About

A 30 something year old mother, wife and business owner, living in St Andrews, Scotland. Originally from Dorset on the South coast of England, I left home at 18, and continued to go back and forth to my parents after trying and failing to get my teeth into a whole plethora or careers.

A dropout from Kings College London, I went on to gain my degree in Business from London Metropolitan University (what a contrast).

I’ve lived in Los Angeles, interning in events and PR, Fiji where I did another internship, this time in education, worked in London for multiple events companies, worked at Highbury and Islington Council chasing up invoices for the Borough’s sexual health clinics, then onto being a personal assistant for the head of the council’s licensing officer. The events side wasn’t really ever paying the bills, so after stints in these office roles, I’d decided I’d rather kill myself than carry on under the fluorescent lights and people dressed in ill fitting suits. One day I received an email offering paid teaching work in Thailand, so much to my dad’s absolute despair, off I went. Long story short, whilst I was in neighbouring Indonesia on that trip, I met a tall handsome Scotsman in a nightclub, snogged him, went back to his where I got stuck with him in a hotel for over 24 hours due to some sort of religious lockdown (look up Nyepi) then hung out with him for a week after, before going our separate ways. Turns out, he wanted to see me once back in the UK, and after a few months of figuring out if we actually liked each other or if it was a holiday romance, I came up to Scotland to visit him and never left.

We decided to start a business together after loosely chatting about it over those past few months, and purchased a second hand trailer from a man in Paisley. We towed it back to Fife, worked on it in Sam’s parents front garden, and decided to sell cheese toasties from it on the beach.

Fast forward a few years and a lot of hard work (something I’ll write about at some point) we now own 3 separate businesses, one of which being the viral cheese toastie place; The Cheesy Toast Shack, which has appeared in multiple national papers and TV shows, and is something we are super proud of.

It, or rather I, have not been without controversy as well, receiving trolling on a national scale after appearing on a BBC One show in a top that I thought (and do still think) looked nice. This has helped push me to be more upfront about the level of hate circulating online, and is one of my favourite things to do…speak about it and to expose the bullies (whilst continuing to dress how I love).

We’ve also in that time become parents to 2 amazing little girls, and very sadly, I’ve lost both of my own amazing parents. A wild ride with a lot of big life events in a short time, so thanks for coming along for the stories, there’s lots to talk about!

• What’s for you wont go by you

  I write this as I’m sat in my bed on a sunny Friday in October. In any other circumstance I’d ensure I was outdoors, avoiding all other responsibilities and admin I had looming over me. The kids are both at school; about to break up for the 2 week October holidays, and ordinarily I’d be enjoying being able to be as selfish as I wanted to be with my time.

  But today’s different. I’m sat in my bed, waiting on some pills to kick in, which are meant to simulate cervical contractions. Some take them to bring on labour, some take them for medical abortion, and some take them to help pass a missed miscarriage.

  I’ll explain everything but first of all I need to rewind a little.

  Last month, I was told that there were “nudes” of myself circulating on Whatsapp groups between a number of “men” in the Dundee area. Everything that I’ve been told is frustratingly half assed. “I need to tell you there’s nudes of you and everyone’s seen them, but I can’t tell you where I heard this”. And then after speaking out about this I receive more messages from “men” saying things along the lines of “yes I’ve seen them, I’m on Whatsapp groups that they’ve ben shared on, but I’m not giving you any names or numbers because they’re my mates and I need to protect them”.

  It’s an odd one isn’t it? Why are there nudes of me; a married mother and small business owner in the local area being shared? I’m well used to getting trolled and reading awful things about myself, but I did wonder why in recent months, there were an increase in comments saying things such as “everyone knows she’s on OnlyFans”. My sister in law who works in a law firm even told me that someone had come up to her at work and asked her if it was true. Now I can quite confidently say that if I was on such sites, I would be promoting these, and indeed telling everyone, because I would be wanting to make as much money from them as possible. But, sadly for everyone, I am not on any such sites. A quick Google search of my name, alongside “OnlyFans” took me to several websites. These websites had used images of me that I had uploaded onto my Instagram page; pictures where you can see my whole body in a bikini or a low cut top (which I absolutely have the right, and want, to share if I wish) and these photos appear alongside the words “Click here to f*** her in AI” and “click here to strip her naked”. There was also one website that said it had videos of me performing acts with multiple men. Videos that I had never seen or heard of before, but there was my face, my body, my tattoos and my name next to these words.

  

  

  

  I continued to ask for help as to who was sharing these images, however, no leads. And nothing I can do about these websites which are seemingly based in countries such as Korea.

  

  I was mortified, humiliated, sickened and filled with shame. All because “men” were sharing these images, but I had never shared these images with these “men”. Yet why did I feel the shame? I couldn’t go into my places of work, I couldn’t go to the shops, I couldn’t go to the school to collect my kids, because I felt everyone had either seen or heard about these images and videos, and were either laughing at me or looking at me like I was a disgusting whore.

  I spoke about what had happened on my page, in a way to protest my innocence, and try and use my voice in some capacity. The feedback and response was overwhelmingly positive. People giving me support, reminding me the shame is on these “men” and not on me; reminding me I haven’t done anything wrong. But ONE “man” decided to comment, to tell me it’s my own fault. I dress the way I do, I sell Boobie Biscuits at my shop, I bring it on myself, and that I deserve this. I am holding other women back, by merely exercising my right to dress how I want, and not to wear a bra. The Boobie Biscuits I sell are to raise awareness for breast cancer, and reminder to check for lumps. We have literally raised thousands of £s for Breast Cancer charities off the back of selling these. Yet I am the problem.

  

  I couldn’t take the pressure. I wasn’t eating, I wasn’t sleeping. When I went to wash my hair it was coming out in clumps in my hands. I didn’t have the energy to engage with my children, or friends or even Sam in conversation. I felt like a shell, and what made me feel even more angry was that these people had stolen my confidence. It takes a lot to make me feel bad about myself; I pride myself on the fact that I LOVE myself. But that was gone, These “men” had stolen that.

  One of my sister in laws is French, and that week she was going to Nice to visit her family, and taking along Sam’s brother, and their two kids. Without much persuasion we joined them, and rented a house close-by to where they were staying. A few days later my best friend flew out with her family and stayed in the house we’d rented.

  

  My God I needed that week. I needed that week, but I also wasn’t taking care of myself. On top of the Vogue cigarettes; nick named “Ozempic Fags” due to the fact they’re so skinny they don’t even count (they definitely do, so don’t start smoking Kids), and all the rose wine, I still couldn’t bring myself to eat much, and sleep would come to me for a few hours, before I’d be laying in bed wide awake thinking about how half of Dundee think they’ve seen pictures of my fanny.

  

  In this time of absolute mental breakdown, I somehow continued to feel very sexually attracted to my husband. I say “somehow’ because most people in a state of depression aren’t able to tap into their sexual wants and desires. I went the other way. I couldn’t get enough of Sam. This had started when we were still in Scotland and continued for a good few weeks.

  

  When we returned home from France, it just so happened that 2 days later, my best friend and I had a girls trip booked to Florence. So why not continue this trying to boost me back up Euro-trip, by putting a load of washing on, repacking my suitcase, and fucking off again.

  

  Again, more wine, more Ozempic Fags, and more late nights. We laughed, we cried, and I was still struggling to eat. To such an extent that said best friend, sat me down one night at 1am to tell me how worried she was about how little I’ve been eating and conversations had been had about how it needed to be more. I’ll always love her for telling me straight. She loves me and was caring for me. That same night I’d tried to force myself to eat more, to make a point. But on my way home, I felt a surge in my throat, and the warmness in my mouth, and I found myself bringing all my dinner back up again. Was it my stomach not being able to handle so much rich food, or looking back, was it something else?

  

  My period was due the day before we flew to Florence. Rachel laughed at me for getting dressed in a brilliantly white maxi dress one day; not knowing if “today was the day” it would come. I wasn’t really giving it too much thought. To be honest my cycle had started to shift in the last few months; with period due dates getting a little later each cycle. I’m 37 and didn’t want to admit it, but perhaps this is perimenopause. Things are changing. I also considered the possibility of the fact I wasn’t eating enough and my body simply didn’t have the calories it needed to let my period come.

  

  I returned home, burnt out but happy to have had that time away with my friend. Sam continued to be there for me, knowing I was still quite anxious and upset with everything going on. I was back for about a week, before thinking “right, where is my period?!” I was convinced there was medically something wrong with me, but knew that before any doctor would explore that as an option, they’d want to see a negative pregnancy test. So off to Boots I went, and purchased one.

  We’re currently in the process of buying a new house, and the Mortgage Advisor was due to come to our house that day at 2pm. At 1.45pm I quickly wee’d on the stick, not for one minute thinking the result would be anything other than negative. I set the timer on my phone for 5 minutes, and left the test on the side. I walked past the test again about 2 minutes later and glanced at it, only to be stopped in my tracks by a very bold, very dark line. Pregnant. Undeniably pregnant.

  

  That made for an interestingly awkward meeting with the Mortgage Advisor!

  When we got a minute to ourselves later in the day, Sam and I could finally talk about how we felt about this news. I instantly said no. I’d abused my body for the past month. It wasn’t a healthy or happy home for any baby. Not just the rose wine and the “Ozempic Fags” but the anxiety, the lack of nutrients and the lack of food of any kind really. I couldn’t even entertain the idea. With my previous 2 babies I knew from the minute I’d tried to conceive, I was off the wine, resting, taking folic acid and eating whole foods. The worse those 2 got was a bit of Diet Coke and too much coffee!

  So again, I continued to live my life. It wasn’t anything like in France or Italy, but I still had fun. The next day I was driving round a field in a rage buggy that was missing a calliper, therefore rendering its’ brakes as pretty much useless.

  

  I’d called the clinic for a termination the day of the test. Sam was wanting to keep the baby but I kept coming back to how I’d not been in a healthy place either mentally or physically for the past 6 weeks. Obviously, because he’s an amazing man, he listened to me and told me he would support me in whichever decision I made.

  The clinic said the next step would be a phone call in over a weeks time. The phone call came. The midwife explained the process. She explained how I would need to look out for the foetus myself to confirm it has passed, if I was going to do this at home. That information floored me. I started crying again. Could I really go through with this? The midwife offered for me to come in for a scan and see how I felt. Sam and I spoke again in the days between this call and the scan. We went forwards and backwards with what we wanted, but ultimately came to the same decision; that we were going to go for it. Fuck it, let’s have this baby. Life’s hectic, why not create more chaos?! We’ve just bought a new house and we have bedrooms to fill! We held each others hands, we were scared, but we were excited.

  I went up to the hospital on the Wednesday for my scan. Sam had to meet a joiner at a new cafe we’re opening, but that was fine. This was not my first rodeo, I could go for a scan on my own. I lay on the bed and had the ultrasound on my stomach. In my mind, I was dating at 2 months pregnant, from my maths. The lady performing the ultrasound wasn’t saying much. She kept looking deeply into the monitor with a look of worry on her face. She asked me: “have you had any bleeding?”. “No” I replied, worried because why would I have any? Everyone knows you don’t bleed when you’re pregnant.

  “I’m so sorry but I can’t see a heartbeat. Your baby hasn’t made it”.

  It turns out what I have experienced is called a “missed miscarriage”. This is where your baby dies, but your body doesn’t realise, so you continue to feel, and believe that you’re still pregnant.

  I was returned to the waiting room before I could speak to another midwife about what happens next. Crying, I followed her into another room where she talked me through the next steps, which are actually the same as a chemical abortion. You take the same pills, which cause the cervix to contract, and therefore expel the pregnancy.

  The next day my body started to bleed on its own accord. Small cramps and then having to go to the toilet to let it out. But not enough to get everything out. So here I am, sat having taken 6 Misoprostol tablets, waiting for my body to expel what could have been.

  I am not sharing this for sympathy, or to be dramatic. In writing this I just hope that it could help anyone else who has been through or is going through the same process. I for one, was very naive when it came to terminating a pregnancy, and also regarding missed miscarriages. It can feel isolating, and you can feel guilty. I feel guilty for not looking after my body, whilst having to navigate a brutal assault on myself online. I feel guilty for wanting to terminate, and then for changing my mind. From what the midwife told me, my baby stopped growing a couple of weeks ago, so around the same time I took the test. It was over before I even knew it was begun.

  If anything, I just want this chapter to be closed now so that I can move on. I feel shame and I feel guilt. I’m so grateful for the love I do have in my life, and for Sam and the girls. But please remember when speaking to people, you never know what’s going on in their personal lives. Always be kind.

• Too Old For The Orphanage, Too Young To Be An Orphan

  

  

  Excuse me, but this post is going to be a little sentimental and a little self indulgent. I don’t know if it’s because I’m just having “one of those weeks” and I’m tired, or it’s the fact a very rarely talk about the pretty much hell that has ben the last 10 years, and I’m letting it all bubble over.

  

  

  My parents (Barbara and Joe) had me and my brother later in life, much later for my dad. He was 64 when I came along, and my mum was 39. They were the most loving, kind, caring and “do anything for you” parents. The only time I was even aware my dad was a bit different to the others, was during parents evenings at secondary school, when I’d hear comments like “Why is Kate Carter’s grandad here?” but aside from that, I was just acutely aware of how my dad had a lot more grey hair than anyone else’s.

  As I got older, my brother, who has always been academic, hardworking, and destined for success, was doing exactly that; leaving school to go to a Red Brick University, then onto a graduate scheme, which has now lead to a very successful and high flying job in media and marketing. He’s married a beautiful woman, has 2 beautiful boys, and lives in a beautiful house in a very beautiful part of London. My parents missed some aspects of this due to their health, however, they could see the greatness he was heading towards, and were always incredibly proud of his, as am I.

  Although it looks like I have landed on my feet from the outside, as a successful business owner and business investor, wife and mother…oh wow, my life did not have the same neat trajectory, and there were many, MANY years where the hard work was not happening. A real lack of drive and ambition was apparent, unless there were boys and /or alcohol involved, which left my parents despairing as to when I would get some sort of direction in my life.

  I left school at 18 worked at the local Boots (still my favourite job to date; working on the checkout in a small town, selling condoms, haemorrhoid treatment and pregnancy tests to people you went to school with – what’s not to love?!) jumped on a flight to Delhi, travelled around India for a couple of months, then a few other countries, until the Boots savings dried up, and back home to mum and dad I went. I returned to Boots until that September, in order to stay out of my parents’ way day to day, and to try and save up some more money for starting University in the September of 2008.

  After 6 months at Kings College London, studying Adult Nursing, I dropped out, moved home, and went back to Boots. I then decided to go back to India, again, much to my parents’ annoyance. But it was fine, because I’d met a bunch of “grownups” from London, and I came back to do an internship at an Events company in Shepherd’s Bush. I worked for free in a warehouse, with a sexually inappropriate boss, who I put up with his remarks and uncomfortable stares, because I was young and naive enough to think that was just the tradeoff with one day being offered a paid job. After getting to go to a few decent events (Glastonbury and Blur comeback gigs in Hyde Park as an example) I realised I needed to get serious. And by serious, that meant enrolling in another course, this time, the far less prestigious London Metropolitan University, where I completed a degree in Events Management and Public Relations.

  However, in a missed opportunity to make my parents proud with a Graduation Ceremony (neither of my parents or any of their family preceding them made it to University) I decided to do an Education Internship in Fiji; absolutely nothing to do with my degree.

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  Fast forward the next decade or so, and I’d completed another internship, this time for an Events and PR agency in Los Angeles, moved back to London to do a series of soul destroying and miserable jobs, before flying to Thailand to take a paid job teaching English to Kindergarden kids, before meeting Sam, as part of a holiday romance in neighbouring Indonesia.

  

  As you can imagine, for the most part, my parents were left desperate for me to just find a passion and a direction in life. I’d come back from Indonesia, telling them I’d met a Scottish man, and I was turning down my offer of a place at Brighton University to study Teaching; and instead moving to Scotland to be with him.

  However, I digress. It’s hard to set an accurate scene without all the tales of me dicking about and not making solid decisions over the years. My point being; that they stuck by me and loved me the whole time. It wasn’t until dad’s final years that the business really started to take off. I remember going to see them in Dorset, after we’d wrapped up working at Glastonbury festival. At this stage dad was bed-bound, and had ben for years; his body slowly failing him and shutting down. It started with the loss of feeling in the bottom of his feet, and slowly spread throughout his body, taking the use of his legs, then limiting the use of his arms and hands. In a somewhat travesty, his brain remained as sharp as a tac. My dad was a hugely intellectual man. He grew up in the Second World War, surviving on rations, growing up in Flixton, Greater Manchester. University was not an option to him, so he worked hard, and ended up being Head of Shell Chemicals in London. He spent these years being incredibly successful in his career, as well as incredibly sociable. He was always the life and soul of parties, and when he wasn’t entertaining, he was keeping his mind sharp. Well into retirement, when they had relocated to Dorset to have my brother and I, he would frequent the village library bus weekly, sometimes getting through as many as 6 novels in a week.

  

  But this cruel and slow last chapter of his life, meant his body was failing him, as his mind remained active. He couldn’t handle the lack of control, after all these years of very much being The Boss, in every part of his life. He was bed-bound, unable to hold a book or a newspaper, and too deaf to listen to the radio or watch the TV without the rest of the village having to listen to it as well.

  Sam and I were telling my dad how much we’d made at Glastonbury; a figure we could never have dreamed of taking when we started out selling sandwiches at Kingsbarns Beach. Dad was a business man, revelling in numbers and success stories. So we told him (or wrote it down as his hearing was so awful) and instead of any congratulations, we were met with “oh phooey”. He just thought we were lying! After some reassurance from us both, and showing him evidence on the till reports, he finally believed us, and was indeed, very proud.

  

  

  Mum, at this stage was very much under the hold of Alzheimer’s disease. We’d had our suspicions for years that she was going that way, however, all the GP’s and health professionals we sought to gain help from, were in complete denial. When we first noticed things weren’t right, she was still in her 50’s. She’d be making cups of tea with cold water, but we were told she just had a “bad memory” and was “totally fine”. Any drugs that could have worked to slow down the progression of this disease, were only prescribed when it was too late to make a difference.

  I remember when the diagnosis finally came through; the doctor on the phone mentioned it so casually. There was no option to bring her into a Memory Clinic, or to have a team help me sit down and break this devastating news to her. They told me I could let her know myself. This was all happening once we’d already started the business, but just before we’d had our first baby, Nel. I used to go and stay in Dorset with them for a couple of weeks at a time, especially before the 24/7 live in care was all finalised. I remember being in the supermarket car park in mum’s Ford Focus, which only I was allowed to drive now, when mum started getting extremely upset and emotional; bordering on angry; totally out of character for her. She demanded to know why “all these people” (health care workers) were in and out of her house all of a sudden, and why I wouldn’t let her drive her car anymore. She was very confused at this point, but aware that things were different. I just thought “I’ve got to tell her, or no one will”. I sat there in the car, holding her hands over the gear stick, and the words just came out: “Mum, you have Alzheimer’s Disease”. We both just started sobbing, hugging each other. All she could say was “No, no no” on repeat. And all I could do was cry. I wish I’d handled it differently, and put my own feelings aside to support her. I was in my late twenties, and I was angry at the world. I was yet to have babies or get married, and all of this that I’d always dreamt of sharing with my mum, was getting taken away from me slowly, and in the cruelest way. I wish I could turn back time, and just have been there for her, not worrying about myself and my own sadness. That one moment in particular will stay with me as the most heartbreaking, sad and traumatic moment of my life.

  

  

  In 2018 we had Nel, and the year after, we ran away to Vegas with 15 friends, where we got married in the Little White Wedding Chapel, by a not very convincing Elvis. We had a 15 minute window, and we live streamed it back to loved ones at home. When the vows were said and done “I vow never to tread on your blue suede shoes” we all danced out the nicotine scented chapel, and had a night out in Downtown Las Vegas. Was it the wedding I’d dreamed of as a little girl, where my mum helps me choose my dress, my flowers, my venue, and my dad walks me down the aisle? No. Was it all I could handle, compared to a serious wedding, where all these things I’d missed out on would be so pronounced and palpable? Yes.

  

  I lost dad that next year, during Covid. Not due to covid, but during the first year of it, when everyone was hyper paranoid, and lockdown restrictions were rife. As well as having a 2 year old, I also found myself pregnant with our second baby, Nina. These were the times that that absolute idiot, Boris, was in charge, making extreme rules for all of us lot, whilst him and his mates were having secret parties. We can’t see or kiss our loved ones, but the likes of Matt Hancock is managing to convince someone other than his own wife to shag him (mind blowing, I know). Dad’s health was quickly deteriorating, and we were getting constant calls to come and say our last goodbyes. Public transport from Scotland to Dorset was not an option (without raising questions), so I hired cars, and would drive the length of the UK, armed with a fake story, in case I got stopped. Its hard enough losing a parent or loved one in normal circumstances. All I can be thankful for was that we had the healthcare coming to the house, as if he were in a home, or a hospital, there’s no way I would have been able to see him. I would enter my family home, a live in carer staying in my childhood bedroom (I’d have to take the sofa next to dad’s makeshift hospital bed) and I’d be dressed in PPE; not great for my poor, already confused mum. The one thing I can be grateful for with her Alzheimer’s, is that she was so far gone at this point; having moments of lucidity but generally being very confused about who was who. It stopped her having to be fully aware that the love of her life was dying.

  When I was growing up, she’d often say to me; “When something happens to your dad, I’ll never love again. He’s the only one for me”. We both spent our lives envisaging a very different ending for them both, with their 25 year age gap.

  

  

  

  My dad finally slipped away in August 2020. I was in Dorset at the time visiting with 2 year old Nel, Sam was in Scotland for work. At this point, he was spending all his time sleeping; in the “active dying” phase of death. His breaths were long and laboured, and we all knew it was coming. I was holding his hand that day, telling him I was pregnant with our second baby. In that moment, his eyes opened a flicker, and he managed a tiny half smile, then went back to sleep. I tried to stay with him as long as possible, but at 7pm I had to take Nel back to the BnB to put her to bed (lockdown restrictions were starting to ease ever so slightly at this point). About 30 minutes after she’d fallen asleep, my brother called me from dad’s bedside. He was gone.

  

  

  

  The next day I went back to the house with Nel. The undertakers came and took his body. They wheeled him into the back of a black, unmarked van. I stood with mum, watching from her bedroom window. In a moment of half lucidity, she said “well that’s him gone now”. Her eyes were wet, but she wasn’t crying, obviously not fully knowing who “he” was.

  Nina was born the following January. Upon going to register her birth alone (Sam was at home with Nel – still odd covid rules) I made the decision to give Nina a middle name, something we hadn’t done with her sister. And that’s why Nina is in fact Nina Jo (she gets to drop the “e” to make it more girly).

  

  

  Around 2 years later, and with lots of visits to Dorset in this time (in an attempt to show my mum her grandchildren, but only to be met with expected confusion) I received a call to let me know my mum had gotten out of bed in the night in a state of confusion, and had fallen and broken her hip. She was taken to the local hospital and operated on. In what we later learned to be a series of cockups and maltreatment, the physios hadn’t bothered to give her the physio that is so crucial just after a surgery like this in a frail person (perhaps her very advanced Alzheimer’s diagnosis was a deterrent) and for the rest of her days she was bed-bound.

  She got kept in that hospital for weeks. I’d visit as much as I could, however, this was Dorset and I now had a baby, a toddler, and was trying to run a business in Scotland. When I did go down, I’d see her lunch being left in front of her on a tray. At this stage she did not have the coordination to feed herself, and put food in her mouth. The food would be spread allover her in the hospital bed. When I pulled up the hospital staff, I was told they simply did not have time to feed everyone on the ward, even though, the majority of patients on the word were mentally sound, and able to in fact feed themselves. I’d home cook healthy meals and bring them in to feed her, and get told I was interfering and not to do this. Which of course, I ignored.

  I returned to Scotland, where I received a phone call to say she was now end of life. I travelled back down as soon as I could and found her in a private side room, on the hospital ward. She was skeletal; emaciated. Her lips were black with dehydration. As I sat next to her, holding her hand and listening to her groans, shrieks of laughter came from outside the door. Sam got up, opened the door (which by the way, clearly had written “Barbara Carter: End of Life” on the board) to find 3 nurses playing a game of frisbee with the lid of a tin of Celebrations chocolates. Sam leapt into action; chastising these them and demanding them to “have some fucking respect”. I remember him saying sternly; “A woman is dying in there; go and apologise right this second”. In they came, very remorseful, apologising in turn. Out of character for me; I had no more fight. All I could muster was “OK”. The next day we brought her home to die.

  Much to everyone’s shock, mum rallied after a few weeks. The live in carer, who had been with us since my dad’s death, had nursed her back to a stable condition. and she stayed this way, for a few more years, until Winter just gone.

  In December 2024, I received a call from the local District Nurses. They’d had their suspicions about how mum was still hanging on to life, and in particular how much food she was consuming. After monitoring mum’s prescribed morphine for a few weeks, they had realised that her trusted carer, had not been administering her morphine. This was (we can only presume) to keep mum alert enough to be able to keep feeding her mountains of food (every one who visited would always exclaim at how much she could put away considering she was so frail). She was being fed huge amounts of food with the addition of high calorie milkshakes. The reason why the Oramorph was so important was that she had an extremely large and aggressive bedsore on her lower back. Without being too horrifying, you could fit your fist in this hole. The tissue was black, and it was extremely painful for my mum. However, she was unable to move or communicate. Only her eyes flickering from side to side, with a panicked look. A look I’ll always remember, only able to offer a hand hold and a forced comforting smile. I couldn’t hold her or cuddle her because she was too frail; skin like tissue paper and the bedsores too painful and delicate to risk moving her. She was like a baby, a helpless child. But not one you could pick up and comfort. Just look upon with a sympathetic smile, whilst inside you feel like you’re dying yourself.

  A woman who was always the life and soul of the party, just a shell of who she was when she was my mum. It’s a horrible thought, that my prevailing and dominant memories of my mum, are memories of the worst phases of her mental and physical decline. The Memories of my gorgeous mum, Barbara carter, are getting pushed further and further away.

  

  

  How I do love to remember her, is being the mum that all my girl friends would love to laugh and chat with when we were teenagers. She’d always want to know about all our love lives at school, and be an oracle of (hugely useless) advice in matters of the heart.

  Even earlier than those memories, I look back and remember my half days at primary school, and the joy of seeing her come to pick me up at lunchtime. She’d take me home, and we’d do arts and crafts, listen to her Beatles records, and she’d role play “zoo animals” (at my request). We’d watch movies, specifically with Robert Redford or Barbara Streisand, or anything with Harrison Ford.

  So it seems rather fitting, that on the night of my mums death, myself, Sam and the girls were all watching Indiana Jones. It was the day after Boxing Day, and again, we had received the call to say her death was imminent. The carer who was suspected of not administering the Oramorph had been removed, and I’d been visiting in the run-up to Christmas. After much mental turmoil, I had made the decision to stay with my girls for the weeks over Christmas and New Year. I shed a lot of tears, and flirted with booking a number of flights, however my half sister, who I trust her opinion more than anyone’s in the world, reminded me that my memories with my mum had been made, and now it was time to make those Christmas memories with my own children. I made the decision to try and get to New Year before my next visit.

  So the evening of the 27th came, and our little family was on night 2 of our Indiana Jones saga; The Temple of Doom. When I was little, I remember at the bit where the man was about to get lowered into lava; my mum would cover my eyes as it was too horrific for my young retinas. That part of the film was coming up, and I was getting ready to do the same to my girls. Just then Sam’s phone started ringing; it was my brother. Without saying a word, he passed me the phone. “She’s gone”. Sam came running behind me into the kitchen, as I broke down. Quick to bring me back down to earth, were Nel and Nina, who had been left alone on the sofa, just as the human sacrifice was getting lowered into the lava on the Temple of Doom. I don’t know if I’m grasping at straws here, but I feel like there was something in that.

  

  Alzheimers is a hard one. She was never going to get better, and her death means that both mentally and physically, she is now at peace. But for me, and how I feel personally; something will never sit right. I lost my mum; Barbara Carter, years ago. But she, as a being; as a life, was still there. Therefore, it was not appropriate or ok to grieve her. I watched her, slowly, and cruelly, slip away, and suffer. What started with cups of tea made with cold water, turned into her not knowing her own husband, children, or certainly her grandchildren. Not just me and my kids, but my brother and his two beautiful boys. I’ll always remember, as a teenager, her saying to me jokingly; “I can’t wait for you to make me a Grandma – but not too soon!”. The hardest part was in terms of her health, but not my own; I may well have left it too late.

  This week has been hard. My girls have had a stomach bug, we’ve spent most of it either feeling rough or experiencing extreme cabin fever. They then passed the bug onto me; feeling like you’re going to shit yourself whilst comforting someone who is also shitting themselves, is really quite the mental test. The week has left me looking at photos of my parents, and picturing the world I thought I’d have; where my mum could get on a train or plane and come give me a hug; let me have a nap whilst she takes over for a bit.

  

  

  

  

  

  

  But I shouldn’t and can’t complain. I’ve married into the Largs, and with these guys, family is everything. I’ve got amazing parents in law, and equally as amazing brothers and (particularly) sister in laws. My babies are 2 of 9 cousins on the Larg side, and 2 of 4 on the Carter side. Sam and I have worked hard to build a business, which has attracted the most amazing team.

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

  The space they’ve left in my life is with me daily. But my God, I am so lucky to have been loved by two of the best parents going. They’ll certainly be raising a glass of wine, somewhere in the sky, on the regular.

  

  

• The Simplicity of a Cheese Pull 

  

  I don’t know about you, but I’m getting bored of opening up weekend magazines full of judgement about food that ain’t “dancing off the plate”.  I recently read a article from a chef (who let it be known, I follow and adore – this is not a hate piece, more of a counter argument) who listed all the things she loathed to see online surrounding food, and lo and behold, the cheese pull was right at the top of her list.  “Cheese stretched five feet across someone’s face isn’t appetising; it’s mundane”, with followers quick to jump in with comments such as “Its very vascular, the cheese pull”.

  Now perhaps this is my self-defence raring into action, as if you follow my page, aside from jovial videos finding comedy in the tediousness of day to day life, cheese pulls are (pardon the pun) very much our bread and butter.

  

  However, do we not deserve to just find joy, and simple satisfaction in a bit of gooey cheese?  With the world being a heavier place than ever right now, social media needs to bring us some joy, amongst having to see every other post be about Farage, and that bright Orange turnip that is Trump.  (As a lover of fake tan myself, using this as an insult really shows my distain).

  Delving deeper into the food scene; how would people feel without the cheese pull, when eating a food whose whole identity is structured around that one food type? And I’m not even talking about my own business here.  Imagine going to Naples, and ordering pizza, lifting out a slice to find the lack of a cheese pull. It’s the drama; it’s the occasion, it’s the experience!  Or heading to a Christmas market and ordering raclette, awaiting the server scraping that bubbling hot cheese over your potatoes and lardons, only to see a dried up, burnt bit of cheese fall off and land sadly on top of your meal.  The stretching of the cheese is the theatre.  Whenever we’ve served raclette in the past, people make us wait to scrape the cheese, so they can get their phones out and record the moment.  Yes it may be “vascular” or “overacted” but don’t we deserve the simple joys of food?!

  

  As a company, we’ve always said that we rely on social media as a form of marketing, and that’s why we use it so heavily.  A free tool for our small business to use, whereby we can demonstrate something so comforting and desirable through the use of a phone.  We can only rely on sight out of our all senses when we’re trying to show off what we’re good at, when obviously in real life, we’ve got our other senses to lean on.  One of the comments on said piece stated “Social media’s dumbing down of flavour”.  Well Becky, if you can let me know a way we can taste through our phones, please do let me know!

  

  One of my favourite photos we’ve ever been tagged in, is a young boy at East Sands beach, sat right to his Grandma, pulling one of our toasties apart, whilst she looks on, smiling adoringly.  It’s such a wholesome photo.  They’re just the personification of joy, in that moment, laughing about how far the cheese from their toastie has stretched.  And this is what it’s about.  Food bringing friends and family together at the beach.  Laughing with your loved ones about how crazily big a cheese pull can be; sharing toasties on a blustery beach after bracing walks in the cold whilst dodging seagulls dive bombing from above.  I will always believe that these moments can come from something as mundane and shallow as splitting a toastie in two with the person you love just as much as it can come from a large shared table of home cooking with your entire family.  One doesn’t get the right to be superior to the other.

  

  So I’m here to continue to stick up for the tiresome, overdone, unoriginal act that is the humble cheese pull, just as much as I am here for the ‘grandmas secret recipe stew” or the “brining your own pastrami”.  I’ve got love for it all!