive on Monday but know this, you will always have one parent who will fight for you, support you, love you and drive a thousand miles to spend half an hour with you if I need to or you need me to. You have a wonderful older half-brother who I'm sure will always be there for too as will your maternal grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. As for the rest of them, well it's their loss. You will do great things in spite of all this and in years to come relationships may be mended, or maybe they won't. You have already shown emotional maturity way beyond your years in some of the hard decisions you have made and you have a strong sense of right and wrong which will serve you well in the future.

You continue to amaze and inspire me and, okay, your taste in music may be a bit iffy but one day you'll hit 30 and realise that it is just a random selection of sounds and not real music, just like your Mum used to say!

The last eighteen years have been our own Incredible Journey and I can't wait to see what the next eighteen bring.

Happy Birthday!

Who Says Thighs Doesn't Matter? (with apologies for the bad grammar)

Well The River Cottage Diaries has become a bit serious of late so it's time to inject a bit of humour and gratuitous photos of well-muscled rugby players into it again in honour of the QBE Autumn Internationals.

Those of you who have been with me for a few years will know that I LOVE rugby. I purposely steered The Boy away from football by sending him to a school that didn't play it. Then of course we moved to South West France where rugby is practically a religion, and one that I'm more than happy to worship at the alter of. He now plays for the town's Colts team - currently top of the Dorset and Wilts Merit Table, which is a good thing, and has the very first signs of a cauliflower ear,which isn't.

I wrote about rugby here (amazingly this post has been viewed by over 10800 people - I bet they were all women too!), here (only a mere 2000 views, that one) and here, (6000 views for that one) and in many more places over the years.

A friend suggested today that women and thighs is the same as men and boobs. Yes, I'm happy to go along with that. We women can be just as shallow. The good thing though is that rugby players thighs are not surgically enhanced. They are all one hundred percent natural.

Back in the days of Chris Moyles' Breakfast Show on Radio 1 he did a 'Rugby Thigh Challenge' and his producer got to measure James Haskell's thighs. Now that's what I call a dream job!

26.5 inches in case you were wondering

The term 'Rugby Thighs' has even made it into the Urban Dictionary with suggestions that the thighs of a rugby player are pretty damn near perfection. I'd agree with that as would most of the bodybuilding forums where the question is often asked 'how can you get thighs like a rugby player?'. I'd have thought the answer tothat is simple. Play rugby.

Bizarrely, if you Google 'rugby players thighs' one of the paid adverts that comes up is 'Pretty Ukrainian Ladies'. Whether or not that means they have rugby player's thighs or not, well, someone else can check that out.

And the rugby year wouldn't be complete without the annual Dieux du Stade calendar, which I have discussed in the past (all in the name of research of course). While I'm not sure about the inclusion of a couple of French football players, I mean, it's not rugby is it, I hope you will enjoy 'le teaser' which you can see here

My current favourite pair of thighs belong to young George North, who plays for Wales. When he was first called up, Warren Gatland, the Wales coach said of him, 'He is a big, physical player. Last time I saw a pair of thighs like that was on some of the Samoans back in New Zealand.' So apparently it's not just a girl thing!

George brings a new meaning to 'thighs like tree trunks'

And to finish up, and show how really shallow I am, here's a gratuitous photo of the Le Caveman, Sebastien Chabal, who has some of the best thighs in the game. Boy do I miss watching him play...

Stop the silence, end the violence...

This week is National Domestic Abuse Awareness week. Who’s wearing their white ribbon? Not many of you, I’m guessing. In fact, I’m also guessing that not many of you are even aware that NDAA week is going on. Domestic abuse, sadly, does not enjoy the same level of awareness and support as, say AIDS/HIV with their red ribbons and Breast Cancer Awareness with their pink ones.

This reflects that fact that Domestic Abuse is still a hidden problem, hidden both by the victims and the perpetrators, as well as those around them who stay silent either out of fear or an unwillingness to get involved

.

There have been some real strides made in the fight against domestic abuse, not least in what is now considered to be abuse. It’s not just the punches and the kicks, it’s the name-calling, the isolation, the preventing them from seeing friends and family, the financial control.  Here in Wiltshire we took part in the pilot for the Domestic Violence Disclosure Scheme, otherwise known as Clare’s Law, after Clare Wood, who was murdered by an ex-partner with a history of violence. A history she knew nothing about. In Clare’s case, when she finally called the police, they took 24 hours to arrive. By that time, her ex-partner had murdered her and set fire to her body.

Here in Wiltshire, we are lucky to have a very proactive Police force who work closely with our Domestic Abuse Reduction Group. The county, historically, has higher than average levels of domestic abuse, in part because of the large military presence. Sadly, our ‘heroes’ are over-represented in domestic abuse statistics and the military is dragging its feet and not engaging with the support that is available both to perpetrators and victims. In 2009, the University of Bristol started to research the problems of domestic abuse within military families after professionals had highlighted the higher than average abuse figures. An on-line survey was made available to military families for a three month period. Only five people responded.

Further research was carried out that showed that 60% of domestic violence victims from military families didn’t seek help because it would have a negative impact on their partner’s career.

While public perception of domestic violence has changed radically over the years, and the ‘I gave my wife a good slapping to keep her in order’ mentality is no longer acceptable, still too few of us really understand domestic abuse, its impact on the victim and on their family. How often do people say ‘well I don’t understand why she stays with him’ as if that somehow makes her culpable? And domestic abuse is far from being a white, working class problem. It affects all areas of society and all types of relationships.

Here is my friend Kate’s story. She is a university-educated professional with a demanding job.  Kate obviously isn’t her real name.

When I first met my ex-husband he was kindness personified. I felt truly blessed to be with him. In the last 10 years though, he changed. He suffered long bouts of unemployment following the financial crisis which led to some serious financial issues. I remember an old saying. ‘When debt comes in the door, love goes out the window’. Suddenly, the kind, loving man I married changed. I felt I was constantly walking on eggshells, afraid to say anything in case it set off one of his moods. He went from calling me ‘darling’ to saying I was a lazy, bitch. He thought nothing of belittling me in front of my family and friends and sometimes, when we went out, I would feel physically sick when I saw the signs that he was about to kick off. It was all done very quietly, no shouting or anything, just insults and humiliation.

The first time he hit me was on the way back from a holiday in France. We had got stuck on the peripherique for an hour and as a result, we missed the ferry. It was the last ferry of the night so we were stranded in Calais.  Somehow this was my fault.  We drove off and parked up on the outskirts of the town. An argument started and for once I tried to stick up for myself. I got out of the car to have a cigarette but he followed me and told me to get back in. When I refused, he punched me in the side of my head. I was too shocked feel the pain. After that, he didn’t stop. He chased me round the car punching and slapping me. He hit me so hard that he ripped my earring out of my ear. He then grabbed me and threw me into the car. I sat, cowering against the door, bleeding from my ear and my mouth, while he ranted at me for ‘making him do it.’  The textbook actions of an abuser. Why didn’t I leave him then? Well I told myself that it was a one off. I made excuses for him. I loved  him.

They say the first hit is the hardest and every one after that gets easier. It was certainly true. After that, the physical abuse got worse along with the emotional abuse. He made me feel that I was unloved and unloveable. He wore me down, destroyed my self-esteem and made me doubt myself. Unknown to him I kept a photographic record of all the injuries and when he eventually tried to strangle me I realised that my life probably was in danger and I needed to get free of him. During the period of contrition that often followed his attacks, I told him that if he didn’t leave, I would go to the Police. Fortunately for me, he left. He now lives with another partner. I told her about his violence but she wasn’t interested. Friends often ask why I didn’t go to the Police and the answer is simple. I was too embarrassed. I’m a middle class, well-educated professional. Domestic abuse isn’t supposed to happen to people like me, is it?

Embarrassment is one of the biggest reasons why victims of domestic abuse don’t seek help. It’s a difficult thing to admit to.

Incidents of domestic violence have increased in the last decade and financial pressures on families certainly haven’t helped. The trigger points for domestic abuse incidents are July and December. Summer holidays and Christmas. It now accounts for between 16 and 25% of all recorded violent crime. Across the country an average of one call a minute is taken by Police control centres reporting domestic violence. One in four women and one in six men (let’s not forget that they can be victims of Domestic Abuse as well) will experience domestic abuse in their life time and on average two women a week are killed by current and ex-partners.

Then there’s the public cost; in social housing, mental health support, criminal justice costs, refuges and housing, not to mention an estimated £1.8bn in lost economic output. Recent figures put the cost to the economy of domestic violence at £5.5bn a year. So domestic violence affects us all.

Know the signs, speak out, support a friend, save a life. And wear a white ribbon.

National Domestic Abuse Helpline 0808 2000247 (24 hour freephone)

National Victim Support 0845 303 900

M.A.L.E (Men’s Advice Line and Enquiries) 0808 801 0327