Thursday 11 August 2016

The Descendants of Joseph Miller

Summary

As we delve into the life of Joseph Miller, a resident of Burton Latimer in the late 18th century, the details surrounding his birth and parentage remain elusive. However, what we do know for certain is that he wed Elizabeth Torton (or Turton) at Burton Parish Church in 1784, and together, they had five children. Sadly, their third-born son, William, passed away before his third birthday, while their youngest child, also named William, was born five years later. In 1801, Elizabeth died, and Joseph went on to marry twice more, but the details of the first of these marriages remain uncertain.

Each of Joseph's children were baptized at the Old Meeting Hall in Wollaston between 1807 and 1813. The reason for this choice of location is unclear, but it may have been due to Joseph's non-conformist religious beliefs or the popularity of the church's pastor, the Rev. David Hennell. The marriage of Joseph and Mary ended sometime between 1813 and 1823, most likely due to Mary's passing. Joseph would later marry again to a woman named Elizabeth, who became a stepmother to his children. Joseph worked as a shoemaker, and the 1824 Burton Latimer Baptist register recorded the birth of his daughter Martha Yeomans Miller.

Joseph's son George Yeomans Miller, born in 1809, lived in Nichols Yard, 4 High Street, Burton Latimer, and like his father, worked as a shoemaker. He married Elizabeth Aldwinkle in 1835, and the couple had twelve children. Their second-born son, Edward Yeomans Miller, was widely known as "Teddy the Potato King." At age eight, Edward worked as a farm boy, and by the time he was 18, he had become a pig dealer. In the 1851 census, Edward was a resident of the Horse and Groom public house with his aunt Sarah Miller. Edward's life was marred by a crime he was suspected of committing - stealing someone's cape on the grounds of the Horse & Groom. However, the charges were eventually dropped.

Tragically, Elizabeth and two of her sons, Thomas and James, lost their lives in the great typhoid outbreak of 1872. George passed away in 1881, and his gravestone is located in St. Mary's graveyard in Burton Latimer, where it can still be viewed today.

Edward 'Teddy' Miller with his daughters Fanny (Rachel Anne) and Topsy (Charlotte) pictured horse-hoeing in Teddy's potato plot on Finedon Road. Photograph taken c.1900. Photo credit: www.burtonlatimer.info/


Detail

Joseph Miller was born in Burton Latimer in either 1767 or 1768. It's unclear who his parents were; the two most likely candidates are William and Martha Miller, who baptised their son Joseph on September 9th 1776, and David and Dorothy Miller, who baptised their son Joseph on August 31st 1778.

Whilst Joseph's exact date of birth and parentage remains uncertain, there is concrete evidence that he married Elizabeth Torton (Turton?) at Burton Parish Church on February 1st 1784. Together they had five children John, Sarah (b. April 9th 1787), William (b. August 8th 1790 - d. February 8th 1793), Joseph (b. October 4th 1793) & William (b. February 25th 1798).


Joseph & Elizabeth's children:

John Miller (b.18 Dec 1784)

Sarah Miller

William Miller

Joseph Miller

William Miller

Unfortunately, their third eldest child, William, died before his third birthday, and their fifth-born child, born some five years after his death - was also called William. Then, in 1801, just three years after the birth of the 'second' William, Elizabeth died.

Joseph went on to marry again, it's unconfirmed exactly who this Mary was, but the two most likely candidates are - Mary Glover and Mary Robinson. In either event, the marriage occurred in 1804 at Toller United Reformed Church, and the couple had eight children. The eldest two children, John (b. September 8th 1802) and Francis (b. December 20th 1803), may have been born out of wedlock.


Joseph & Mary's Children:

John Miller

Francis Miller

Eliza Miller

Benjamin Miller

*George Miller (25 Jun 1809 - 1891)

Samuel Miller

Edy Miller


Each of Joseph and Mary's children were baptised at the Old Meeting Hall in Wollaston between 1807 and 1813. This venue was much further to travel than the Great Meeting Hall in Kettering. Joseph may have opted for this due to his religious observances (non-conformist) or the popularity of Wollaston's pastor at the time, the Rev. David Hennell.

At some point between 1813 and 1823, the marriage of Joseph and Mary ended, most likely due to the death of Mary. However, Joseph married again, and just like his first wife, her name was Elizabeth.

Burton Latimer Baptist register records the birth of Martha Yeomans Miller on October 12th 1824. Several of Joseph's other children adopted the forename Miller which suggests that Elizabeth Yeomans was stepmother to all of the children from around 1824 onwards. The same register records Joseph's occupation in 1824 to be that of a shoemaker. In total, Joseph Miller produced 13 descendants from three different women.


George Yeomans Miller

George Yeomans Miller (Joseph's tenth-born child and sixth-born son) was born in 1809 and lived in Nichols Yard, 4 High Street, Burton Latimer. Like his father, he worked as a shoemaker and was a member of Burton Latimer's Baptist congregation. George married Elizabeth Aldwinkle (1815-1872) at St. Mary's Parish Church in 1835. Elizabeth was the daughter of John and Elizabeth Aldwinkle of Drayton, Leicestershire. Together George and Elizabeth had twelve children.


George and Elizabeth's children

Mary Ann Miller (May 7th 1835 - November 26th 1911) died aged 76

Charlotte Miller (b. 7 Feb 1837)

Thomas Miller (1839 - October 16th 1872) died of typhoid aged 33

Edward Yeomans Miller (1843 - 1912) died aged 69, nicknamed 'Teddy the Potato King.'

Samuel Yeomans Miller (c. 1844 - 1919)

Elizabeth Miller (c. 1847)

George James Yeomans Miller (c. 1849)

Charles Miller (b. 20 Feb 1851)

James Yeomans Miller (1853 - September 2nd 1872) died of typhoid aged 19.

Ellen Miller (c. 1854)

John Walter Yeomans Miller (c. 1856) was the father of Elizabeth Anne Miller, who married William Toseland on October 18th 1906, aged 25.

Henry Miller (c.1858)


http://boards.ancestry.se/surnames.toseland/6/mb.ashx


Unfortunately, Elizabeth died in the great typhoid outbreak of 1872, aged 57, along with their sons Thomas and James; George lived on until 1881. His gravestone is shared with his eldest daughter Mary Ann and can still be seen today in St. Mary's graveyard.


Edward Miller - The Potato King

George and Elizabeth's second-born son, Edward, was well known in the county and went by the nickname 'Teddy The Potato King'. Historical records reveal some interesting details about Edward's life.

In the Burton Latimer census of 1851, Edward was just eight years old and employed as a 'farm boy'. By the census of 1861, he had become a pig dealer and lived with his aunt, Sarah Miller, at the Horse and Groom public house. A crime was said to have occurred on the grounds of the Horse & Groom. Edward had been suspected of stealing someone's cape. But after questioning, all charges were dropped against Edward. However, he was accused of stealing someone's cape.

Edward then worked as a shoemaker in Leeds (1871 census) and Irthlingborough (1881 census) before returning to Burton, where he worked as a 'dealer' in the censuses of 1891, 1901 and 1911. He dealt in retail, wholesale, furniture and potatoes, for which he would gain local fame. Edward's stock was stored in a large barn on Duke Street, which was later demolished to make way for Burton Latimer Fire Station.

George married Mary Ann Daft in 1861 at Leicester and they had ten children together. But unfortunately, only eight children made it to adulthood. George and his family lived in a thatched house on the corner of High Street and Piggotts Lane. He also owned a plot of land on Finedon Road, where he grew his potatoes, ably assisted by two daughters, Fanny (Rachel Anne) and Topsy (Charlotte).


Charles Miller

The fifth son of George and Elizabeth and the younger brother to Edward was Charles. Charles worked as an engine driver and ironstone worker and left Burton Latimer c.1869 to live with his future wife (Susan Brains 1853-1932) in Grafton Underwood. George and Susan were married in 1871 at the Parish Church and had their first child, Fred (b.1871), soon after. 

In about 1872, Charles and his family moved to Warrenby in Yorkshire due to the demand for ironstone workers, and it is here where their following three children were born - Thomas James (b. 1873), Louisa (b. 1875) and James Thomas [Tom] (b. 1876). By the time their fifth child had arrived in 1879 (another James somewhat confusingly), they had returned to Burton Latimer, where they would have five more children. They lived at Nicols Yard, 4 High Street, until at least 1918. Susan died in 1932, and by 1934, Charles had moved to 87 High Street, where he is believed to have lived until his death.


John Walter Yeomans Miller

John Walter Yeomans Miller (c. 1856) was father to several daughters, one of whom - Elizabeth Anne Miller - married William Toseland on October 18th 1906, aged 25. Mr Toseland had been a lodger in the family home on Alexandra Street from at least 1901 onwards. John's elder brother, George (Elizabeth's uncle), was one of the marriage witnesses. The marriage records show that John was a shoe manufacturer, Elizabeth was a machinist, and William was a shoehand. Following their marriage, Elizabeth and William moved into a house on Newman Street.


Charles and Susan's children

Fred [Fred] Miller b. June 2nd, 1871

Thomas James Miller b. November 20th, 1873

Louisa Miller b. March 20th, 1875

[James] Thomas Miller b. October 30th, 1876

James Miller b. May 14th, 1879

Ada Miller b. October 30th, 1881

Charles Miller b. September 24th, 1883

Florence Miller b. May 20th, 1885

Samuel Miller b. December 13th, 1886 (7?)

Rhoda Miller b.  20 August, 1889

Edward Archable [Archibald] Miller b. July 27th, 1892

Monday 11 April 2016

Boundless Possibility

It was a Thursday morning, and my consciousness began to stir from the depths of slumber. Glancing at the clock beside me, the digits glimmered in a soft glow, 09:45. I lingered in bed, hesitant to abandon the comfort of my haven. A doctor's appointment loomed at 10:20, and I knew I ought to arise soon. For nearly a month, I had been adrift in idleness, and yet I held steadfast to my habit of rising at 07:00, a ritual practiced for the past fifteen years. This morning, however, I allowed myself a reprieve, relishing in the respite of a rare lay-in.

For the past two and a half years, life had been an interminable descent into darkness, a never-ending spiral of despair. But today, a curious change had come over me. As I opened my eyes to the morning light, I felt something I hadn't experienced in quite some time: a buoyancy of spirit, a sense of boundless possibility. For once, my heart was free from the shackles of anxiety, depression, and fear that had haunted me for so long, and instead, I was suffused with an unexpected warmth of enthusiasm, optimism, and hope. It was as if a door had opened, and a ray of light shone through the crack, illuminating the path ahead.

It had been three days since I stepped into the austere chambers of the Family Court for the seventh time in two years, my heart awash with trepidation. The best-case scenario would have been the continuation of the tenuous contact I had with my children, but the thought of the worst possible outcome was too unbearable to contemplate. As the days leading up to the hearing dwindled, I was consumed by an acute sense of foreboding, and by the time the day arrived, I was nothing but a quivering mass of anxiety. Across the room, I spied Lucia, her face impassive as always, and I searched her countenance for any sign of regret, but none was forthcoming. This was the seventh time she had tried to sever the bond between our children and me, and still, I had no inkling as to why.

I found myself sinking deeper and deeper into my chair as the prosecution's arguments unfurled before the judge, like a blooming flower of insidious accusations. My character, my mental fortitude, and my capabilities as a parent were all cast into question, each barb striking with a venomous force. And if that wasn't enough, a litany of false allegations were levelled against me, adding weight to the prosecutor's already damning appraisal. As I sat there, defenceless and alone, it felt as though my very existence was being called into question, as though the ground beneath my feet had begun to crumble away.

After what felt like an eternity of anxious waiting, the Judge finally returned with a verdict that was, mercifully, in my favor. The allegations that had been flung at me like a hail of arrows were deemed to be without merit, and the fragile thread of contact that bound me to my children remained intact. I felt a weight lift from my shoulders, a burden that had grown heavier with each passing day, finally slipping away. For the time being, at least, my children would continue to visit me on weekends, and we would spend Christmas together, a prospect that filled me with a strange mix of joy and trepidation. It had been three long years since we had shared the holiday season, and I couldn't help but wonder how it would feel to be reunited once again.

It was two days prior when I first laid eyes on the good news that arrived in the post, a small glimmer of hope in an otherwise bleak landscape. An unexpected award of compensation for a mis-sold PPI, an application made long ago and forgotten, had suddenly ripened like a fruit on the vine. It was a timely boost to my flagging financial fortunes, which had suffered greatly in the past three years. Despite my decent job and the steady stream of income it provided, the unyielding tide of expenses that came with living alone was a constant source of worry. On top of that, the child maintenance payments that were nigh on £500 a month were a significant drain on my resources. I worked dutifully at my office job all week long, and on the weekends, I took on the role of a single parent to my two beloved children, all the while knowing that Lucia was scheming to obstruct any and all contact between us.

Though my children never went without, the toll that my financial struggles had taken on me was stark and severe. I had shed two stone of weight, my frame becoming gaunt and hollow under the twin pressures of austerity and a lack of appetite. My wardrobe was threadbare, and I couldn't remember the last time I had enjoyed a night out with friends. I had become a solitary figure, a shabby recluse living on the margins of society. To keep my head above water, I had sold my car and my TV, and I had cancelled my satellite television and mobile phone contracts. In the span of just three years, I had plummeted from a successful and affluent father of two to a dispirited and defeated single parent living well below the poverty line. The sudden arrival of this unexpected windfall was a godsend, a chance to wipe the slate clean and lift the burden of debt that had been crushing me for so long. With a little left over, I could even treat my children and myself to something special, a small glimmer of hope in an otherwise bleak existence.

The day before had been a boon as well. Fueled by the surging currents of my newfound luck, I was primed to tackle the world head-on, tending to all of the tedious administrative tasks that had been plaguing me for weeks. At last, it felt like the interminable nightmare was drawing to a close. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel, and it was not a train hurtling towards me, but the beckoning of a new day. Within the week, I would be back at my office job, a tangible reminder of my 'normal' life, and by the turn of the year, I could be restored to my former self.

---------------

A sudden noise interrupted my happy reverie, a thud at the window, followed by a deep and resonant voice.

"Julian?... Julian?... Could you open up, please?"

I bolted from my bed to the intercom in the hall, where the screen revealed two stern-faced policemen. My pulse quickened, and my mouth went dry. My previous brush with the law had not ended well, and the mere sight of the police or the sound of their sirens evoked painful memories. Despite being released without any serious harm, the experience had left an indelible mark on me. Now, here they were again, and their grim expressions did little to ease my anxiety. My instinct told me to run, to flee their presence, but my feet were frozen to the floor. Then, the same deep voice shattered the silence.

"Julian? Open up. We know you're in there."

I hesitated, then pressed the intercom button. The door lock clicked, and I heard their heavy boots trudge down the hallway. By the time I reached the door, they were standing behind it, poised and ready. I took a deep breath, grasped the handle, and pulled it open.

As the deep voice of the taller officer filled the air, I felt the chill of fear run down my spine.

"Julian Smith?" he said. "We need to talk."

My mouth was dry, and I struggled to speak, but eventually, I managed to force out a whisper.

"Yes, that's me."

The two policemen exchanged a glance, and my heart began to race. Memories of my previous arrest flashed before me like a film reel, and I felt the cold grip of dread settle in my chest.

"Are you here to arrest me?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

The taller officer's expression was inscrutable as he spoke.

"It's a possibility," he said. "But first, we need to discuss something with you. May we come in?"

I hesitated, feeling trapped and vulnerable. But there was no escape, no way to avoid what was coming.

"Okay," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

The two officers stepped inside, and I closed the door behind them, my heart thudding in my chest.

"What is it?" I asked, my eyes darting nervously between them.

The shorter officer spoke next, his voice hard and unyielding.

"We have reason to believe that you have broken the non-contact order between you and Miss Lucia Valaskova," he said.

I felt my knees weaken beneath me, and I clutched at the wall for support.

"No," I said, my voice shaking. "I haven't seen her. I swear it."

But as I looked up at the officers, I knew that my words had fallen on deaf ears. The nightmare was far from over.

My mind reeled as I tried to make sense of the situation. It was like a bad dream, but one that refused to dissipate in the light of day. As the short policeman continued reading from his clipboard, I struggled to piece together what was happening. The incident he was describing was familiar, but not in the way he was recounting it. It was as if he was telling a story that bore no resemblance to reality, and I was the villain in it.

I opened my mouth to protest, to explain that there must be some mistake, but the words caught in my throat. The tall policeman looked at me with an expression of cold detachment, and I knew that my protests would be futile. Instead, I stood frozen, staring at the two men in uniform who were there to take me away.

As the short policeman finished reading me my rights, a feeling of profound despair settled over me. This was it, then. After everything that had happened, after all that I had been through, I was going back to that dark, cold place. The thought was unbearable, but there was nothing I could do to stop it.

As I dressed and gathered my things, I tried to remain composed. My mind was fixated on the compensation that sat untouched in my account, but now beyond my grasp. I took my house key, wallet, and phone and glanced at the jar on the fridge, grabbing a handful of coins, enough for a bus ride home upon my release. I hoped I would be spared the humiliation of handcuffs as I was led outside, passing by the prying eyes of curious neighbours. Thankfully, the two officers did not need to restrain me, a small mercy, but one I was thankful for nonetheless. As we pulled away, I cast a final glance at my home, attempting to calm my nerves. I repeated to myself, "Just answer their questions, and you'll be back home soon."

The world outside the police car window appeared indifferent to my situation, as we made our way to the station. I sat in a vacant daze, lost in my thoughts, and my stomach churned with worry about my children. All I wanted was to hold them close, especially since they were due to visit me that evening.

We arrived at the station, and the officers led me to the same cell where I had spent an unwelcomed night just a month before. I never thought I'd have to see the inside of this place again, but here I was, under arrest for a crime I didn't commit.

The procedures began, and I cooperated passively, as if a mere passenger in my own life. My rights were repeated, and my belongings were taken away, including the items I had taken care to gather. I was patted down for weapons and drugs, then put in a room to wait for my solicitor to arrive. I had made the mistake of not having legal representation the first time I was arrested, and I wouldn't repeat it again.

As I waited, I tried to call my friend Alison, but her voicemail picked up after a dozen rings. I left a message, but I couldn't remember what I had said. Little did I know that this would be the last call I would make for a long time.






-----------------

The cell was a featureless box, with a rectangular shape and a bed-like platform raised on one side. In the corner, an alcove with a toilet completed the sparse amenities. The walls were a drab shade of grey, unadorned and without windows. Above, a few meagre beams of light penetrated through sixteen small, thickened glass cubes. When the door clanged shut, I knew what was coming. I braced myself for the interminable wait that might lie ahead, my phone confiscated and my fate uncertain.

It was roughly eleven o'clock, or so I guessed without the aid of a watch. The only furnishings were a mat, similar to the kind used in yoga or gym classes, about two inches thick and the size of a pillow. I leaned it against the wall and sat down, drawing my knees to my chest. For an hour or so, I sat there in suspense, expecting the door to open any minute, only to hear the sound of footsteps receding and the crushing silence returning.

The hours drifted by like leaves on a river, swirling and tumbling, but going nowhere. I walked in circles, sat in a corner, and repeated the process ad infinitum. And still, nothing happened. My initial composure and energy gradually ebbed away, replaced by doubt and despair, until I found myself curled up on the floor, a wounded animal awaiting the final blow.

When the door creaked open at last, I stumbled out of the cell, half-blind and half-conscious, like a sleepwalker stirred by a sudden noise. The clock on the wall showed that nearly six hours had elapsed since my arrest, a lifetime in a windowless, airless cell.

The man who greeted me in the interview room was a stranger, an immaculate figure in his forties, poring over a file of papers. He looked up, his eyes focused on me, and motioned with his hand for me to sit down.

"Hello, I'm Simon Osbourne," he said, his voice low and even. "And I'm going to do my best to help you get back home."
_______

As Simon spoke, his voice was measured and composed. I could tell he had done this countless times before. With cool detachment, he laid out the upcoming process for me. First, I would be questioned by the police. Once the investigation was complete, the Crown Prosecution Service would review my case to determine if charges should be filed. Since this was potentially my second offence, the assumption was that I had a 'bad character', which could work against me. Simon then explained the charge against me and the potential consequences. I could either plead 'guilty' or 'not guilty' if charged, but both options carried the possibility of a jail sentence if found guilty.

The Judge had recognized the mitigating factors that had led to my arrest a month ago. He addressed them in his concluding remarks and judgment. On that occasion, I had violated the order by sending Lucia a text message instead of communicating via email, which the order stipulated. It was a mere formality, but a breach nonetheless. I used my mobile phone because I didn't have access to the internet, but it didn't matter; I was convicted. If I was found guilty of violating the same order again, the potential prison sentence could be as long as five years.

As the hours dragged on, I turned the incident over and over in my mind. The details burned themselves into my brain, and when Simon asked for an account, I was able to provide a thorough and precise recollection of events. He listened intently, and I could sense his growing admiration. My oration seemed to have proven my innocence, at least in Simon's eyes. But the journey to acquittal was far from over. Without any concrete evidence to present, it would be my word against Lucia's, and the outcome remained uncertain. Simon remained cautiously optimistic, but we both knew that the decision rested in the hands of the court.

Simon's counsel was precise and concise, much like his demeanour. He advised me to stick to the truth when I was questioned, just as I had with him. If they veered from the incident's specifics, I was to answer with a simple 'no comment.' Our discussion drew to a close, and a uniformed officer reappeared. I was led back to the cell, with the assurance that I'd be called soon. This time, a few minutes meant just that - a few minutes.

I was escorted once more to that same interview room. I didn't bother to glance at the clock in reception; time was no longer relevant to me. My attention was focused solely on the upcoming interview and the yearning to return home. Simon was still occupying the same chair he'd occupied earlier, but now two female police officers sat across from him. An audio cassette player rested on the table between us, an archaic device that would have seemed more at home in a recording studio than in a room where the future of one's life may be decided.

As I sat down in the same interview room, I couldn't help but feel a sense of déjà vu. The two female officers sat across from me, and the cassette player sat between us, ready to capture every word.

The officer conducting the interview was soft-spoken and gentle, her questions probing yet respectful. I recounted the events once more, hoping that this time it would be enough to prove my innocence.

But then, a sudden and unexpected question shattered the calm atmosphere.

"Does it make you feel more of a man when you hit women, Julian?" the previously silent officer asked, her tone accusatory.

I looked to Simon for support, but his pained expression told me that this was a moment where my fate could be decided.

"No comment," I replied firmly, my voice shaking slightly.

The interview ended soon after, and as I sat alone in the room waiting to be taken back to my cell, Simon's words echoed in my head. "You did well there, Julian. Well done," he had said, but the uncertainty in his voice was unmistakable.

I could only hope that the truth would prevail and that I would be released soon. But as the minutes turned into hours, I began to lose all sense of time and place. All I could do was wait and hope that my ordeal would come to an end.

The door slammed shut, and I was back in my cell. The silence was deafening. How long would it be this time? The police needed to evaluate my interview and make a decision. It was about five o'clock. If I were released soon, I could make it home in time to see my children at six. But if I were charged, it could be days, maybe even weeks before I saw them again. The agony of uncertainty was almost unbearable.

The thick walls of my cell kept me in a time capsule, away from the outside world. As the sun set and darkness engulfed the sky, I was left to wonder about my fate. Would the police release me, or would they charge me? Time ticked by agonizingly slow, and I watched the shadows dance across the glass bricks until finally, the cell door creaked open. I emerged, squinting in the dim light, and followed the officer back to the reception area. The clock on the wall read 20:31, and I couldn't help but feel a pang of anxiety. Three more hours had slipped away, and I still had no answers.

Time seemed to freeze as I stood there in reception, the weight of the charges suffocating me. My mind raced, trying to comprehend the sudden turn of events. Before I could even collect my thoughts, I was charged on two counts and told I would stand trial the next day, leaving me with no time to prepare. My heart sank even further as I learned that I would be held in police custody until the trial, with no chance of contacting anyone - not even my children. I begged for a chance to call someone, anyone, just to let them know where I was, but my pleas fell on deaf ears. The officer's response was firm and final, leaving me alone with my fear and uncertainty. As the door slammed shut, I knew that I was trapped, with nothing to do but wait for what would come next.

The cell was my sanctuary once more, and I found solace in the grey blanket that awaited me. As I settled in, the events of the day replayed in my mind like a broken record. The world outside was quiet, and time seemed to pass slowly until I was jolted awake by the sound of two sharp clunks. The light from the door flooded the room, and I squinted to make out the figure standing before me. A familiar voice broke the silence, a voice that shouldn't be here.

"Smithy?!" said the voice.

My heart raced as I searched for my glasses, hoping this wasn't some strange hallucination.

"What on earth are you doing here?" the voice continued, now more clearly recognizable.

With my glasses on, I sat up and focused on the figure sitting beside me. It was Buster, an old acquaintance, but what was he doing here in this place, at this time?

"Buster?" I said in disbelief.

"Surely it can't be?"



Buster, once Martin, and I go way back. We were teammates on the same football squad for several seasons as teens, and our friendship had stood the test of time. As we hugged in that dimly lit cell, for a moment, it felt like nothing else mattered.

It turned out that he was now the Chief Constable in the county and was working a night shift at this station as a favour for a friend. I recounted to him the course of events that had led to my detention that day, and Buster listened sympathetically, tutting and shaking his head.

"Are you famished?" Buster asked me.

The thought of hunger had not even crossed my mind until then.

"Yeah, I am," I replied..

Buster disappeared from the cell and instructed me to wait for him. He returned before I could even begin to wonder what was taking him so long. In his hands, he carried a pot noodle, a cereal bar, and a hot cup of tea. I savoured every bite and sip as Buster and I spoke freely, ignoring the inherent power dynamics of our situation. We spoke about the past and present, our lives having taken divergent paths since our days as teammates. As fathers, we bonded over the unique joy and tribulations of raising children, sharing anecdotes and advice.

The sound of the door shutting behind Buster reverberated around the cell, a low hum that seemed to linger in the air long after he had gone. I sat for a while longer, reflecting on our conversation, on the memories we had shared. The silence was all-encompassing and it must have been around 4 am when I finally crawled under the coarse blanket and closed my eyes. My stomach was full, and my mind was heavy with exhaustion, and it wasn't long before sleep claimed me.

As the light started to filter through the glass ceiling, I stirred from my slumber. The sound of jangling keys and distant commotion outside pulled me fully awake. It must be around 7 am, my usual waking hour. The first hearing of the court was scheduled for 10 am, and my trial could come at any time after that, depending on the queue. I had a few hours to kill, but my mind was already buzzing with anticipation, and there was no chance of slipping back into slumber. The moment of truth was now tantalizingly close, and I could sense its presence, pulsating like a living, breathing thing. Just a little longer to wait, I told myself, trying to quell the unease in my gut.

Time passed, heavy and slow, as I sat in my cell, contemplating the looming trial. I ran through the events leading up to my arrest, trying to identify where things had gone wrong, where the evidence was lacking. Despite my rational mind assuring me of my innocence, my heart pounded with a persistent sense of unease. It was as if I was suspended in a liminal space, teetering on the precipice of either freedom or a harsh prison sentence. The line between hope and despair blurred, and I was caught in a cycle of endless anticipation, the outcome veiled in uncertainty. The clock ticked on, and I was powerless to speed up its hand.

The sound of jangling keys and muted murmurs seeped into my cell, but it was not yet my time. The morning hours dragged on, and the daylight streaming through the thick glass ceiling hinted at an early afternoon. Why was it taking so long? A knot formed in my stomach, and my mind spiralled with endless possibilities of what could have gone wrong. Perhaps they had encountered some unforeseen issues, or maybe they had even forgotten about me. The weight of the suspense became unbearable until the sound of bolts sliding and the creak of the opening door abruptly shattered the silence.

The officer's words jolted me from my reverie, as he fastened the cuffs around my wrists, their metallic chill biting into my skin. I stared at him, desperately seeking any hint of what lay ahead, but his expression remained inscrutable. In a wordless procession, he guided me down a labyrinthine passageway to a cramped waiting area, where a lone figure sat, absorbed in a sheaf of papers. As I approached, I recognized the man as a member of the Crown Prosecution Service, whose duty was to oversee my case. With a curt nod, he relieved the officer of his duty and took his place beside me.

The CPS officer's body was adorned with tattoos that swirled like inked mist, his goatee as impeccably sculpted as a miniature garden. He offered a tight-lipped grin as he took hold of one of my handcuffs and linked it to his own wrist. The weight of the handcuff on his arm didn't seem to bother him, and his gaze never wavered from mine.

"The moment of truth approaches," he said, his tone far too casual for the gravity of the situation. We were hardly friends, but at this moment I clung to any semblance of support I could find. My mind was a swarm of anxiety and fear, as I waited for the inevitable.

"Right," I replied with a forced smile, my face a flimsy veneer hiding the turmoil beneath. At least this limbo of anticipation would soon come to an end, whatever the outcome may be.

As the officer led me back into the same courtroom, memories of my previous visit flooded my mind. He unfastened my handcuffs and directed me to sit behind a perspex screen that separated us from the rest of the room. The prosecuting solicitor sat on the far side while my defence sat on the near side. Several other people sat behind them, presumably observing the proceedings. To my right, three empty seats sat on a raised platform, while to my left, a large ornate wooden door stood. As I gazed at the door, it creaked open to reveal three stern-looking women in their late 50s or early 60s. The entire courtroom rose in unison as the trio walked regally to their seats at the front. A silent nod indicated that we could all take our seats.

As if in a dream, I was instructed to stand and walk towards the microphone, positioned like a beacon in the middle of the perspex screen. I tried to steady my breathing and clear my mind, but the air seemed thick with trepidation. When asked to confirm my name, address, and date of birth, my words barely left my throat, quivering with fear.

The prosecution's words poured out like a torrent, describing a monstrous figure who posed a danger to women, children, and even himself. I listened as they painted a portrait of a man consumed by violence, a person without regard for the law, and whose very presence terrified those around him. With each word, I could feel the weight of their accusations pressing down on me, suffocating me. Their performance was convincing, and I was left wondering what the judge made of it all.

Simon stood up from his seat, a man of composure and certainty. With measured steps, he approached the dock and turned to face the court. His voice was steady, his eyes locked on the judges, and he began his oration. For ten minutes, he wove a convincing defence, rekindling the ember of hope within me. He spoke of my character, of my love for my children, of my dedication to my job. And then, he dropped a crucial bombshell, that the CCTV footage could prove my innocence.

The Judge nodded thoughtfully and withdrew to consult with the Court clerk, the shuffle of papers filling the silence. I held my breath, waiting for the verdict. The tension was palpable, my future hinged on the forthcoming decision. After a few moments, the Judge spoke, her voice calm and measured. "We will adjourn until the footage can be reviewed," she said, a hint of empathy in her tone. Relief washed over me, and my spirits lifted. A chance for vindication, a chance to clear my name. I dared to hope that I would be going home soon, perhaps even within the hour.

In a matter of seconds, my future was decided. The prosecution's fearmongering took hold of the Judge, and I was to be held on remand. Despite my protests and assurances that I had no intention of contacting Lucia, the Judge's decision was final. I could feel the hope drain out of me as the Court clerk announced the next trial date: November 28th. Fifty-six days away. A lifetime. As the courtroom emptied, I felt the weight of my situation. Fifty-six days in a cell, waiting. The guard offered some words of comfort, but they fell flat. I was alone with my thoughts and the ticking clock.

The guard's sympathetic smile did little to soothe my frustration. I was innocent, but no one seemed to believe me. As I re-entered my cell, I was greeted by a new officer who, in a friendly tone, asked me how I was doing. My response was immediate.

"I'm not okay. I'm not okay at all," I pleaded.

The officer's reply was overly calm, suggesting he was all too familiar with this situation.

"It's okay. It's a mistake," he assured me.

But his soothing words did little to alleviate my anxiety.

"I haven't done anything wrong. You can't keep me locked up here for the next 56 days," I protested.

The guard chuckled, as if I had just told a joke.

"Don't be ridiculous," he chided me.

"You won't stay here. You'll be going to Woodhill."

I had never heard of Woodhill, and the guard could sense my confusion.

"It's a prison in Milton Keynes. You'll feel better about things once you're settled in," he said, with an unconvincing smile.

---------------------------

Up until that point, the concept of prison hadn't really occurred to me. Thirty-six hours had passed since my arrest, but it felt much longer. For the most part, I'd remained positive, anticipating a release at any moment. I didn't dare consider the prospect of being detained. Even when the verdict was announced, I still hadn't considered a prison term. I'd naively presumed I'd be held at the police station for fifty-six days. In hindsight, that was a foolish presumption, and what was to come would make me long for the relative safety of my cell at the station.
xxx
Three agonising hours passed, and at 7:00 pm, the same officer returned. He fixed my cuffs and led me from the cell, through the police station and outside: to a car park and an armoured police van. I'd seen vans like this before, usually on TV with blanketed convicts being ushered inside with the press clamouring for pictures. A small part of me was intrigued to see the inside of one of these vehicles for the first time. However, a more significant part of me couldn't believe I was the convict being ushered inside.

The van was lined with five cells. At the front was one 'open' seat accompanied by a desk. A laptop and several phones sat on the desk - this was clearly the officer's seat. I was placed in the one unoccupied cell, and as I boarded, I could see the eyes of fellow passengers looking back at me through the slit windows of their cell doors. Once inside, a small triple-glazed window allowed me a tantalising glimpse of the outside, but its tinting prevented anyone from seeing inside. Through this darkened glass, I could see that the sun was now close to the horizon. I gazed at it until it blinded my eyes like a caveman staring into a fire. After an hour, the sun had almost set, and I could feel the van beginning to slow and negotiating several speed bumps. The view outside changed from the lush greenery of roadside trees to the clinical grey of concrete and street lights. We arrived at HMP Woodhill just after 8 pm and began a mammoth sequence of security checks to access the maximum security facility.

As I was escorted from the van to prison reception, the menacing scale of the facility overwhelmed me. It was a vast place, and it was incredibly secure. My possessions had been transferred to the prison directly from the police station. The guard at reception documented these things and asked me to sign to confirm. Next came a rudimentary health check - my height, my weight, any allergies and such like, followed by a humiliating full-body and cavity strip-search. 

I was issued a bed sheet, blanket, bowl and plastic cutlery—next, my new uniform; an oversized grey jogging suit. An officer took my mug shot, and my ID card was issued, complete with my prison number. Finally, I was asked if I smoked. I did, although I hadn't for two days and told them so.

"You came with a fiver, didn't you, Smith? Well, we'll take that for this." barked the officer as he tossed me a small polythene pack containing a pouch of cheap tobacco, some rolling papers and a lighter.

I remembered my arrest two days earlier when I'd grabbed five pounds before leaving my apartment. Stroke of luck, I thought.

The guard led me from the prison reception to a door labelled - Induction Centre. As he turned the key in the door, I prepared myself for what might be on the other side.

The Induction Centre had a surprisingly cosy feel, had it not been for the railings, it could be mistaken for a room in any leisure centre, library or university. Four rows of comfortable-looking chairs spanned the floor space, and a single flat-screen television hung on the far wall. On the last but one row of red chairs were two prisoners in familiar grey jogging suits. Our entrance didn't stir them, and the guard explained that they were 'listeners' - experienced prisoners with long sentences who helped new inmates like me adapt to life behind bars. If I needed someone to talk to or had any worries or concerns - the listeners were my first port of call. As we stood in the doorway, the listeners glanced up and nodded before returning their gaze to the TV on the wall. It was a wildlife documentary about animals in a zoo.

The guard left and locked the door behind him. I shuffled forward and sat down alongside the two listeners.

"Great seeing a proper telly innit Kirky?" said one of the men, his eyes still transfixed on the screen.

"Yeah, quality, mate", said the other.

A minute or two passed before Kirky turned to me and said

"So what are you in here for?"

I provided a brief synopsis and could see they were both underwhelmed. I explained I hadn't been inside before but didn't need to; it was abundantly clear how uncomfortable I was in these surroundings. Jack and Kirky were serving fifteen years and ten years, respectively; for attempted murder and armed robbery. They spoke with nonchalance, and neither looked capable of the crimes for which they had been committed.

They explained that in prison-speak, cigarettes were 'burn', a guard was a 'screw', and a cell was somewhat deceptively termed a 'pad'. When their tuition ended, we returned to silence and fixed our eyes on the TV.

The TV on the wall wasn't that impressive, smaller than the likes found in most homes across the country. As we watched, occasionally, one of them would offer up a witty remark, and the other would chuckle back. I joined in, even though I didn't find anything remotely funny. After about twenty minutes, the screw returned and reapplied my handcuffs.

He led me from the Induction Centre, down a passageway, to an iron gate with a board above it marked Wing 1B. This would be my home for the next fifty-six days — and maybe even more. We entered the wing and locked the gates behind us. I took a deep breath and surveyed the imposing scene before me.

The wing was triangular-shaped with windows spanning from the floor to the ceiling on the near wall. The other two walls were peppered with four storeys of twenty-or-so grey metal doors. A wiry, grey metal staircase connected each floor. A couple of pool tables in the far corner were the only glimmer of humanity. The dim lighting did nothing to disguise the soulless ambience. 

We scaled the wiry staircase to the second floor and stopped outside a cell door marked - 2-10B. The door opened with two sharp slides and a key turn, and I was ushered in. Almost immediately, the door slammed shut behind me. The same two short sharp clunks signalled the end of my induction. That would be my last contact with the outside world until the morning. A small metal shutter in the cell door could be opened from the outside to allow guards to check on their captives. But that shutter was closed for now, making it impossible to see in or out.

The cell measured twelve feet by six. To the right, a green curtain did its best to conceal a shabby porcelain toilet and sink, and to the left, two wooden boxes, with a portable TV perched on the one nearest the far wall. At the back of the cell was a small window with bars, beneath it a concrete ledge. Half of the floor space was occupied by a rickety set of bunk beds. The top bunk was empty and presumably mine. On the bottom bunk lay a man who looked roughly my age. He was white, heavy-set, with short brown hair and a scruff of brown stubble. My entrance seemed to startle him, and as I stooped to catch his eye, he was already rising to his feet.

"Igor," he stated with a firm offer of the hand. His accent sounded Russian or Slavic.

"Julian," I replied, planting a firm shake into his offered hand.

Standing, I could see he was a couple of inches shorter than me. He could see I was no danger to him and offered no threat. Neither of us raised a full smile, but there was enough warmth and honesty in the greeting to allay my initial fears of murder or brutal ass-rape. He looked pleased to have company, and the conversation began to flow.

Igor's English was good. He was from Lithuania but was born in Russia, and at thirty-one, I was four years his elder. He lived in a town I knew well and had arrived in Woodhill earlier that day. This was Igor's second time in prison; indeed, his second time at Woodhill. His sentence on the previous occasion had been four months. This time he had been sentenced to four months. However, he hoped to be released after only two with good behaviour. Our initial exchange was reassuring. Igor was not a violent criminal; he seemed a nice guy and much more comfortable in the current environment than I was.

Igor opened his tobacco pouch, rolled a cigarette and perched on the ledge next to the window. I rolled a cigarette too. He asked me who I was and why I was there.

I explained I hadn't been sentenced yet, I was on remand, and my trial was still fifty-six days away.

"Je-e-sus!" he gasped, raising his mono-brow in disbelief. "What did you do? Are you a terrorist?"

His question made me smile. Did he really think I was a terrorist? However, my grin vanished almost immediately when I realised he wasn't smiling back.

"No, no, of course not!" I said, but Igor had already produced a pocket-sized Bible and thrust it aloft.

"I am a Christian," he declared — with a pronounced rolling of the 'r'.

I quickly assured him of my own Christian upbringing and that I wasn't an Islamic fundamentalist; I wasn't really religious at all. I went on to describe my arrest and the events leading to my sharing his cell. As I told him about the adjournment and how I'd been remanded, I could see signs of sympathy in his rugged complexion. Igor knew of two other inmates held in Woodhill for precisely the same thing. He told me I should have pleaded guilty, reasoning that the crime only carried an eight-week sentence anyway. With good behaviour, that would mean 'just' four weeks inside. I'd make things worse by pleading not guilty - eight weeks in Woodhill awaiting trial, followed by a longer stretch if I was subsequently found guilty.

Igor was right. I cast my mind back to the family court hearing just a few days earlier and how elated I had felt. I'd waited so long for a Christmas with my children, but now I was sitting in a prison cell, facing the possibility of Christmas inside and alone. I might miss the final family court hearing scheduled for early January too. Even if I did get out, what chance did I stand now? With one or maybe two convictions in just a few months, I stood no chance. The thought of incarceration filled me with terror, but the prospect of losing my children was of a magnitude a million times stronger. I felt hopeless. Things really couldn't get much worse.

I finished my cigarette and tossed the butt out of the window. Igor tutted in disgust.

"Don't throw it out there," he scolded. "Throw it in here."

He shook a cigarette butt-laden yoghurt pot under my nose.

"You'll need them later."



Igor had good reason to suspect I was a terrorist. Fifty-six days is the longest period of time anyone could be detained in this country without trial. Recent anti-terror legislation increased this from the previous limit of twenty-eight. Woodhill catered for all types of prisoners; he and I were category B. Our wing housed about seventy-five other prisoners of category B, and category C. Igor pointed to the window, to a heavily secured block about fifty yards away outside.

"And that's where they keep the category A prisoners, also known as the lifers' block. Charles Bronson? Michael Adebelago?.."

He scanned my face for recognition, and he wasn't disappointed. I'd heard of Charles Bronson, the most notorious prisoner in Britain, a man more infamous for his string of violence inside of prison walls than the crimes he committed outside them. Adebelago rang a bell too, but I couldn't think why. Igor explained that he was responsible for beheading Lee Rigby in one of the most gruesome, politically motivated murders the country has seen. My proximity to these men reinforced the gravity of my situation. Between us and them, just a couple of stone walls, an electric fence and several metres of razor-like barbed wire. The perimeter of their block and ours was patrolled by a squadron of armed guards, each accompanied by a snarling Alsatian. In the eyes of the law, I was now a dangerous criminal and would be treated as such for the foreseeable future.

+


Chatting with Igor made things seem almost normal. His impromptu induction was far more enlightening than the one with the listeners. He described our daily timetable, which took him only a short time! Doors would be opened at 0800 for thirty minutes when we could leave our cell. The same applied to lunch between 1145 and 1230 and again for dinner between 1645 and 1730. For the other twenty-two hours of the day, doors would remain locked. Work and education were exceptions to this rule, but the application process for both took several weeks, so neither Igor nor I could be considered for these. The only other exception was the twice-weekly hour of 'social', which occurred every third day between 1430 and 1530. During this time, we could socialise with other inmates, either around the pool tables in the wing or on a supervised march outside.

We could request Razor blades and replacement kit from the screws, but anything else had to be documented on the appropriate application form and requested from the governor. Application forms were available outside the governor's office on the ground floor. Once completed, these were posted in boxes, and a response to the request was given in due course. We must speak to the governor directly for any immediate requests or emergencies, and there would always be a very long queue.

With Igor's induction complete, our conversation meandered across a range of subjects, but it inevitably began to wane after an hour or so. Finally, I hopped up to the top bunk, settled back, and fixed my gaze on the tiny television. I had no TV at home. How ironic, I thought, that I should be finding escape in precisely the type of Friday programming, I claimed to detest so much. Nevertheless, it was the only distraction available, and I allowed it to immerse me, trying not to think about my son and my daughter. They were probably fast asleep by now, no doubt wondering why their Daddy wasn't there this Friday. I knew it may now be months until I saw them again. I longed to hug and kiss them, but I didn't even have a photo — I missed them so much. As I stared at the screen, I couldn't help thinking about the nights I'd spent alongside Lucia's hospital bed, holding her hand and staring at a screen of a different kind, waiting for our beautiful children to be born.

A convoy of programmes came and went, the contents of which would hold little interest to me typically. It wasn't a typical night in, though, and the lights and sounds radiating from the little set offered comfort whilst the subject matter was irrelevant. I absorbed the sights and sounds until I felt myself drifting away sometime in the early hours of Saturday morning. Several times during the night, I awoke to the bark of a prison dog, the jangling of keys, or the haunting wails of a fellow inmate in another cell.

BANG BANG! The cell door swung open. It was morning, and a buzz of activity flooded through the door. As I came to, the realisation of where I was crushed the brief escape from sleep. Igor was gone, and clouds of steam billowed into the cell from the shower room next door. I hopped down from my bunk and freshened my face at the sink. There was no time for a shower, and I needed to speak to the governor. I needed to let somebody know I was here.

The queue at the governor's door was at least a dozen deep when I joined at the back. I surveyed my surroundings, taking care not to eyeball anyone but returning any nods or fist-taps offered my way. Everyone wore the same grey jogging suit. Some wore their trainers from the outside world, while the less fortunate ones wore black, prison-issued, elasticated plimsolls. No laces were allowed as they presented an opportunity for escape via suicide.

Some inmates milled around, others huddled in groups, talking amongst themselves or to one of the three screws on duty in the wing. The bustle of chatter was in stark contrast to the scene of desolation which had greeted me some twelve hours earlier.

Five minutes elapsed, and the queue hadn't moved. There was no chance of me reaching the front of it in the remaining twenty-five minutes. I wouldn't be speaking to the governor this morning, and there would be no call. I left the queue, dejected, and returned to the pad. As I mounted the staircase, I passed a screw on his way down and asked him about making a call. He told me that due to the nature of my charge, it might take up to six weeks for a call to be allowed - lots of checks needed to be made to ensure the safety of the witnesses and victims of violent crime. The only way I could make a call would be to ask the Judge for special permission at my bail hearing next week.

"Bail hearing?" I echoed inquisitively.

"What do you mean?"

The screw said that all prisoners on remand are legally entitled to apply for a change in their bail conditions - this is usually done via video link with a Judge in the County Court and takes place about a week after the initial detainment. So I could appeal for a phone call. I could even appeal for my release. A faint, warm glimmer of hope rapidly extinguished the bitter disappointment I'd felt in the governor's queue. I smiled slightly as I completed the last few steps back to the cell. Fifty-six days of detention might evaporate into just seven! I could be home within a week and revelled in that possibility.

Igor could see I was lifted and eagerly asked why. I told him about the queue, the phone call, or lack of one, and next week's bail hearing. As I paused for breath, Igor interjected with a ruthlessness and logic that I couldn't deny.

"What will have changed in seven days?"

I had to concede; he made an excellent point. The answer to his question was: nothing. Why would they change their minds? I had nothing new to say to them, and they didn't believe me the last time. He was right, and we both knew it. He could see that his realism had floored me, and tried to make amends.

"You never know, my friend. It could happen. I wish you luck the best of luck. Besides, you could always try writing if they won't let you speak to anyone." Igor pointed to a pen next to the TV. Why hadn't I thought of that myself, I wondered? That's precisely what I'll do.

For the next seven days — aside from meal breaks, health checks and an educational assessment — I wrote. Each morning I collected a handful of application forms to use the reverse for my scribbles. I started with the most pressing matter, the reason for my release. Then I moved on to finances, documenting the monies I needed to pay, who to pay, and by when. I surprised myself by how much I could recall from memory, a faculty I'd long thought to be my Achilles heel. Next, more administrative duties from my life in the outside world — to my employer, my daughter's teacher, my solicitor, my doctor, my friends, and even to a friend to babysit my fantasy football team. With so much time to kill, these things offered some amusement, and when I'd organised and planned thoroughly, I started writing about how I felt. Writing took away the frustration of being locked up like an animal. It transported me to another place in a way that neither Igor nor the TV could.

Lunch times were a frenzy of activity. First, a scramble at the servery, then banter and chatting, before the bartering commenced. Food was just one of the forms of currency to exchange on the thriving black market operating within the wing. Clothes, sugar, burn, and rolling papers were all staple commodities. And for those 'in the know, ' any prescription or recreational drug was available for the right price. The rush to pitch, haggle and transact before time was up added urgency and intensity to the negotiations.

With no one aware of my detention, there was no chance of me receiving any money from outside. Therefore, I knew that if I wanted anything besides what was provided in my daily rations, I would have to participate in this meleé.

I struck a deal with a softly spoken chap from the pad two doors down. I gave him my dessert each day in exchange for four sachets of sugar and two cigarettes worth of burn. He got the dessert hit he desired whilst I could have a cup of tea and a cigarette each morning and evening. After a week or so of our arrangement, I discovered that my bartering partner was serving seven years for armed robbery.

The lunch menu varied only slightly each day, typically consisting of a baguette with two hard-boiled eggs and an apple. The evening feed offered a little more variety but was only fractionally more enticing. Minced beef was the primary component of almost every dish — sometimes it was mixed with potatoes, peas and sweetcorn to make a stew; sometimes it was mixed with pasta, tomatoes and onions to make a bolognese; and sometimes it was minced beef with mashed potatoes. To follow: a chocolate biscuit, some jelly, or an iced lolly.

A breakfast pack was provided each evening but rarely made it to morning, usually consumed in the evening due to boredom, hunger, or both.


then


Copyright © 2015 by Adam Cann

Monday 4 April 2016

The Cycle of Pain: Understanding the Roots of Aggression and Moving Towards Compassion

It's hard to deny the overwhelming sense of hurt and frustration that arises when we are on the receiving end of someone's hurtful behaviour. In those moments, it can be all too easy to feel a seething anger and a desire for retribution. We may feel that the only way to address the pain is to lash out in turn, to make the person who caused us suffering experience the same level of hurt that we have felt.

And yet, upon closer examination, we often find that this desire for revenge is rooted in a deep sense of pain and vulnerability. The wounds we carry may be old and difficult to heal, and the actions of others can re-open those wounds with alarming ease. In this sense, it is not so much the individual who has caused us harm that we hate, but rather the pain and fear that we associate with that experience. It is only by acknowledging and addressing that pain that we can hope to move past it and create a more compassionate and understanding world.

Consider the notion that every act of cruelty or aggression stems from a place of pain. A person who inflicts harm upon another is often carrying a weight of suffering within themselves that they cannot bear alone. It is this internal struggle that spills over and manifests as outward aggression.

But is punishment the answer? Is it enough to simply castigate and condemn the offender, without ever examining the root cause of their behaviour? Surely, if we hope to make any meaningful change, we must first offer help to those who are suffering.

Understanding the source of another's pain requires a deep sense of empathy and compassion. It is only through this lens that we can begin to recognize the humanity in all people, even those who have caused us harm. Only then can we hope to create a world in which healing and growth are possible for all.

Wednesday 9 March 2016

Tuesday 29 December 2015

Higher Without You



You can hold on if you want to,
But you know I never let you go.
Ain't nobody there to talk to,
Nobody's a whole in this life.

Only if you could see the bright side,
Of waking up and being alone.
If only you could see the future,
It's all yours now,
Cause I know I'll be higher without you now,
Keeping up a life somehow,
Oh you'll be lighter without me girl,
Feeling alright somehow.
I'll be higher without you now,
Keeping up a life somehow,
Oh you'll be lighter without me girl,
Feeling alright somehow.

Cause I know I'll be higher,
Without you.
Higher,
On my own.
You'll be higher,
Without me.
Higher,
On your own.

Higher without you now,
Keeping up a life somehow,
Oh you'll be lighter without me girl,
Feeling alright somehow
I'll be higher without you now,
Keeping up a life somehow,
Oh you'll be lighter without me girl,
Feeling alright somehow...
Feeling alright somehow...
Feeling alright somehow.

You can hold on if you want to,
But you know I never let you go.
Ain't nobody there to talk to,
Nobody's a whole in this life.

Only if you could see the bright side,
Of waking up and being alone.
If only you could see the future,
It's all yours now.

Thursday 24 December 2015

All I Want For Christmas



If we could all have our wishes come true in this life, what would yours be?
I know what mine would be. I’d wish for you both to come back to me.
You see, your mummy decided to take you out of my life a year ago when she asked the courts to stop me from being with you. Since then, things have worsened, with all contact between us being cut off.
Your mummy and I have not been in a great place for a while, but we tried to give you a good start in life. We promised to travel the selfless journey of parenthood together from the moment we laid eyes on you both. The hardest thing for me is to forgive myself for allowing this promise to be broken, leaving you without your daddy.
I wish I could turn back time.
My life has been full of wishes, and to say I’ve been blessed up until this nightmare began is a very truthful statement.
The memory of your births will never leave me. When I first laid my eyes on you both, I couldn’t quite understand how your mummy and I had created such perfect little people from scratch. Even to this moment, this memory still brings tears to my eyes.
A parent’s love reaches above and beyond anything else we feel as humans. My love for you has always been my strength, and my passion is to ensure you are happy and safe.
So right now, I wish I could hug you both as I used to whenever either of you were having a bad day, because I feel these days aren’t the best ones for any of us.
This Christmas will be empty without your morning cuddles and shrieks of excitement. It will not be the same without your laughter and conversations echoing through the house. You are my best friends, my laughter, my reason for believing in true love and most of all, you are both my reason for living. I wake up every morning hoping that my wishes come true and that my only wish for Christmas is to have you both come home.
To all the mothers and fathers reading this who have been alienated from their children, don’t give up hope; one day, the truth will be known.
To my own beautiful children, I hope to see you both very soon, and I hope your mummy has a change of heart. We are all human; humans make mistakes, and sometimes anger can cloud our judgment.
Your mummy is a good woman, and I will never say a bad word about her, even though she has been so cruel in her actions. I know the only people hurt by horrible statements and accusations in all this mess will be the two little people who matter the most.
Some day you will grow older, and someday, you may come across these stories and letters and wonder why?
Your memories of me, and all the wonderful things we did, will stay with you until you are old enough to find the answers for yourself.
So, my wish will stay as it is until I see those glimmering big brown and blue eyes and hear your beautiful voices again.
Love Daddy xx