Our Little Miracle - a few hours spent in paediatrics

There is something miraculous about hospitals. They save people, breathe new life into people and allow people another chance. But there is something even more magical about the paediatrics department.

I had been quite excited - bizarrely. I loved London, so I suppose that had something to do with it. But I hadn't been in a hospital for years beyond which I could count. And I had never been in a hospital in London - particularly one of such stature as 'The Royal Brompton'.

It's a sad scene to see poorly children. The rainbows and butterflies on the walls seem to lose their vibrancy just that little bit. The building blocks in the play area you know have most probably been thoroughly sterilised. And the sharp, jagged colourings of pirates and fairies pasted upon the walls seem to scream; LIFE'S TOO SHORT!! - certainly too short to worry about colouring within the lines.

But you can make your own fun and there's no such test to optimism as in a paediatrics department.

Of course, as an 11 year old, table football was always going to be the pot of gold amongst the train sets and over-sized building blocks scattered upon the floor. And, of course, as an 18 year old with a strong aversion to football, horrendously poor judgement and a set of lanky limbs, table football was never going to be my forte.

Regardless, between appointments, my cousin and I set about a match with the chocolate figure players.

My heart was racing; a sudden, burning competitiveness shining through. It was to no avail however because it wasn't long before I was beaten. Hardly surprising. But it had been good fun, so I sat in anticipation for when my cousin would return and we could duel once more.

We were into our third game before a young girl stood as a spectator, first leaning over the sides and directing my awkward movements and, later, as half of my team. Despite being in charge of just 3 players ball after ball continued to fling itself through my control and into the back of our net. It was, therefore, a rare and joyous occasion when we could enjoy a goal.

"YES!" cheered my little partner as our first went in.

I smiled. For all my earlier apathy and general lack of competitiveness, scoring each goal felt good and wholly deserved.

She lifted her hand, her fingers splayed just above my chest and I clapped mine against hers.

That tiny boned, slender, warm hand of the young girl cushioned by my strangely large and utterly unfeminine man-hand.

In that moment of connection, I realised what life meant for the children of this ward. All these children in the ward who made multiple visits per month and even per week for another appointment, the next consultation and further treatment. That little hand, swallowed by my whole palm, was part of a body that had experienced more than I had. She had seen far more than I had. She knew more that I did, despite being at least 8 years younger. Whilst my head was in books, thinking very highly of myself as I sat and churned out essays, this little girl and many others like her already had more knowledge than I could ever study for. Their misfortune, in many ways, had lead them to fortune.

Whilst making them better and curing them, the hospital and its staff were educating them. Strengthening their emotions. Improving their perceptions. They could walk into that waiting area and not be saddened to the core, as I had, by the sight of little boys walking around wired to tubes. They could be amongst these children without any other feeling than what was normal and indifferent. They could demand that their daddy's not walk them to their next treatment in the room down the hall because they could go with the nurses on their own. They weren't scared.

It's not only hospitals that are miraculous but, also, these brave little soldiers who carry on with life - day in, day out. Hospital is just a different way of them living their life. And that is truly what they do.

Ten minute trip down 'special lane'

Uni, if anything, has been a massive learning curve. In my independence, I've found all about the weird intricacies of my mind; how happy eating tinned sweetcorn makes me, how closing any drawer in my room after having opened it requires more effort than it's worth and how I am in absolutely LOVE with literary symbolism.

I'm very stubborn, though it might not seem so. I listen to others and accept their opinions but interpretation allows me to always be 'right'. The thing is, I couldn't care less if I was right or wrong, I just want to have a say. I want to say something that makes someone stop and think; actually, you do have a point. In an argument, I don't think there is ever just one winning statement. Maybe I'm biased because I can't debate for toffee but I believe that each person can win in the same debate with multiple good points and so whilst I may agree with what you're saying, I can counter your statement in more ways than one.

I was walking home from Uni today in black leggings, some brogues, my one and only scarf draped round my neck with a vest top, red coat and woolen cardigan in-between. It's an old cardigan, one of my favourites. It has a hole, only small, and, despite the fact that I can sew, the great tear in the fabric never worried me quite enough to have me fetch my needle and thread. In fact, it's a good job I never did, because I probably wouldn't be sat here writing this post.

My hands, in the winter, seldom leave my pockets. I love the image; girl walking through a street of fallen leaves, ankles boots, hair pulled back and her hands burrowed in a coat.

So there mine were, in my pockets when two of the fingers fell through the hole. I looked down and saw them poking through. A pair cold reeds quilted by wool. I walked, for a moment, thinking of nothing else but a scene from The Polar Express; when the young boy takes his hand, puts it through his dressing gown pocket and finds it empty. His two fingers come poking out the end.

I don't know why I had the need but I began to question: what does this mean? I was reliving a scene from a cartoon film. But why?

(Yes, these are the kind of things that go through my mind!)

I concluded, after much thought and multiple possibilities, that someone was trying to tell me something. The boy in the film loses the bauble that he was given by Father Christmas. If the boy believed in him he would hear a ringing when the the ball was shaken. If he didn't he would hear silence.

What had someone given me that I wasn't meant to lose? Was someone going to give me something that I was supposed to keep hold of? Was there someone I needed to believe in? Something?

Or was I just meant to sew up that hole?

This all occurred in one 10 minute walk from the bus to my front door. But it's the symbolism. I don't know why I had to attach some meaning to the laziness of not sewing up a hole. What if I'd have looked at my fingers from another angle, what would I have seen? What if I hadn't have looked at my fingers at all? Or was that just it; was I meant to see?

Things like these will endlessly entertain me. I could think of a thousand scenarios. A million interpretations. Symbolism will just never fail to please me. But, in a sense, I'm so glad that it does. I think I've always been a little eccentric. The oddball. The kid obsessed with watching the butcher fill sausages - I'm literally obsessed! But I don't think that's weird - well, maybe the sausage part - it's definitely not a bad thing; it just makes my life a lot more fun!

Amnesty in Afghanistan

It's another Amnesty International awareness campaign this week focused upon Women's right's, our monthly topic.

I always find that there's alot of stigma surrounding Women's rights. Anyone fighting for women's rights seems to be automatically deemed a feminist, as thought they might be promoting legislation to wipe the Earth clean of men. Really, all most people are, are freedom fighters.

Women in Afghanistan have very little basic human rights, far fewer than anywhere else in the world. Giving women access to education, access to health services and security from rape and physical abuse isn't such a crime, is it?

For this month's Amnesty post I've just written a short story about a female victim of domestic abuse, and here it is:

She stood trembling. Her eyes barely registered herself. It was her normal morning self; slanted sleep-drugged eyes, straw-slung hair and a crusty trail at the corner of her lips. It was the same her, but just so so different. She couldn't quite pinpoint why. Why should one night change everything? Why shouldn't it change everything?

The mirror wasn't as kind as those ugly watery reflections of the mud puddles in the street. They contorted her in the most complimentary of ways. And now, as she gazed through herself, this clarity, this glass like still, took her exactly as she was. Completely broken and wholly fragmented.

A hole, just above her stomach bled cleanly through the cream of her jumper. She lifted it, savouring the woolen kiss of the fabric. Her breathing intensified. The moment was like the birth of a newborn; so fragile, breath-taking yet so irrevocably frightening.

It began to emerge. A purple stain with green smudged rims. The work of an inexperienced painter. She hazarded a touch, reaching so slightly forward with her fingers. Their cool tips stung the enraged heat of the bruise. She drew back quickly and tugged her jumper back down. How would she explain this one? How did anyone explain this one?