reflecting

If anyone knows me well they will know I am not one for making big decisions, or any in fact, but in the last year or so I have made two really big decisions. Firstly I decided to leave my friends and family and my little home in Plymouth to move to Jersey. And in more recent months I have decided to move my life to New Zealand with Jack.

‘You won’t have to pay any tax there’ and ‘don’t you have to be a millionaire’ were just some of the things people said to me when I announced I was moving to this odd place called Jersey.

If anyone was wondering ‘yes’ I do pay tax and ‘no’ there are plenty of people here who are not millionaires – me included.

Life is full of rollercoasters and I’m going to be honest here and say the last year or so has felt like I’ve been on the biggest ride at Alton Towers one thousand times over. Before I moved to Jersey I questioned my decision many times but it felt right. I needed to get away and I needed to find myself again.

I’m not one for saying how I feel. In fact I’m not one for saying much at all unless I’m sticking up for the homeless, refugees or trying to make people think about their food waste. But after struggling with life in a small Island for just over a year I have decided that I wanted to put some of those feelings down. Before anyone thinks it’s been all doom or gloom – it hasn’t. 

I joined the JEP full of enthusiasm, full of ideas and hoping to focus on stories that haven’t been done before. I have meet with homeless people in an Island where people don’t think it exists and I have spoken with victims of sexual abuse and an Islander who lost her husband to suicide. I feel proud to have done the things I have done but I have also had to learn a whole new way of writing, learn how the Jersey government works and contend with journalists who have been here for years. That has been tough. 

What I have learnt most over the last year or so is it’s okay not to feel okay and there have been countless times where I have not felt okay. I have come to know the inside of the office toilets so well after shedding many tears inside them. I’m also now a pro at being able to cry behind a cubicle and no-one knowing. I have written countless stories about mental health during my time here and it has taken me a while to realise that, you know what, it’s something that affects us all and life can be pretty shit. In fact it can be so shit that even driving to work can be a chore. 

I have missed countless tea dates with my best friend in the UK who has recently given birth. I have missed my niece’s fifth birthday and my nephew’s third birthday and I have missed conversations with my parents around the dinner table. But most of all I have missed feeling like me. I have felt so exhausted that I have struggled to go to work. I have held back so many tears it has caused pain and I have felt at times that all my passion and compassion has been drawn out of me. 

Don’t get me wrong I have met a number of amazing friends in Jersey and I have fallen back in love. But I have also felt at a loose end on weekends when everyone else seemed to be out. I have ran out of credit speaking to my mum on the phone in floods of tears. I have not told my friends the full extent of how I am feeling because I didn’t want to upset them and I have had many a walk on the beach wetting my checks with my tears. 

Jersey is a beautiful place – it is somewhere I hope to return but my passion to be a journalist has been challenged. Work has been tough and I’ve kept a lot bottled up. Even still I have not explained the full extent of my feelings. Unfortunately it’s been a chapter of my life that many parts of it will remain shut and forgotten. 

It’s time to move on again. I feel I haven’t been following a path since my life changed dramatically a couple of years ago. I don’t know if that is necessarily a bad thing but it’s just made my life tough. I’m excited for things to come but I know that there will be many times when I will question my mental state and have the odd cry in a toilet. 

It’s okay to not feel okay and it happens to the best of us. 

 

social justice warrior? Maybe I am.

I became a journalist to meet people from all walks of life. To report on things that matter and to do my little bit to share the stories of those who may have ended up homeless, lonely, or even become a refugee.

Studying at university I was often scared to say I was studying journalism because most students would back away and think I was recording every word they said with a hand-held device.

It didn’t put me off wanting to be a journalist but it did prepare me for negative comments that I was bound to get.

I could handle people joking about me recording them or making up stories but I never thought I would be accused of being a social justice warrior.

Since starting my first job as a journalist in Plymouth more than four years ago I have spoken to drug addicts, homeless people, those suffering from anorexia and a number of refugees.

In Plymouth I had faced my fair share of negative comments but not once did I feel I was being personally attacked for writing about subjects I cared about.

As a journalist I feel I should report on topics that matter and try and shed as much light on the situation as I can.

Last month I travelled to Paris with a local charity supporting refugees and on my return wrote an article I thought was as honest as it could be without sharing my own opinion.

Since that story was published I have been accused of being a ‘social justice warrior’ and being naive in my views.
One man has even said the JEP should look at their recruitment policy because they hired me – saying I was someone who ‘put being a social justice warrior ahead of being a reporter.’

I am not going to apologise for being passionate. I’m also not going to apologise for covering topics that no-one else has really done at the JEP.
As far as I’m concerned I was employed because I am compassionate. I like to meet people from all walks of life and am always willing to listen to anyone’s story.

I love my job and I feel proud every day when I see my name in print but sometimes it can be draining to be on the receiving end of negative comments almost every day.

Being a reporter is one of the best jobs in the world. Having the ability to give someone a platform and help retell their story.

When in Paris and the Calais ‘jungle’ the people I spoke to spoke to me because they thought telling their stories would help. I’m just glad they can’t see the comments on the JEP Facebook page.

I have listened to countless stories from people who have brought me to tears during my career and I will continue to do that. If I’m seen as a social justice warrior then so be it. I would rather be one of those than someone who has no compassion for others less fortunate than themselves.

the start of a new adventure

Working as a press officer for two years – I soon realised that I was selling my soul to the dark side and I thrived to be the one telling the stories of all the amazing people I was meeting … rather than ringing up a grumpy journo and trying to persuade them my story was better than anyone else’s.

Two and a half years later and I’m leaving the place that has allowed me to do a job I love every single day.

Arriving at Falmouth University some seven years ago, ready to start a journalism degree, I didn’t have a clue what I was doing.

I’m not going to lie I hardly ever read the papers and I didn’t know a byline from a headline. But some years later and I couldn’t love my job more than I do.

I never imagined I would live and work in Plymouth but here I am. Local papers may be facing tough times but The Herald truly has been one of the best places to learn my skill and work alongside some incredible journalists.

Being a reporter can be tough. I have been shouted at in a cornershop in St Budeux for knocking on doors after a young man died. I have sat in inquests and been looked at like the devil for taking notes. And I have made mistakes in stories and not heard the last of it.

But I have also met some of the most incredible people. 

During my time at The Herald I have had the pleasure of writing stories about Shekinah, supporting Plymouth people in their fight to get food waste collections in the city and even had the opportunity to travel to Calais and report on my experience. 

Sitting at a blank screen with the most heart wrenching story in your notebook can be tough but I thank every single person that has allowed me to interview them and given me the freedom to retell their story.

Journalists can get bad press – looked down upon for picking people apart until they break, for ringing them after their relative just died in a car crash and standing outside court ready to get a snap of the person being sent down.

But we also do some incredible things – highlighting issues the world needs to know about.

I have been lucky enough to take part in some wacky things – with some highlights being popcorn making, speed dating, Roller Derby, surfing, rock climbing and gorge walking.

Having a job that you don’t mind turning up to at 7am, or leaving at 10pm is rare but I couldn’t be more proud to say I am a journalist and I love my job more than any I can ever imagine having in the future.

Here is to my new adventure and thank you so much Plymouth for being so welcoming. 

I’m sure I will continue to meet inspirational people and I hope to continue to do my duty as a reporter – tell the truth and make people stop and listen and if we can – try and make a difference. 

x

Paul Burton, Plymouth Herald editor: “This is an oft-cliched and occasionally unjustified phrase in our industry but I genuinely feel that Emily’s passion has made a difference to the lives of many people in Plymouth and for that she should feel extremely proud.”

 

have faith in what will be

Run away they say, stay and focus on your career you say, take a leap of faith she says, don’t be a fool your head tells you. 

Never have I felt so lost. Drowning in this huge ocean that comes to pull me down every evening as I sleep. 

I wake to the sound of my own tears and I wonder what I have done to deserve this. 

A year and yet the tears still come. 

I walk to work, head in the clouds. I smoke a cigarette and sip on a glass of red wine. What are you doing? The voice inside my head whispers to me. 

I meet an extraordinary person and I want their life. But do I? Or am I just scared of what I could have if I just had more courage? 

People often say to me I’m a mysterious soul. I can’t make up my mind. I’m oblivious to much that is going on. 

I was recently asked what I wanted to do. Where I wanted to be in five years time. I didn’t have a clue but yet the person was just helping me to find myself. I couldn’t help but feel angry – feel so lost.

I’m guessing you’re settled now. Your life has moved on. Well I sure am pleased for you. 

Helping people – that’s what I want to do. Do I do that now? Writing about someone with an incredible story for it to end up in the paper and not one soul tell me they read it. I don’t think so.

I have had some amazing experiences this past year and I thank you for letting me go. But I’ve also shed so many tears I could make a lake. I’ve walked so many miles wondering where to go next that I could become an athlete. 

I have kissed. I have given myself to the person who wants me in that moment. But I’ve never fully let myself go. I’ve held back and I’ve hurt.

Where to go now – who knows. The possibilities are endless they say. And yes, maybe they’re all right. Maybe you are all right. 

I will go and try and find my feet. I think of you happy in your new life but secretly hope you think of me often. 

Now to move on. 

 

 

 

soup

Soup is a powerful thing. Soup is the meal your mum feeds you when you’re poorly. Soup is also the meal the elderly look forward to when they are cold and family come to visit. Soup is also the meal more than 40 people queue for every night in Plymouth.

These people are just like you and me but they may not have their own home to go back to, or struggle with addiction. But like all of us – they have a story to tell.

On a cold, damp Sunday evening I’m at Shekinah Mission, a charity that supports the homeless, making sandwiches for up to 60 people.

Hardy volunteers for the Plymouth Soup Run provide a lifeline to some of Plymouth’s most vulnerable residents. As we open the doors, a chorus of laughter fills the small space and an orderly queue is formed.

There are men and women of all ages – some of them know each other, some of them don’t – but what they all have in common is they are here for soup.

We don’t ask questions – we talk to them, we serve them their soup and a hot drink and let them take food away with them.

These are some of the politest people you could meet. Manners are better than most people you would serve in a 5* restaurant. I talk to people who have had a hard childhood, took the wrong path and couldn’t get off it. People who had successful military careers, left and suffered with Post Traumatic Stress. We don’t judge – we give them their only hot meal they might have that day.

As I wipe the tables and think of all the amazing people I met that night I can feel my eyes dampening. We really don’t know how lucky we are. But I am yet to realise the soup run gets much tougher.

It’s a bitterly cold Thursday evening and I’m stood on a street in Stonehouse, next to a car full of soup and other goodies, waiting to serve the working ladies. Myself and a team mate take a short walk around the area hoping to see some of the women and tell them we’re here. We don’t see anyone – which I don’t know whether that is a good or bad thing.

I’m wearing socks and boots, a hat, four layers and a coat and I’m still freezing. The first lady we meet is a regular to the soup run. She looks incredible in her tiny skirt, fishnets and over-the-knee boots – so many questions touch the edge of my lips but don’t come out.

She keeps leaving to check for customers – a natural after doing it for so many years. I sit and talk to the other two volunteers, hearing stories of ladies being left out on the moor and having their heads beat on the floor. Once again my cheeks dampen as tears roll down my face.

How can life be so cruel that these poor women, all who have a story to tell like you and me, stand on the street to earn a living?

As a customer approaches my new friend my blood boils. I want to go after him, scream in his face but I can’t ruin the girls trust and their livelihood.

I met four women that night. Each one of them hugged me. Each one of them is someone’s daughter and each one of them is trying to earn a living to survive – just like you or me.

That night broke my heart in two.

How can life really be so shit that vulnerable people have sex with horrific men for a few pound to stay alive?

Sometimes it pays to stop and listen to someone’s story.

Soup really is a wonderful thing.

 

 

time is a healer – so they say

Does it ever really help to look back at what was and wasn’t said and regret decisions made?

 

Or should we let our hearts heal and our tears dry and move forward?

 

This is my problem. How do I move on from heartache? How do I steal my face away from looking back at the past? How do I stop my heart from aching and let my brain try to forget you?

 

In just one year it seems my life has run before me at a million miles per hour. I’ve lived in three houses, I’ve cried so hard I thought no more tears would come. I’ve spent so long staring in to space I think I could become an astronaut.

 

I sink back into my chair and let a tear drop to the page. Everyone says time will heal but I don’t want time. I want healing.

 

My heart was a machine built to love but now there is no love to give.

 

I blink and I wake up.

 

I pull myself together and smile when I think of my beautiful surroundings, family home and friends that I adore.

 

As I write this bombs are landing on Syria, taking with them innocent civilians. Thousands of refugees risk life and limb in the hope of a better future. People call the street their home. What kind of cruel world do we live in? Do I feel proud to be living under the same roof as these power hungry people who want to drop bombs. No.

 

But still we sit. We moan and it continues. Still I’m suffering of a broken heart hanging over me and I pray that it leaves soon. I wonder to myself as I longily look into the distance – does he remember the good times we had.

 

Partying under the setting sun, running across green fields, and shutting ourselves away as the rain hammers down outside? Please do it for me.

 

Time can move so fast. The grand old age of 30 is fast approaching and as I pull my coat tighter and lace my shoes I feel hopeful about my future.

 

I just hope we can make changes to the world we live in. I will continue to wrap my heart in cottonwool. But for now I will bravely wear a smile and think about you later.

the hitchhiker: part II

The road spans out in front of me, I keep my hands on the steering wheel and I drive … for an hour to get home after my long day at work. This is what I do every day, five days a week as I travel from my little house in a sleepy village to the bright lights of Plymouth.

It was a cold September evening and I was thinking about possibilities of moving out, people who once filled my days and now I miss more than anything and wondering what a lonely 26-year-old is going to do with their life – when I noticed the familiar brown hat.

It’s funny how someone you hardly know can brighten up your day more than they would ever believe.

He had his thumb out, head down and was walking past the small school in Tavistock. I slowed down, my brakes making a horrendous noise (I really need to get those fixed) and he smiled as he saw it was me.

This was the first time I have seen Mr Hitchhiker in months.

He hopped in and I told him I had been thinking about him. He smiled and told me he had been good recently and had been taking work home rather than missing the bus. I guessed today he was feeling rebellious.

I wondered if I should tell him that he had allowed me to have my words published in my favourite magazine but I decided better of it.

All my previous negative thoughts blew out the window as I chatted to this familiar man about his day at work and what he was working on. I thought I had it tough writing 800 words on diabetes – he had sat drawing a rock face for three hours from 86 photos. Life of an architect hey.

As we approached his stop I felt sad again that I would now continue my journey alone.

I am yet to discover this man’s name but I honestly don’t know that it matters. What I do know is that he makes me smile, he has two young daughters, he is really bad at time keeping and he has a rather distinctive hat. To me a name is just a tag – something to refer a person to.

I always turn my music off when I pick him up but I wonder if he likes my taste in music, my current favourite Oh Wonder’s debut album. Next time I will ask him. He might prefer Radio 4.

Until next time I wonder to myself what he thinks of me, whether as he plods along he is thinking of past lovers and happier days, or whether he sits with his wife and thinks what my name might be.

Mr Hitchhiker you brighten up the dullest of days.

hitchhiker

It was just a normal Thursday evening.

I was doing my standard one hour drive home – which no pun intended – is driving me just a little bit insane. Between Plymouth and Tavistock I curse the slow drivers and want lorries to let me pass. As I hit Tavistock I breathe a sigh of relief and know it’s not too far to go. Hang on in there Emily.

Car journeys are strange things. They can be a big event – a road trip with a friend. You pack the water and the sweets. You spend hours making a mixtape and you enjoy the ride. Or they can be something you do every day – alone. Thinking about past lovers and distant memories. Perhaps even shedding a tear or two while you steer your way around roundabouts and sit in silence at traffic lights.

This was just an ordinary week day evening until that is until I saw him – the hitchhiker. There he was thumbing a life but there was something different about him – he didn’t look like a hitchhiker. He was carrying a leather satchel, wearing beige trousers and a bowler hat and he caught my eye.

As soon as I saw him I wondered what to do – my parents are always warning me about picking strangers up. But I was lost in my thoughts and I took the risk and I’m so glad I did. I slowed down and pulled up beside him.

He plonked himself down in my little car, removed his hat and said thank you.

I never quite know who should start the conversation and I would hate to sound like one of those drunk passengers in a taxi – ‘good day?’

He told me his wife would be pleased he had managed to thumb a lift. Married – interesting. I think he is perhaps late thirties, smartly dressed – perhaps he has an office job somewhere, and he carries a slight lisp.

I was soon to discover he was a surveyor working in Plymouth who is very bad at time keeping. He told me he had had a disastrous day but it had been made better by the fact he had managed to hitch two lifts today. I liked him.

There is only one bus in the morning and one in the evening from my new friends home to Plymouth, if he misses that it’s a walk from Tavistock. He hadn’t managed to catch either of the two buses today.

He had had the worst day he told me as he needed to get plans sent off and his Spanish assistant had made a series of mistakes. She was going through a divorce and my new friend didn’t have much sympathy. As he sat watching the clock, ironing out the errors she had made through the day, his bosses rang his telephone and he knew he would miss that only bus.

I wondered why if he missed the bus so often he didn’t just buy a car. He laughed.

‘I wrote one off and couldn’t afford another one. My wife has a car but I don’t like to leave her on the edge of Dartmoor with two small children and no transport.’

He then asked me if I had had a good day. At which I could reply ‘yes actually, I interviewed Marti Pellow.’

He laughed. I explained I worked for the local paper.

We were nearing the turn off and I was sad to leave my friend after such a short time. Although I have no doubt he will miss a bus again soon.

But wait what’s this … a few weeks later and I notice that leather satchel and that brown hat. I slowed down, wave and off we go again … till next time.

the pub

I love those moments when you don’t expect to meet anyone new – in fact you don’t expect to do anything but what you had planned. 

I finished work and headed towards one of my best friends – the weather warnings were in full swing and the rain hammering down on the windscreen was something else. To be quite frank I was a little scared but I knew my friend was waiting for me and I had welcomed chatter and a warm fire to await me.

I love my friends house – it’s scattered with beautiful photos of travels in India, odd shaped Buddas, colourful throws and a number of vases, pots and ornaments in various shapes and sizes. It’s a home I have spent my childhood years in and can remember many a good time.

We had planned to have dinner – chat over a cup of tea or two and enjoy the evening. But I was advised to stay the night as the weather was getting worse and my friend’s mum was worried for my safety – I’m really glad I did.

After a wonderful dinner of a vegetable omelette, salad, butternut squash chips and a glass (or two) of wine we decided to brace the storm and head to the village pub.

It was crazy outside – I nearly blew into a lampost with my first step outside – but we decided to be brave and go anyway. My friend even said that it was eery – there was a weird feel to the atmosphere. The kind when you think something terrible is going to happen, but it never does.

We walked into the pub – a typical, quaint, very English tavern – where a few people scattered the bar, dripping wet and cuddling around their pints. 

To begin we delved into a deep conversation. Myself and said friend have known each other for years and have shared many a drunk night and nonsense chitter chatter but now we are older we reflect, talk meaningful things (whilst still getting drunk). 

It was then we were greeted with J – our new friend and one who would have us asking questions as we once again braved the storm to get home. Our new friend joined us at the bar by saying ‘I just made a right tit of myself’. We laughed – no more was said.

We then talked about what it was we do – he builds software but studied English Literature in London. Dressed in a check shirt, woolly jumper, smart trousers and chucky Dr Martens – I liked our new friend.

He told us he was a comedy writer than launched into a story about having a breakdown in Paddington station – I looked at my friend, both eagerly waiting for the punchline – but it never came. He was being honest. My friend then asked him why he had a made a tit of himself – he hadn’t – it was just how he started conversations.

After a few glasses or port and quite  a few more chuckles it was time to leave our new friend.

I’m grateful for the storm outside as I had a wonderful evening, met someone that has me asking so many questions and shared yet again another special occasion with my friend.

Some things do just happen for a reason. 

lunch

It’s a wet and breezy November day but I’m taking comfort in one of my favourite places in Plymouth – Rumpus Cosy. I’m going to be honest, it’s taken me a while to find my feet in the big city but it’s places like this that restore my faith.

I’m lucky enough today that I’ve bagged myself a window seat meaning I can watch the people of Plymouth walking past. I love watching people – not in a creepy way – I just love thinking about their stories. 

I’ve just seen three men past all in various states of drunkenness – I wonder if they’re happy? Or maybe that’s the way forward for all of us? At least then we wouldn’t have to worry about life so much. 

It’s fairly busy in here today. 

To my right I have someone who looks so out of place here – he wears a grey suit and the shiniest grey snakeskin shoes I have ever seen. His hair has so much gel in it – it sticks up on its ends. He orders black tea and places his packet of Richmonds on the table as he takes a seat. He sits jiggling his feet – is he nervous?

Maybe he’s dressed so smartly because he has an interview, or a first date? His mobile phone rings and he leaves briefly to take the call – he returns, continuing the phonecall inside. Still he sits jiggling his feet. He’s trying to explain where he is to the person on the phone – it’s quite funny really. I’m excited to see who the caller is – I hope I’m still here – it’s his first time here.

I love the cute little crockery here, mismatched cups and saucers – all the teas are served in pots – a different one every time. Tea – the drink of dreams. 

He perfects his hair.

What I love about coming here is the ability to indulge in your own thoughts – get away from the office for just a little bit and reflect on life. To be quite frank life can really suck. One minute you’re on top of the world and the next moment you’re thinking where you can go from here.

It’s funny when you think you’ve got everything you want and that can all be shattered. 

Tears stream down your face and there is no way out – you pretend it’s not happening but it really is. I remember a care free life – running in the sea at Falmouth, staying in bed all day and smoking cigarettes out of the bedroom window. 

He’s gone to the bathroom – maybe that’s why he was jiggling his feet?

Since turning 25 things have got more serious – worrying about friends and sisters – hoping they’re all okay while dealing with everything else alone. Talking about children and helping my best friend plan her wedding day – both things that once upon a time seemed so far away – now they are suddenly so real. 

I will remain the one who’s supposed to be strong, keeping you all safe.

Lunch is over.

I wrap up warm and head on out.

I never did meet the person on the other end of the phone.