Enjoy the Trip (not)

I’ve never been particularly graceful. I did ballet and tap dancing as a child, but alas, I had all the footwork skills of a drunk centipede. As I got older I tried Zumba and aerobics. The women around me soon learned to keep a safe distance. So it wasn’t a great surprise when I managed to fall down the stairs this week.

I missed my footing because I had piled up a load of Amazon boxes at the bottom of the stairs. Damn you Amazon, and your one-click ordering.

As I bounced butt-first down the last three or four stairs, I had time to reflect that I had turned into my mother.

Mum came to stay for the Easter holidays. After precisely one day, she tripped and fell downstairs. I should point out, before you start questioning the safety of my staircase, it has not one but TWO handrails and is a perfectly normal set of steps. It’s just that my mum was doing what she always does – carrying books, glasses, cup of tea and a crossword puzzle as she headed to the kitchen. So she couldn’t save herself when she slipped, because her hands were full. It was not my stairs’ fault, I promise.

My poor mum broke her hip and spent Easter in hospital. This was possibly a more stressful experience for the hospital staff than my mum, who during her long medical career was a Midwife, Nurse, Ward Sister and Nursing Tutor. My mum knows hospitals like the back of her hand. She knows best practice, hygiene protocols, and ward systems. And boy, she wasn’t going to let these nurses take any shortcuts.

Mum was out of hospital within five days of her hip replacement. That has to be some kind of record. I’m sure it wasn’t because she told them all how to do their jobs. Well, probably not.

I should say here how amazing the British health service is. From the paramedics in the ambulance who took mum to hospital, to the admitting staff in A&E, to the orthopaedic doctor, to the ward nurses - yes, even the junior nurse who bore the brunt of mum’s wrath for suggesting she change the dressing on an open wound in a crowded ward and risk cross-contamination – they all do a fine job under difficult circumstances and with far fewer resources than they should have. No wonder Donald Trump keeps making jokes about buying it.

Luckily, I did not break my hip, though I do have a rather attractive bruise on my thigh and am now shuffling around like a poor imitation of Marty Feldman’s Igor. 

Note to self: stop ordering Amazon parcels. Or at least, stop piling them up at the bottom of the stairs.

Star-Spangled Visit

Donald Trump came to town this week. Britain rolled out the red carpet, the Queen was prevailed upon to meet POTUS and FLOTUS, and Theresa May extolled the virtues of the ‘best alliance the world has ever known’.

I spent several hours in a news studio pontificating on his visit. Was he interfering in British politics? Did he really just suggest the NHS could form part of a ‘phenomenal’ trade deal? And what was the secret assignation he had with Nigel Farage, spotted leaving the US ambassador’s residence?

Trump dearly loves the pomp and ceremony laid on for his visit. Yes, he may have been snubbed by several politicians who declined invitations to meet him; even Meghan Markle got out of it by playing the exhausted new mother card. (Perhaps she thought one person loudly demanding her attention was enough). But meeting with the Queen (“a fantastic woman”) and being the guest of honour at a State Banquet in Buckingham Palace clearly soothed all ills.

Meanwhile protesters were denouncing him as racist, misogynistic, and divisive. Not that Trump was aware – when asked at a press conference what he thought of the demonstrations, he dismissed them as ‘fake news’.  

Trump is rather like a battering ram, pummelling his way through diplomacy, shattering global agreements and throwing out whatever thought hits his brain at any given moment on Twitter.

Perhaps there’s a bright side. Perhaps it’s the wake-up call the world needs, a warning that we have to stand together to maintain the international order against such destructiveness.

But failing that, there's always humour. The Trump Baby Blimp inflated over London during his visit is British satire at its best. Apparently, it’s now joined the ranks of Dame Helen Mirren and Sir David Attenborough as a ‘national treasure’.

Who knows what Trump thinks of it? In his book, it’s probably fake news too.

Totally Triggered

My daughter is currently revising for her GCSEs and says she’s ‘triggered’ by the upcoming exams. This is urban slang for a negative emotional response, like fear or panic. “Don’t be daft,” I say. “Just do your best. That’s all you can do.”

Wisely, I opt not to point out that she spent five hours coming up with a revision timetable instead of actually revising. And now that very same timetable hangs, limp and unloved, on her wall, totally forgotten while she revises whatever catches her fancy. “I’m not in the mood for Russian History,” she says dolefully, sliding her book closed. To be fair, no-one’s ever in the mood for Russian History.

I remember my exams at sixteen – O Levels as they were then. I’m sure I revised for several hours a day, but when I mention that to the offspring she rolls her eyes. Apparently revising for too long is counterproductive. It’s supposedly far more efficient to do just half an hour of one subject and then move on to the next.

Half an hour? That’s not revising. That’s basically reading a couple of paragraphs and deciding it’s time for a snack. Though I suppose half an hour is an aeon of time to today’s snapchatting instagramming teenagers. Thirty minutes to them is probably the equivalent of a long weekend to us.

The one thing I’ve tried to be alert to is my daughter’s mental health. According to a Girlguiding report in the UK last year, more than two thirds of girls and young women said exams were the biggest cause of stress in their lives. Mental well-being is talked about much more openly these days and it is something we've discussed in our household. Some headteachers are concerned that tougher GCSEs are potentially damaging the mental health of our kids. Arguing about revising doesn’t make this any easier - there’s obviously a delicate balance between pushing them to do well, and pushing them too hard.

With the husband working away from home, it’s been left to me to gently encourage my daughter to revise regularly and consistently. Okay, maybe not so gently. Apparently you shouldn’t make sweeping statements like: “You’ll regret it when you open those grades in August,” or “I revised seven hours a day when I did my exams.”

But now that she’s got into her stride, I’ve been pleasantly surprised at how diligent she can be. She's working hard, and I know she's smart. I’m just trying to silence that little voice at the back of my head saying “if only she’d started sooner…”

Anyway, one way or another, it’ll all be over in a few short weeks. Then we can all relax.

Until the results in August. Gulp.

For Book's Sake

My second book came out on April 5th, and it's fair to say I was pretty stressed about it. There were so many things to think about; cover design, release date, pricing, promotional material, review sites, advance copies..... I think I slept an average of four hours a night in the run-up. To be honest, writing the darn thing was easier.

Now it's out, and it's a different kind of stress. Will people read it? Will they like it? Will they - please, by all that's holy - leave  a review? And what about the advertising; facebook ads, tweets, instagram posts....? It's relentless. 

Stress is weird. I thrive on it to a certain extent - well, I work in live TV so pressure is a constant companion. On the days I'm not on air, the lack of stress makes me feel not quite whole. I actively seek to fill the gap by piling things on my 'to do' list, much to the irritation of my family. I find it hard to switch off. 

They say a little stress is good for you, and in fact researchers have found that a little challenge in your life (NOT a massive trauma, that is) makes you better prepared for when things really go wrong. Those with a history of some adverse life events have less disability and higher life satisfaction than those with no negative life events. 

In other words, a little of what doesn't kill us makes us stronger. So maybe my book-stress is toughening me up.  

On the downside, the cookie jar has had a bit of a hammering. Not to mention the red wine. According to the Mental Health Foundation, 46% of people eat unhealthily or drink too much when they're stressed. 

So if you guys can help me out by downloading my book and leaving reviews, you'd be doing me a kindness. I promise I'll stop dipping my oreos into my shiraz as a pick-me-up.

Daughter of Kali: Unholy Alliance is now on Amazon on special offer for just 99p or $1.29 until April 15th. Click here to download it wherever you are.

Thank you. And remember - a good book is just what you need to help you relax!

New Book - April Release

It's almost here!

Book 2 in my Daughter of Kali series now has a release date, and I am very excited. April 5th will see the birth of the sequel to Awakening, featuring our heroes Kaz, Em, Darius, and a whole new cast of characters.

In Daughter of Kali:Unholy Alliance Kaz is now sixteen and a Warrior, but her Mum is still desperately ill. It's a tale of adventure, demon-slaying, and kick-ass heroines - but it's also about family, loyalty, and how far we'd go to protect the ones we love, even if the people around us don't understand what we're doing.

Here's the blurb on the back (always one of the hardest bits to write, in my experience!) 

Demons, magic, and a mythical beast named Gary….

Sixteen year old Kaz is now a trained Warrior for the secret society known as the Guild. Just like her mother before her. But her Mum is in a coma, and only demonic power can save her.

Going against everything the Guild stands for, Kaz must make an unholy alliance with the Named One who once inhabited her mother.

She also has a Goddess on her case. Kali wants her to fulfil a prophecy - only Kaz isn't quite sure what that is.​

Her own power, the bloodthirsty inner voice she calls the other, is getting stronger. And as if that wasn’t enough, her emotions are going haywire. She’s torn between Darius, the Warrior in love with her best friend; and Jack, dark, brooding, and a bit irritating.

Kaz finds herself navigating a dangerous path at great cost. The lives of those she loves are in danger, and her only hope of saving them is to solve the mystery of the prophecy - even if it means losing herself.

In honour of the new release, my publishers Peach have also updated the cover of book 1, Daughter of Kali: Awakening. 

What do you think?  I like it - but then, I'm biased!

Sequels are tricky things to write - how much detail do you put in from the first book? How much will readers remember, and should you assume some readers haven't read book 1 at all?

Hopefully I've got the balance right but I would love to hear from other authors who've written a series to get their take. 

You don't have to read Awakening to make sense of Unholy Alliance - but it helps.



Unholy Alliance will be available on Amazon from April 5th at a promotional discounted price. I hope you snap up a copy, and please leave me a review if you can.

Because unlike my main character Kaz, I actually care what other people think! 

Wheel of Time

Getting older is no picnic.

For one thing, maintenance becomes a full time job. All that effort to look young again – the pruning, tweezing, plucking, dying, (of the hair, not physically expiring. Though come to think of it, the latter is also happening.)

In my head, I’m still twenty-something; the youngest person in the newsroom, happy to be referred to as a ‘girl’ and not find it condescending, capable of working 24/7 and function on all cylinders. Now I’m one of the older presenters on screen and a mentor to some of the younger staff. If I don’t get seven hours of sleep a night I’m more grouchy than a grizzly bear. And if anyone calls me a ‘girl’ it’s because they’re short-sighted or being ironic.

I think the hardest part is the knowledge that I am no longer cool.

I used to be cool. I was a war reporter and the Home Affairs Editor for a national news network. As a young journalist, I fearlessly blagged my way into Serbian territory in Kosovo. I once got made an honorary member of the RAF when I flew refuelling missions with them in the Balkans. I launched Aljazeera – the first face on a network that now gets viewed regularly in hundreds of millions of homes. And I did it with the eyes of the world on me, not to mention the Qatari royal family. I’ve interviewed world leaders, terrorists and celebrities.

Fast forward twenty years. I am still a TV presenter, I still interview powerful people and I still hold a position of authority. And yet, somehow,  I am not cool anymore.

I can pinpoint the exact moment It happened. It was when my daughter became a teenager. It is a commonly known fact among teenagers that their mothers are never, ever, under any circumstances, ever, cool.

My daughter cringes with embarrassment when I meet her friends. I’m not allowed to talk to them lest I use my ‘journalist’ voice. “What’s my journalist voice?” I ask, puzzled. “The one you use to ask questions,” she replies darkly. So that‘s it then. I’m not even allowed to ask how they are.

I am also a Young Adult author, and some of her friends have read my book, Daughter of Kali Awakening. They seemed to enjoy it. The school even asked me to go in and do an author talk for the girls. My daughter is mortified by this. Obviously, appearing at school will reveal how deeply uncool her mother is.

I’m curious to know whether this phenomenon holds true for people in really cool professions. Did Neil Armstrong’s kids roll their eyes when dad started talking about the  moon landing again? Do Michelle Obama’s girls forbid their mum from talking to their friends in case she uses her ‘First Lady’ voice?

But I suppose I had it coming. When I was a teenager,  I considered my own parents to be old-fashioned stuck-in-the-muds. I loathed it when they tried to make well-meaning conversation with my friends, cringing when they made jovial jokes and tried to be matey with them. Three decades later, I finally know how they feel. What goes around comes around.

Now you must excuse me. Those grey hairs won’t tint themselves.

Skin Deep

Is there a word that means to be grateful for something you really shouldn’t have to be grateful for?

I was trying to think of it the other day, as I read about Hollywood actor Liam Neeson. Let me explain.

The recent admission by Neeson, that he once went out looking for a black man to murder because his friend had been raped by one, will have shocked many. As it rightly should. To be fair, I believe he told the story because he acknowledges the wrongness of it. But it doesn’t deflect from the truth. A truth mirrored by the rise in race hate crime in the UK, and the disproportionate police killings of black people in the US.

Skin colour matters.

I’ve known this from an early age. From the name-calling at school, or being told to ‘go back where I came from’ (always a puzzler; I was born in Leeds.) And then, when I got into journalism, to have others openly question if I’d got the job because I ticked the right diversity boxes.

Thankfully, these instances were few and far between. By and large, the vast majority of my life has been free of racism. Most of the people I know judge others on their actions and personalities rather than something as random and uncontrollable as skin colour.  I’m lucky to work in a multi-cultural environment with people from a plethora of nations. And I'm good at my job, regardless of my melanin count.

But I‘m not naïve. I know it’s an issue. And I also know that we people of colour – especially women of colour – often have to work harder, and be better, just to be treated the same.

So I am thankful this is one burden my daughter will not have. Because she’s white. Looking at her, you would never know she has a grandfather who is an Indian immigrant and a mother who is brown. Her features are more English suburban than Asian subcontinent. She will never face racial prejudice.

She has grown up in a multi-ethnic household. She has a rainbow heart, and an inclusive soul. She herself is colour-blind when it comes to people.

But how sad it is that I’m glad she inherited her skin tone from her English dad, not her half-Indian mum.

And that’s why I think there should be a word, one that means being grateful for something you shouldn’t have to be grateful for. If anyone knows of it, please tell me.