It has been over a week since BoJo announced lockdown on our society, and waking up last Tuesday will always be one of the surreal memories I will take with me on my life’s journey. In our household we have had a variety of experiences, events and emotions, some of which I will cherish forever, other I’d like to stuff, together with the bloody virus, where the sun don’t shine.

From social media and phone calls with family and friends I know we all have a variety of days that resemble the good, the bad, the crazy and the downright hideous. Throw in some school aged kids, some toddlers and adults trying to work from home, and you have the recipe for an interesting concoction of life. As a perfectionist and slightly neurotic overthinker this situation is a blessing and curse at the same time. It’s a blessing because I can live my ultimate dream of working from home, watching my kids grow up and having enough time to write and keep control over the house and everyone’s life in it (in a nice way, I am not a bloody dictator!). It’s a curse because, I mean, have you ever tried to work from home, keeping tabs on over 100 students whilst home-schooling a 5 year-old, whilst preventing (or trying to prevent) a 2 year-old from sabotaging any attempt of working and home-schooling whilst also wading through the chaos of discarded toys, unwashed dishes and clothes, half-eaten snacks and knocked over drinks? You think I am kidding? I kid you not my friend, I don’t. Ciara would hang her head in shame if she saw the devastation a week of lockdown and isolation can cause, fabricated by the fair hands of two little children (and two bamboozled adults).

In addition to that, in a twisted fate of our privilege to stay at home, I am losing track of the days of the week (and believe you me, it IS a privilege: We have shelter, food, Internet, entertainment, fresh air and transport. Millions of others in this pandemic don’t.) Lately, I have been thinking of one of my favourite films, Groundhog Day and how, slowly but surely, days have started resembling our own version of the comedy, scarily blending into one big chaotic mess of colouring pens, cuttings, worksheets, craft supplies, bent puzzle pieces (the destructive toddler is at work again), five o’clock glasses of wine and recorded episodes of Paw Patrol (the most annoying programme on earth if you want my opinion on this, too). If it wasn’t for the puppy shitting into various places of the kitchen floor, I would start believing that I am reliving the same day over and over again. I very much doubt that I will resort to the extremes Bill Murray’s character needed to use to get through his new state of life, and I know that it is up to me to shape and form life during this bastard of a virus. Groundhog or not, there is a lot I will take from this; maybe I won’t be able to play the piano like a pro but I will try and search for the novelty in everyday life and to live in the now a bit more. If not for me, then for all those souls that haven’t got the opportunities I have.

Ok, so here comes an almighty whinge and moan: I have had enough. Already. Weekends, my usual sanctuary and blissful escape from the mundane every day slog have, this week, turned into a nerve-testing and patience finding exercise that had me fall onto the sofa in exhaustion by 4pm, not wanting to get up anymore, not one bit interested if the screaming from the kitchen was because the puppy nipped the children or the children bit each other, if the puppy pooped on the floor or if the toddler had taken off his trousers again and was whacking his sister with it (we do not condone violence in our house, this is, so everyone tells me, normal toddler behaviour…). I had to turn the Internet off again – a post telling me to chill out because Anne Frank managed to stay quietly in a small flat with hers and another family during World War 2 had the opposite effect it probably intended. Having read her diary multiple times and having stood in the back of a dimmed classroom, quietly wiping tears from my face whilst watching the film with students, I feel like a total failure for not handling this not going out malarkey. And then I get really mardy because I find it highly insulting (to Anne Frank) to drag Anne Frank into this. We are comparing apples and pears here. Our situation may feel like a war to us, a war against a virus and an infringement on our usual freedom, but comparable to World War 2 it is not. The intent may be to put things into perspective to us, and, when you look at it like that, then it certainly makes you feel grateful that you are simply being asked to stay at home. However, and I am going back to something I said in a previous post: Negating current feelings and experiences, just because someone else somewhere else is having a worse time is unhelpful and unkind. It is OK, in my opinion, to feel pants and be restless and irritated. Accept and acknowledge those feelings and make peace with them. As long as you don’t let them rule your existence and work on making things better for yourself, you are allowed off-days. Everyone has them.
How do I get through days like this? Well, without sounding like yet another advice board, here are the things I do:
– I run – every day. Not for hours, but even a quick 20 minute jog around the neighbourhood, come rain or shine, is a little mini therapy session.
– I drink lots and lots of tea (preferably herbal. I can’t hack too much caffeine).
– I tidy and clean. Highly unexciting but it calms my nerves.
– I put the TV on for the kids. I normally don’t like using the big box as a babysitter but when I need some headspace I give in.
– I write. One of the most therapeutic things I have ever done, it never fails me.
– I cook and bake. Again, it keeps me busy, I have something to do and it gives me a purpose. Plus, when I feel calmer and better, the fridge is full of wholesome meals. Bonus.
– I put on music. Music has been a part of my life since day 1 and it is much more soothing for my frazzled soul than deafening silence.

Whatever works for you, do it. Don’t beat yourself up. Your feelings matter and it is not a competition of who is the best at this isolation and lockdown business. Stay away from people and media that make you feel like crap. Chances are, those claiming to have it all figured out are secretly flapping and panicking themselves. They just hide it better. So keep going, you beautiful souls out there. Stay safe, sane and healthy. And if you do lose your marbles, then let them roll around for a bit but don’t forget to gather them up again and practise that all-important self care.

Yesterday we celebrated the birthday of our daughter, a joyous, yet different affair to what we had had in mind. Instead of spending hours in the kitchen, baking, decorating and fabricating sweet goodies for her party, I had realised the evening before that I had not thought of her cake or bought enough wrapping paper for presents I luckily had bought months earlier. I am not proud to admit that Covid 19 had shifted my focus and priorities. They are, and have been, since the beginning of lockdown, to homeschool my daughter, whilst keeping my son entertained, whilst being there for my students and trying not to lose my marbles with the constant news updates and buzzing mobile from WhatsApp groups. I can’t keep up with the amount of messages from every social media app available, suggestions for various activities, resources and hints and tips from every (wo)man and his (her) dog. There are moments where I just want to turn the lot off and go for a walk, but, admittedly, I have been super grateful for messages from near and far. I have enjoyed phone calls with friends and family I haven’t spoken to in a while and loved seeing photos of my children’s friends. We are able to keep them connected with their peers and encourage them, through writing letters and drawing pictures to maintain contact with those they love.

Once I had gotten over my guilt of not having focused on the yearly anniversary of giving birth to my oldest child, I realized that she really didn’t mind being at home and didn’t give a tiny rat’s arse that the wrapping paper was blue instead of sparkly pink, that her birthday cake didn’t have a princess on top and that she would have to wait for her party until the virus had finished his business. She was perfectly happy and content and as excited as expected when she got the Frozen Soundtrack CD (yes, I still buy CDs…). And so, at home, in the totally ordinary chaos and every day mess, we got our gladrags on, turned up the music and danced around (granted, I did most of the dancing and prancing) and played some games, enjoying our company and giggling in moments of silliness.

I don’t have it all figured out and I forget and get flustered and confused. And that is OK. As long as I don’t forget that perfect doesn’t exist during lockdown, I think we will come out of this isolation malarkey unscathed. Sparkly pink paper and princesses on top of cakes will just have to wait.

We are on lockdown. Covid-19 has achieved what no developed industrial nation ever thought possible. Nations at standstill, stock markets crashing, people panic-buying toilet paper as if it was the only remedy to cure all of humanity’s problems and wiping supermarkets’ stock, piling cans and packs of food they would, under normal circumstances, never eat (canned potatoes anyone?). Weeks before BJ made his announcement, people all over the world showed their best and worst sides – you decide which one you were on. As a national of a country that moved relatively quickly on limiting social contact and large gatherings of people I had my own opinions on how Brexitland dealt with the issue, but that is not of relevance here. Experts and the WHO are the only ones who should pass public comment on this – I may have an opinion but I am not arrogant enough to spout it. My family and I stuck to the instructions that were given, kept a distance and I even had the nerve to tell off groups of teenagers that walked around, acting as if they had won the jackpot with an extended holiday. Social distancing as such doesn’t bother me: I know there is a (as yet unknown) time limit and one day I will hug and hold those close who I love, I will see my friends and their families again and my children will see theirs. I took the change as it came and evaluated what was possible and what wasn’t. Play dates are off-limits, but fresh air and the lone countryside are not, so we went for a long walk across fields and looked at paw and hoof prints on the muddy tracks, watched red kites soar and stroked the soft buds of Goat Willows, treating every crossing of a small stream like a mini adventure, frequently pretending to be on a bear hunt (we didn’t catch a big one!).
Work had also put in appropriate measures and working from home is going to be my new normal, for however long it has to be. I have already found lots of silver linings and am discovering plenty more every day: getting up early with the sun, going running before anyone else goes outside, eating breakfast with my kids instead of leaving them whilst I rush out the door, helping my daughter with her work or watching her and my son jump around the lounge to Joe Wicks’ PE class, having a cup of tea whenever I want and finishing it, going to the loo whenever I need to, rather than crossing my legs for hours because I do not have a spare second. I enjoy going in the garden and letting the kids blow off some steam, whilst I have yet another cuppa.
Despite making the best of the situation and knowing that it is absolutely the right thing to do, I couldn’t sleep after the announcement on Monday night. The severity of not being able to get to my family in an emergency hit me hard, unanswered questions and unclear messages online made my head spin, arguments and uncivilised posts on social media turned my stomach and mine and everyone’s mortality stared me uncomfortably in the face. As I woke to a new state of being, I was a bundle of nerves. I didn’t want to eat, I didn’t want to talk. Shutting down is my coping mechanism. I am not one on giving out universal advice as everyone is different, but here are the things that diluted my anxiety and calmed my jittery nerves: I went running (even earlier, rising with the sun), I turned off the Internet on my phone, I phoned my family and I drank lots of tea (I am so British!). I am sure I will have my ups and downs during this time, as will we all. My message to everyone is this though: Don’t let your frustrations out on others. No one will listen if you use foul language and sink to a level that is reserved for the gutter. Dignity and diplomacy are not always my strengths but I will keep practising now and maybe, so should you. Listen to the experts. There are reasons why we have to stay apart. Be kind. Show love. This is so essential in situations like this. If someone is nasty, kill them with kindness. And finally – don’t lose hope. Have faith that life, although it may change, will carry on. We may have to change in the process, but that may be beneficial in the long run. Look out for the rainbows and silver linings. Phone friends, send letters, emails, messages. Cook, bake, paint, write, read. Be present in the moment. Who knows what you may discover.

These are strange and unsettling times, unknown territories and bewildering feelings. Life as we know it has stopped and taken a detour. Hence, my last letter to Britain, filled with love and hope, looks at the current unpredictable and worrying situation we Europeans find ourselves in, with the rest of the world. Humanity is fighting something invisible to the naked eye, yet powerful enough to make stock markets crash and cause nations to shut down. Some see it as a sign from the universe, telling us to start taking better care of the environment, some think it is a higher entity’s way of nudging us change our ways with one another. Whatever it is, with the aftermath of Brexit in mind, I sincerely hope that any animosities can be put to one side and hateful feelings will be buried deep, never to be seen again. Whilst many Europeans (I include the Brits in this, too) are already doing their bit to combat Covid-19, others are not taking matters quite as seriously as they should. Selfish, ignorant and aggressive behaviour in shops, social and every day life are still on display, making hard efforts of social distancing and considerate movements of others an apparent wasted effort (it is not!). The most important message I have for the country I love is, that now is the time to pull together, work together, look after each other and show some love and kindness like never before. Not just for yourselves, but also to your European/ international brothers and sisters. Many of them will keep this country running, caring for the sick, stocking the shelves in your supermarket, help elderly neighbours with their errands, bring take away food to your door or, like me, come into school and look after your children. Never before has international solidarity and community been more important. Now is not the time to keep our hearts closed, even if the borders have to, for some time. Maybe this will make people reflect and evaluate their previous opinions and thoughts. Maybe it won’t. My final hopes and wishes for my Britain are that it will see itself again as part of a greater community. You can’t be great by yourself. But you can be gigantic with the support, love and energy of the world.

English – the language of the world, the language of trade, business, music and international travel.  One would be forgiven to think that, with it being so readily used and available at any point in your life, no matter where you are, you’d grow sick of it pretty quickly. 

My first contact with (American) English was as a toddler, when American friends spoke to me and I seemingly understood. So is the beauty of language mixed with children: they absorb everything and learn at warp speed.  When I went to school, my first English lesson was like opening a treasure chest.  I was hexed by the softness of consonants, the elongation of vowels and the sing song intonation of native speakers when I listened to the audio tapes.  I sat in my room for hours, replaying segments of conversations over and over again, then repeating, then listening again, until I had perfected my own pronunciation and enunciation of every single word.  Later I sat with CD booklets, reading along to music and then singing out loud, learning the lyrics until I knew them by heart, a dictionary always at my side as my bank of vocabulary increased steadily and word order as well as grammatical phrases became natural habits I knew off by heart.  I remember my English lessons, loving every single one of them, thriving, indulging in them nearly as much as I did when I wrote pages upon pages in my native tongue.  Language was and has always been my sanctuary, and, other than German, I have rarely taken to anything as naturally as English.  When my teachers explained the grammar, spellings and phonics to us for hours on end, I listened and took it all in, but I rarely referred back to those rules of the correct usage of English.  Instead, I just knew what was right and what was wrong.  I felt the language, I intuitively followed my instinct and was rarely disappointed.  I trusted English and, so it seemed, English trusted me in return.  This mutual flirtation was only scratching the surface of what was to come when I finally moved to England.  Nothing could prepare me for the love and passion for English and the delight I feel when I know I am able to write confidently in a language that is not really my own.  This has evolved and manifested itself because I was able to fully immerse myself into the language and its cultural aspects.  Nevertheless, I was never prepared for just how much I could fall for this language, nurture it and make it my own.  I love everything about it: the sound, its quirks, its infuriating difficulty with silent letters, and not to forget its over-usage of homonyms, homophones and homographs.  Native speakers and foreigners alike tell me it is one of the most difficult languages to learn.  I agree, but feel lucky that, as a linguist, me and English never had an issue.  We fell in love and have remained partnered up happily ever since.  I just “get it”, but I am not saying this to boast.  I am fully aware that there are lots of better writers out there.  What I want to say is, that English is the linguistic love of my life, always has been, and always will be.  It has been the biggest reason why I stayed here, after painful break-ups, difficult times and the hideous Brexit divorce.  English is my ally, my best friend, my lover.  I am grateful I can use it every day of my life.  And, English and I are planning for it to stay that way. 

It’s International Women’s Day today and, whilst I ponder my relationships with women in the past, present and hopeful future on a regular basis, I feel it suitable to write something about my experiences with some of the women of this country. Let me say this up front – not everyone I am thinking of here is British by birth, but I think it’s only fitting to mention the British women that have influenced my life here and my international girlfriends whom I was allowed to meet on British soil.

Putting any negative episodes firmly to the back of my mind, I would like to reflect on the general friendliness I encountered from ladies of all ages from the day I set foot on British turf. There has always been a helpfulness and genuine interest in how I was getting on and, on most occasions, when I was in deep shit, I found a pair of hands that pulled me back to safety. There is G who held my hand and dried my tears after my first love imploded, there is L who gave me somewhere to live when I was homeless, and there is A who never ceased to be interested in how I was, who stuck around and has become my family since. I sat many evenings drinking red wine with JJ, who listened to my problems, talking some sense into me and has been a creative inspiration ever since. There is J who was my love at first sight and is always there for me, brings me goodie bags when I am sick and dances around the kitchen with me till the early hours of the morning. There is N who made me realise that I don’t have to feel guilty for finding motherhood exhausting or for still wanting to be my own person. There is AH who sat around fires at festivals with me and gave me a room to stay when I needed space to reboot and be alone. L and E counselled me through a hideous time in my life where I couldn’t see straight. They didn’t judge, they were just there. I spent hours running with AF when I needed it most and she was my partner in crime at parties and on hilarious nights out. I have the most wonderful and caring friend in J who, even despite not having seen her in years, is still in my thoughts and when we talk, the closeness is inspiring. There are the mothers and sisters of former boyfriends and the present and final one – thank you for welcoming me with open arms and making me feel at home and caring for me from the start. More recently I have had the honour to get to know ladies who have built me up and championed me like their own little rock star. E, J and N, I thank you for believing in me and seeing something that I often fail to see. And to those women who have, despite not knowing me at all yet, offered to help me to get my writing career started: I thank you from the bottom of my hopeful little and at times self-doubting heart for giving me your time, faith and a chance. There are many more women I could mention which makes me feel incredibly humbled and grateful. They have all had a positive and lasting impact on my life and you will always hold a special place in my heart.

So here’s to all us women: may we continue to support each other and fix each other’s crowns. May we believe in our strengths and individualities and see that each and everyone of us is special and deserves the best. It’s the only way to ever be truly equal.

It’s difficult to muster up any enthusiasm for the outside when it’s raining, grey, cloudy and windy.  Having survived two storms, Ciara and Dennis, a recent drive through the countryside showed off its rugged, wild and cool beauty, refreshed and shaken up from the strong winds (Ciara, by the way, was called ‘Sabine’ on the European mainland.  Was the UK’s decision to call it Ciara yet another stroppy decision to underline its exit from the EU? Who knows… .). My first love affair with the British landscape was through the book ‘The Secret Garden’, where Frances Hodgson Burnett describes the Yorkshire Moors in such vivid detail that I could see the lilac and grey skies, the dark green mossy hills and the light brown grass that was waiting for spring time to come. I could smell the crisp and aromatic air, filled with the remnants of winter and the promise of the first blooms and blossoms, coaxed out by the rays of spring sunshine.  Since then, I wanted to see those wonders of nature for myself, longing to spend time in Yorkshire, on the Scottish Isles, walk the Highlands, climb through the valleys and hills of the Peak District and walk along the beaches of Cornwall. 

Soon after I arrived in England, a work colleague took me and two friends on a day trip to the Lake District.  It was a cold, cloudy and rainy adventure, where we didn’t see much of the glory that nature has to offer but I did fall into a river as I slipped and fell whilst taking some photos.  I was ill soon after with a cough and cold.  A few years later I ventured up to Scotland, driving through the same landscape again that I had not been allowed to appreciate in its full glory previously.  This time, however, the National Park was lit up by sunshine, blue skies, fluffy white clouds and luscious greenery of all different shades. I stopped the car many of times to just gawp and stare, grateful that the demons of my fall into the icy water had finally left me.  Scotland had its own surprises, historical Edinburgh being one of them, drawing me in as I explored the old streets, the historic buildings and the glorious castle.  Other journeys, mostly with work, that led me ‘up North’ were always greeted with astonishment of just how beautiful this part of the country is. 

Of course, living in the middle of England, I quickly fell in love with towns, cities and nature, all of which were only a short trip away from me.  Quaint little cottages dotted around picturesque villages, the rolling countryside which gets referenced so often in novels and stories featuring this island, and not forgetting the vibrant colours of England’s cities; they all captured my heart and made me fall in love over and over again.  I will never forget those long walks in the countryside, standing on top of a hill and marvelling at the multicoloured fields that transformed from bright yellows and greens in spring and summer to paler colours and various shades of dark green, grey and brown as autumn and winter came. 

From the countryside to the city, London will always remain a firm favourite of mine, charming me from the first time I arrived and wrapping me round its dusty, dirty little finger every time I visit.  The Big Smoke is a treasure chest that surprises and entices me, makes me wonder and stare, explore and jump for joy.  It makes my heart sing in a way no other place ever has.  London makes me believe that everything is possible, that, no matter how weird I am, I belong and have a right to be me.  There is history and progress, adventure and refuge, beauty, chaos and simplicity, all in one place.  I often compare a visit to Berlin to my adopted capital city.  It took me days to understand and warm to Germany’s capital whereas my love for London was instant and permanent.  And when 52% of the country voted to leave the EU, London cried with me.  Our bond is strong, loyal and unbreakable.

As I am rereading ‘The Secret Garden’, I feel closer to Mistress Mary than before.  Like her, I stopped and stared at the unique wilderness that opened itself up to me.  We both arrived here at night and tried to make out what laid beyond the darkness.  Unlike her though, I immediately took to everything Britain’s nature and surroundings had to offer me and I am, to this day, enchanted by its strange magic.  Even if it rains a lot.

Let’s be honest, not so long ago, British food was frowned upon and laughed about by continental Europe, seen as tasteless, colourless and at times, pointless nutrition.  And some still hold the belief that, apart from a portion of Fish ‘n’ Chips wrapped in some old paper, the grub is hideous and the beer is that thick that it has to be eaten with a knife and fork. I remember my English teachers, all enthusiastic and hardcore anglophiles, up to date with current affairs in the country, bringing us articles from The Times and The Guardian to read, slightly shuddering at recalling their culinary experience in the country they loved and adored in every other way.  On my first trip to the Big Smoke, which, incidentally was also my last school trip, I travelled armed – lots of healthy snacks in case the food in England wasn’t up to scratch.  I wasn’t disappointed: On the second day in our bed and breakfast, willing down stale bread rolls with suspicious looking pre-packed jam pots and un-spreadable portions of what looked like butter, we spotted a cockroach making its way across the breakfast room and decided to do brunch at a nearby Starbucks for the remainder of the time in the city. 

When I moved here, a year later after this first encounter, food wasn’t high on my priority list, so I wasn’t particularly bothered by the lack of variety and general simplicity of what I was served at the place I worked and lived.  Looking back at some old photos I took of the buffets and dinners, I get transported back to many months of bewilderment by the 70s retro style of catering that seemed to be a signature style of the live-in head chef: platters of sliced ham, beef or turkey, separate bowls of cucumber, tomatoes and lettuce, catering trays of baking potatoes and mountains of grated cheese.  It was the epitome of simplicity and lacked any kind of flavour, creativity and passion.  Coming from a country which takes pride in hearty, home-cooked food, I started wondering if agreeing to stay for Christmas had been a bad decision.  Nevertheless, there were two things I adored from the beginning, especially as they proved a valuable hangover food after nights out dancing and one too many alcopops: Jacket Potatoes with Baked Beans. They were the best thing on earth and became a regular dinner choice when I couldn’t stomach dodgy cuts of lamb with runny mint sauce. (Mint Sauce!! What is that all about?!?)  However, once I started leaving my workplace and ventured out, spending time with friends and eating at their houses, I saw a different side to British cuisine.  Roast dinners soon became a firm favourite and bacon butties – if you cut the fat off for me – were a treat on a Saturday morning.  My bemusement for a full English breakfast was pushed aside once I’d tried it and I was even more delighted when I discovered the fabulous Indian cuisine with its glorious spices and explosion of flavours. How lucky was I to be in Europe and indulge in such treasures from so far away! Over time, and at a rapid pace, I was introduced to more edible gems:  Hand Cut Chips, Mushy Peas, Pheasant Stews, Shepherd’s and Cottage Pies, Hotpots, Toad in the Hole, Bangers and Mash, Bubble and Squeak, Liver, Mash and Onion Gravy, and don’t get me started on the Christmas Dinner with all its trimmings.  I indulged and was in food heaven.  These days, whilst I no longer eat meat, but occasionally fish, I am genuinely impressed with the offer and variety of any thinkable food a human may want to buy and try.  Whilst I still enjoy meat-free alternatives of the old comfort food classics, I am overjoyed by the quality and variety of nutrition I have access to and can feed to my family, exposing them to healthy and delicious meals on a daily basis.  The old jacket spud is no longer a staple in my diet, but it makes a welcome appearance now and again, when time is short and we need a quick evening meal.  I am grateful for and in love with how this country has fed me.  The only thing missing is an equivalent for “Bon Appétit!” or “Guten Appetit!”  Somehow, “Enjoy your meal” isn’t doing the food of Britain any justice.

In the light of recent events, namely the suicide of TV presenter Caroline Flack, I feel compelled to write a blogpost and voice my sadness but also anger at the current state of society, which shoots from sensationalism to hypocrisy and back to sensationalism quicker than a rocket out from its launch pad. I am not claiming to be a huge fan of Miss Flack, following her on social media or religiously watching the shows she presented, although I joyfully cheered her on when she took part in and won Strictly Come Dancing in 2014. What I do know is that reading the tributes of those who did know her and worked with her paint a picture that fills my heart with great sadness, not just for her, her family, but everyone who ever lost someone due to similar circumstances. People describe her, amongst other loving words as “kind to a fault” and a “wonderful soul”. The press surmises that the recent allegations against her and the huge pressure because of it are the cause of her suicide, also pointing to lack of support from the Love Island Team. I am not interested in the finer details, but what I do know is that the same press that now revels in the tragic loss of a successful public figure only a day before made fun of her and, over the past few weeks, used her as a puppet to post whatever they wanted about her. Of course, it is easy to blame the likes of the “Daily Snail” and the personally much despised “The Sun” for all of this, but the fault lies as much with those who buy such papers and therefore endorse this culture of fake news and fabricating stories. This then filters into real life situations, where people use social media platforms to lay into others or even think that it is ok to humiliate and ruin others’ lives with nastiness at work or in social situations. People are very quick to jump onto the first story they hear, without questioning it or considering all the circumstances, let alone let the other side have their say, and then start a witch hunt, gleefully tearing into the individual and destroying whatever strength they had left in them. Kindness, understanding and consideration are fast becoming rarities in our society where, so I believe, anxiety and depression are the byproduct of this lack of basic human skills. Lies, half truths or unkind remarks can have incredibly damaging effects on a person, and, having been on the receiving end of such pointless nastiness a few times, can make anyone question everything and catapult you to very dark places. Why anyone would ever think they have the right to attack someone else in the most viscious way is beyond me, but then I am also flabbergasted by liars, backstabbers and narcissists. In addition to this, societies’ inability to empathize with one another, spouting unhelpful comments such as “man up”, “woman up”, “pull yourself together”, “you brought it on yourself” or “it could be much worse” are an endemic spreading quicker than the common cold. Listen, it can always be worse. But if your mum/dad/best friend/dog/etc died and I told you: “Ah, well, it could be worse!”, I wouldn’t hold it against you if you cancelled our friendship! My personal motto is: If you don’t have anything nice to say then don’t say anything at all. A useful phrase which some people should take to heart. And maybe, if they had had that mentality before, Caroline Flack and all the other victims of such trolling and systematic bullying would still be alive.