So what happened?

Such dreams. Such vivid dreams.

The past month or so has been, well, an experience. To say the least. When things happen, my instinct is to write about it, pour out my heart and not let anything build up in my head. Bad things happen when I let that happen. It almost happened yesterday, when I lost it in a supermarket and ran away, wanting not to feel anything for a while (forever?) and cursing myself for being so weak. I didn’t take care to send my story into the big wide world so it could float away. Because for several months, it’s not been my story. I’ve only lived on the periphery of the story. It wasn’t mine to tell. For the first time in my life I’ve had to be the strong one and that meant that I couldn’t slip, not for one second, lest it all fall apart and I failed the one I swore to protect.

So I threw myself into the business of keeping busy. When not holding his hand, I bake. I read whole novels in one sitting while he sleeps. I began to organise a charity event, the first  burlesque evening I’ve attempted while he is at work.  I study for my business plan while he paints. I volunteer at a local charity shop to feel useful, because if I don’t I will sleep. And I don’t want to. Not for too long.

Recently too, I have been the helpful sister. For a change. When my amazing sister cried over the phone to me about a very real crisis in her life, I showed up at her door 11 hours later clutching a bottle of gin, having immediately booked a train from Scotland to Wales to be there for her, if only for 2 days. My younger sister was broken into a few days after I got back, and I went to her flat and moved her into my house that night. I even finally got to take my niece over night for the first time in ages because my youngest sister was moving house and I was glad to take her 1 year old away from the stress of moving. I’ve not regretted a minute of any of it. I love being there for my sisters, after them always being there for me. I’m finally able to start giving back.

And yet. I nearly lost it yesterday. What I did will haunt me for a long time. It wasn’t even the worst thing I have ever done, but it came at a time I desperately need to be strong for my loved ones, especially him – and my charities, that need every spare penny. My college work, my home, my sanity. It all needs some TLC. I feel guilty for realising I can’t be all things to all people after the amount I’ve taken from those who now trust me enough to ask ME for help. Drawing that line isn’t as simple as I’d like it to be and writing this all down was something I’ve avoided for a long while because I know rationally what I should do but I can’t accept it emotionally. But now, I am writing. So I must. I must take a deep breathe and truly understand that to be all things to all people includes being good to myself. Not selfish, nor dismissive of my loved one’s needs, but to relate what I can do to how it will also affect me. I’m no good to anyone if I break down again. I’ve went from one extreme to another and I need to find that comfortable middle ground where I can be all I can be without jeopardising my mental health. I need to remember that being well isn’t the same as being cured. I need to live with and manage the card carrying crazy person that is me for the rest of my days. Not make it the sole facet of who I am, but realise its importance in living the ideals and goals I set myself. I don’t want to give up my responsibilities, but manage them better and make sure I don’t sink.

I don’t want to let myself down. I’ve came too far.

So I won’t.

I refuse.

Dreams come true. Especially the good ones.

I know, I’m M.I.A.

I’ll explain why soon. Just need some time.

Later tonight is as good a time as any.

See you then.

Home Made Take Out!

I miss chicken balls. 

When I order from the Chinese take out menu, I always longingly look over what I ordered as a kid as a special treat at my dads, chicken balls, fried rice and curry sauce. Ok, so my tastes have matured slightly since those days, but I still remember the excitement of staying at my dads of a weekend, watching movies and eating the sort of crap food my mum was too sensible to give us! 

After realising that wheat doesn’t exactly agree with me, I tend to keep it out of my diet. Unless I really want a burger. Or a pizza. From Dominos. With extra cheese garlic bread.

Where was I?

Oh yeah. So after maybe a million years of my bitching about missing my old favourite, my dear Love decided to something about it. With a Gof twist of course! And can I just say…. I’m totally marrying this man. If I wasn’t already.

Last night’s menu was;

Salt & Pepper Spare Ribs

Pork Balls

Curried Rice Noodles

Prawn Crackers

I fully intended to take a picture, but we inhaled the food. I’m not even sorry. He made enough for at least 4 people. Honest. 

Salt & Pepper Spare Ribs

A rack o ribs

flava-it Oriental Salt Pepper Coater

Chop up ribs into single portions, and coat in marinade. Leave about 10 mins before putting into hot oven (180°) for 35-40 min (depending on oven type, you know yours better than I do!)

Pork Balls

Leg Steak Pork

Wheat free batter

Chop up the steak pork into bite size chunks, and rub the leftover marinade from the ribs on the pork before browning off in a hot shallow pan. Set aside. (see curried noodles below)

Combine 1/2 cup plain flour (wheat free in my case!), with 1/2 cup cornflour, 1tsp each of baking soda and baking powder. Add 1/2 garlic powder and 1 tsp caster sugar. Whisk in 1/2 cup of cold water until smooth. Finally, add pepper to taste.

Heat up a deep fryer, and dip each chunk into the batter before putting into the fryer until golden brown (we only have a small fryer so only put in 2-3 chunks at a time.) Transfer onto kitchen roll.

Curried Rice Noodles 

Rice noodles (like vermicelli)

Ready made curry sauce

Onion

Mushroom

Slice and dice the onion and mushrooms. lightly fry in the same shallow pan used to brown off the pork steak. Add the curry sauce and simmer. Drain some resting juice from the set aside pork (before it goes into the batter!) in to the sauce. While simmering, boil up the noodles and drain when ready. Stir in the curry sauce and mix well.

Prawn Crackers

Cracker discs

Deep fry the disc until expanded. Set on kitchen roll.

~

Serve yourself a portion and eat! Try not to drool too much.

 

 

***editors note*** I’m still full. Seriously. 

Marry me, we said…

Have I ever told you the story of how Gof and I got engaged? I’m not talking about how after a few years (and several difficulties) we decided not hate marriage anymore and tie the knot, but the moments where the proposal actually happened?

I’ll give you a hint. It wasn’t a proposal.

See, Gof had just officially moved in. We were officially, after 2 years of my constant moving around, cohabitees. My shoes and his trainers. His comics and my classics. My video games and his dolls. Sorry, figurines. No, I didn’t mix the last two up.

I hadn’t lived WITH A BOY since my last relationship ended in 2003. At least not with a boy I also shared a bed with. (*side note, he’s actually not a boy, but a manly man of some years senior to mine. Just so that’s clear!) It was oddly anti-climatic, having him move all his stuff in as I called around the various companies who quite rudely demand payment each month, like the electricity people, the cable, etc. and told them they could also chase HIM up for money. We signed the paperwork that allowed us to legally live together in the little local authority flat we both already called home. I kept expecting the OH MY LORDI WHAT HAVE WE DONE moment to happen, like we would run screaming from this relationship upgrade. I mean, on paper we would have never worked. Two years previously, he was a man just months out of a marriage, such a painful break up that he promised never to contemplate marriage again. I was a bit of mess (ah, the wander slut years… memories) who didn’t sleep with him straight away because I actually liked him. I was also weeks away from being evicted from my flat, jobless, and drunk 80% of the time. In what wacky romcom would that turn into true lurve? And yet, it did. He got over his previous relationship in his own time (thankfully, peacefully, and the pair remain good friends which is incredibly sweet), and in that time, I reached a place, mentally speaking, that was somewhere between completely bonkers and trying to improve my life. I stopped using alcohol as a crutch before it became a serious issue. Between us, we worked into each other, turning closer into the people we are by just being with another. I truly do believe that.

Anyway, it worked. We were working. It wasn’t always easy, life seemed to throw more than I thought we could handle in those days. No matter what the problem though, it was never with each other. We were a team against all the world threw at us. And as we settled into a routine that was natural as it was normal, I began to want to celebrate that. I finally had a roof over my head. We lived together. I could access his comics at any time! But how? I didn’t believe in marriage, and Gof was decidedly allergic.

One night in January 2010, we were getting ready to go to a friend’s birthday night out. We were in the kitchen, I was putting on my make up over the dining table and he was keeping us both topped up in cheap booze. We began to talk about how happy we both were. How life, quite happily, didn’t turn out so bad after all. Sure we didn’t know where things were going next, but it was exciting rather than scary. We knew, just knew, that we would be together. Step by step, we had already embarked on the trip of two lifetimes. We already have a marriage, in everything but paperwork, we said. No need for an expensive trip into more debt for one day. And yet, it’d be nice to celebrate the milestone. Look how far we’ve come, watch us go! Yeah, we agreed, it’d be cool to be surrounded with our loved ones and just be us.

Hang on, I said. Did we just get engaged? There was a laugh already in my throat, a joke of how cheesy and lovey dovey we were being. My make up was only half on, but something in me stopped, and I looked at Gof.

Yeah, he said. I think we did. His face was serious, almost in shock.

So we’re getting married? I asked, not quite sure what to make of this.

Yep.

Yep?

Yep.

Ok.

Seriously.

….

The wedding is next year.

I’m looking forward to it, of course – but I’m already his partner in crime. We already feel married. That may change, I’ve known people who say it really does feel different, but for now, to me, the wedding will be happening 6 years into our marriage. I’ll let you know if its any different on the other side.

A follow up to my previous post on Lime Crime.

Dear Xenia

I get it. I really do. By your own admission, you spent over a year on this ‘Chinadoll’ concept and now you don’t want to see all that effort go down the drain. I understand that you’re upset that the picture you envisioned; the words you have written, have been taken as an insult and as offensive. I get that in a perfect world, everyone would just see it the way you do, as a work of art and evocative of a fantasy that was never really true. I sympathise, truly I do – that every precious individual in fact has opinions of their own instead, opinions based on their life, experiences and education. I’m ever so sorry that this means they have every right to be upset with you, Xenia.

I bitch about my life often. Who doesn’t? I moan about the little slights in my life, areas of my world that might improve if only… Well, the end of that varies in the telling. But not thing I have never had to complain about is being subjugated. You see, I am a white woman, living in the developed world – with a home, food in my cupboards and money in the bank. I have never needed to struggle too hard, even when I was homeless, or suffered through several bouts of severe depression. I got help, through the system of this country, and got back on track. My life is not a sad story. I have survived these things, and I am proud of that, but I realise things would have been different if I were darker skinned, if I were raised in poorer country, or yes, if I were Chinese.

You see Xenia, if I were Chinese, I would hear “I give you 5 dollah, sucky sucky, you love me long time?”, by idiots who can’t differentiate between Chinese people and Vietnamese character in a movie. I would be laughed at for having ‘squinty eyes’. People would yell at me, thinking I don’t understand English, volume of course being the universal translator. Some might assume I work in a takeaway and tell me I reek of curry, even if I don’t. People might even poke fun at my mother tongue, saying nonsense words that sound Chinapanese.

At school, I had a friend who went through that, and more – EVERY SINGLE DAY. No matter that she was born and raised in Scotland, spoke with a Scottish accent, had short hair and told the best dirty jokes – she was expected to be this fragile, silent caricature of herself, complete with a ‘funny’ accent, long hair and a permissive demeanour. And this was from KIDS. Kids that, as soon as it was common knowledge, expected lil perfect chinadoll Ling to be a WHORE. A tigress in bed. And believe me, kids are cruel. Especially to one not their *own*. I was bullied for being a goth. She was TERRORISED for being something she had absolutely no control over. It was because of who she was, and what she wasn’t.

Why am I telling you this Xenia? Simply because, as a woman of white privilege, you will never understand how it feels to have some stranger build an entire image of how they expect you to behave before you even open your mouth to speak. You will never know what it is to battle against attitudes and stereotypes that were antiquated even before you were born, because people can’t be bothered to learn that there is more to you than your skin colour.

You’ve been accused of being a mail order bride, haven’t you Xenia? It sucked, didn’t it, to have someone assume that of you? I bet you’ve heard all sorts of vodka jokes, or that you’re a commie. Some people might have been down right hateful, just because of your accent. I know when I speak to non-Scottish people, I’m told I eat deep fried mars bars, that I’m violent, or I must drink a lot. I have people shouting FRREEEDDOOMM! at me so much I’d gladly punch Mel Gibson until his head exploded. Hmm. Maybe there’s a grain of truth up there. My point is, it blows. But I’d still take this over the blatant racism people of colour face.

Back in school, when Ling told the teachers about how the other kids treated her, they did not say, “get on with it”. They took it seriously because if they didn’t, not only would they have been allowing that sort of racial stereotype to grow into acceptance in the minds of children, they would have been fired. They did not tell her it was only a harmless fantasy, and that the imagery of a subservent Chinese women who whored it up in bed was beautiful. No Xenia, they rounded up the kids and doled out punishment to those who continuously forced the racial abuse. As white adults, they knew their responsibility lay in supporting Ling and her culture, a real, evolving, beautiful person and her rich and wonderful heritage.

Have I mentioned yet, I love researching the history of the Geisha? Its true, I often discuss with friends the different stories I have read about the art form, the lifestyle, and how the entire culture is expected to survive in these modern times. I wear my hair up in chopsticks, one of the few ways my mop stays put. My Love, a white man, learned how to make sushi. Aside from that, I adore Bollywood movies and used to wear a bindi going out. I made great friends with the man who sold them to me, who thought it so amusing that I loved them so much and wore them dancing. One day I want to learn flamenco dance. I think this world, this tiny world is so fascinating, so beautifully diverse and colourful, and I want to experience and cherish everything that it can offer. The minute however, I am told I am disrespectful, I would stop whatever I was doing and make amends. No questions. I would defer to the right of a person to defend their culture and try to learn more about what I did wrong to ensure I wouldn’t do it again. Learning, some might say. I suppose its easy to say that now, having not offended anyone (that I know of, mind you) – but this incident has made me more sure than ever of the right thing to do. I’ll give you a hint. It’s not what you just done.

The funny thing is, not much would have had to have changed. You could have even got more models of different cultures, a la Benetton, to wear your make up. You needn’t have even changed the names of the eye shadows, some thought they were laughable but I haven’t seen anyone say they were offensive. The stickler, as they say, was the text accompanying it. Highlight it. CTRL x. Gone. Say, I didn’t intend for my words to be offensive, and I’m glad to learn more about cultural appropriation and how we, as a company, can fight against racism on any level. I hope our fans and supporters have also learned something positive from this exchange, and we can move forward with better understanding and an open dialogue. Wearing Lime Crime and having intelligent discourse y’all! (you can keep that by the way.)

Sadly, you’re stubborn. Frankly, I’ve seen better apologises from my 4 year old niece and that girl doesn’t like being wrong! This wasn’t an apology, it was an excuse. And worse, a dismissal. Like it or not? Seriously, THAT’S what you’re saying to potential customers? Well Xenia, like it or not – no Disney movie is going to justify your monumental fuck up. All because you refused to learn. Sorry princess. This is the really real world. The unicorn is just a horse and you are just a petulant child. You’ve just proved that.

Regards

Boycott Lime Crime (or Why I’m totally done hoping that Doe will become a decent person)

images source (here)

 

There is a difference between respectfully enjoying a culture and taking inspiration from it, quite another to promote your business using stereotypical and frankly racist images and prose. Lime Crime will never have my business again, aside from all the other shady business practices they have been accused of (and there’s some damning proof out there) – this cultural appropriation, the fact they have been informed of the negative reaction people have had but don’t care – I’ve had enough.

Making a genuine mistake is one thing. Ignoring and deleting people’s valid concerns is wrong. Nothing you can say about this campaign will make it ok, you can’t explain away why people are uncomfortable by it, or tell them they are wrong. It is offensive. Simple. Cancel the promotion. Call the palette something else. Apologise and learn from your mistakes Xenia.

 

For  more information please go to the DoeDeereLies tumblr. There are many entries on the various wrong doings of this once favourite of mine.

Home Comforts

So I’ve been spending a lot of time at home recently. What with being sick and sorry for myself, I’ve done very little other than lay around and occasionally wander around aimlessly online.  Sometimes I’ve got the strength to go to college, sometimes not. I still aced an assessment for a class I’d been in once before – like seriously, the timetable changed just before Christmas – and I still got the highest score in class! Anyway, it would be entirely truthful and not at underplaying it to say standards have slipped. Dishes are piled high far longer than I’d like, the dust bunnies don’t help with the sneezing and my spare duvet has taken up permanent position on the sofa so I can sit and watch crap TV and ignore the bins. (In fact, don’t get me started, I’m fighting with the council because of their RIDICULOUS changes to the building’s uplift. Argh)

Thing is, I know my surroundings directly affect my sense of well being. I’ve wrote about it enough. And yet when cough comes to migraines, I let things slip by the wayside and don’t exactly encourage Gof to pick up the slack. I mean, he cooks ALL the time, vacuums incessantly, actually prefers to do the dishes since I ‘do them wrong’ and generally gets the bins and recycling out after I’ve bugged him enough (seriously, guy thing?) so I hate asking him to do more. Most of the time he will just look confused if I complain, because the place is clean. But it’s also messy. And he doesn’t do the dishes straight away, so he’s so not perfect as I’m making him out to be. Honest. Anyway, my point is the place isn’t sparkling. In fact it’s a lot messy. There’s stuff to be posted on eBay, a mattress sitting in the hall go to go a friends house, paperwork stashed EVERYWHERE that needs to be sorted and filed, CD’s sitting to be donated/sold and all my bakery stuff sitting not tidily on the dining table because I pulled it all out of the larder 2 weeks ago thinking we were getting a sideboard type thingy that is to this day sitting across the road in a charity shop.

As you can tell, I’m starting to feel a little overwhelmed by the sheer amount of STUFF we have. So. I’ve made a plan. I’ve read some past articles by the always lovely Alison from Brocante Home to get my housekeeping mojo back, sought inspiration from Pinterest and made a list of things I want to accomplish, things I hope to accomplish and things I’m not allowed to do until I’ve done as much as I can. And giving myself 5 days. In essence, I’m scrubbing this little flat of ours back to life and me with it! Then I promise to keep it purdy. Until next time.

See you on the flip side.

*Alison doesn’t know I’m pimping her blog but since she’s just redid it and make it extra lovely, go on and have a wee look if you’re into making even the dullest chores a little more enjoyable

The Marilyn Meme.

I’m fat. I’ve wrote several times about how ‘this time’ I’m going to do it, ‘this time’ I’m going to lose weight dagnamit! I’ve not been happy with the way I look for a long time. Basically, I’m every woman I’ve ever met. Because even if you’re not overweight, there’s a little troll sitting on the shoulder of every woman who tells you you’re not perfect the way you are. Too fat, thin, tall, short. Your nose is crooked, your legs are stumpy. Sound familiar? Some lucky women can ignore that little bugger, but we’ve all felt the troll’s influence from time to time. The only person that hurts is you, right?

There’s an awakening right now on the internet, women like Gala Darling or Super Kawaii Mama who celebrate themselves and encourage that same love in their readers. If When I feel crap about myself, I jump across to these websites and read their heartening words, mottos and hard won truths and I start to feel pretty damn comfortable in the skin I’m in. It doesn’t stop the urge to be fitter, an urge I’m taking control of and positively acting on, but it comes now from a feeling of loving my body and protecting my greatest asset, not of loathing the skin I’m in. It is a combination of mind and body, accepting my strengths and weaknesses and moving forward with my life.

Part of that is a greater acceptance of other women and their differences. No longer do I judge on how I see their weight. I can not abide the way I used to instantly view women as ‘skinny’ or ‘fat’. I wasn’t supposed to do that. I thought I was better than that. Growing up, I was very close to my cousin’s girlfriend – a girl who even to this day has to justify her small frame to complete strangers. It made my blood boil every time she had to say ‘I eat like a horse, honest’. How dare people feel it’s appropriate to question the eating habits of someone else? And yet, I’ve done it too. Keira Knightly was ‘obviously’ anorexic. Cheryl Cole looked better with ‘meat on her bones’. Two complete strangers I judged and thought it didn’t matter because it wasn’t as if they knew that’s what I thought. Big NO. It may not have affected them, although with the amount of articles dedicated to the weight of the rich and famous, it would be remiss of me to assume they aren’t affected by how the public see them – but it did affect me. Which, to be completely and unashamedly selfish about, is my main concern. Me. My biting comments and unfair assumptions made me a cold and hard person, and I’ve decided I’m not down with that. I want to grow into a nurturing and open person, and it’s a difficult admission that I wasn’t the nice person I always thought I was. Live and let live has always been my motto, being a staunch supporter of LGBT, disability and religious rights, but I didn’t see the pile of unfairly treated women growing in my brain.

Whenever I seen a picture saying ‘curvy is better’ or ‘what man wants a lollipop’ floating around, I reposted it, on my high horse like YES! CURVY IS BETTER SO THERE. You’ve all seen a picture of Marilyn Monroe V random ‘skinny’ celebrity. On one hand its great women find Marilyn’s figure empowering and want to celebrate their own bodies, but why does it have to come at the cost of another women’s figure? Why does it have to be versus? Women against women? Why can’t we enjoy Marilyn’s iconography as well as the celebrity she is pitted against, the ‘skinny’ subject to ridicule and judgement by women who want to validate their lifestyle choices?

I say iconography deliberately. Marilyn Monroe’s life is a sad story, and when women see her, they want to look like her, but they never want to be her. I think Marilyn would be saddened that even in death, she is viewed as a figure, a sexy body – and not as the woman she was. Men have viewed her as a sex symbol for years, and now women are using her image to put down a fellow human being. When you think about it like that, isn’t it a little shameful? I know I feel ashamed. Not only for using Marilyn the way she always was, as an object, but for unfairly dismissing the still nameless celebrity as a figure of ridicule to make me feel better about my own shortcomings.

I’m not saying changing my viewpoint was easy. Even today, practise and history has conditioned my mind to jump to judgement. But knowing I’m taking an active step to stop seeing other women as the enemy helps. I suppose the moral of the story is; image matters. It’d be fake to say it doesn’t. How much it matters is up to you, but when you look at images of other women to further your own prejudices, that image mirrors the ugliest thing about you. Those images are women, not icons. With feelings, dreams, hopes, strengths, as well as weaknesses and flaws. And I’m done pretending its ok to objectify them by saying they’re beautiful or imperfect, because it’s all negative. Beautifully imperfect, and altogether human – women are awesome at any size.

Fin.

                         Image found on google search. To be credited please contact me

On yesterday.

There are two very basic reasons I am against SOPA and PIPA.

1. The Bills are so vaguely worded that the potential for them to be misused is not only a concern, but a given.
2. They were written by lobbyists, whose main goal is to protect the interests of their employers, the big businesses and industries who would benefit most from these Bills.

Internet copyright law is an important and valid conversation. It’s difficult, because as it’s been said before – the internet has no borders. On any given day, I visit friends who live in Australia, America, Sweden and Japan, as well as down in England or Wales. I read about their lives and watch the videos they post. A lot of these people, like Violet Le Beaux, even make their money, their livelihood from the websites I visit. They’re understandably worried. Even though many of them have had issues with copyright theft before, the idea that a poorly worded document  held as law in (most cases) a country they don’t even live in can shut them down without warning, and without the right to know exactly why scares them.

So what would be a better alternative? How do those big companies AND small businesses protect their intellectual property? To be honest, I don’t know. But one thing I do know, it isn’t this. One country can not and should not hold the keys to internet. Especially when it’s this heavy handed.

If like me, you don’t live in the US but still want to participate, go here to make your voice heard.

The superhero.

I asked my sister if there was ever a wow moment. A moment when she finally understood how fantastic she was for giving this gift.

“No”, she said. “I’m pretty awesome already”.

My sister isn’t the first person you’d think of to have a heart big and strong enough to carry a child for someone else. Baking a baby, she calls it. Even though she’s a fantastic mother of two children, she also isn’t fussed about children who aren’t her own. It’s not really in her nature to be a goo goo gaga kind of woman. So when she called to tell me that she was considering surrogacy, my first thought was, really? You?

It turned out she was practically perfect as a surrogate. She understood the pull to have children, and empathised with people who had struggled to conceive. She wasn’t overly emotional about it, she just knew she loved her children beyond all reason and wanted to help people realise that dream too. In essence, it was ‘just because she could help’.

And help she did.

Searching ‘surrogacy’ online during a break at work, Lyndsay found the COTS agency and started her application. As she went through it, knowing she could still change her mind at any time, she found herself more and more determined to help a couple. She registered and was eventually given case files of couples who wanted to have children.

Joy and Dev had been trying for years to have a child of their own. Six failed IVF treatments and 1 miscarriage (6 weeks, twins) later; Joy was gearing up for attempt number 8, when she discovered she had breast cancer. To get rid of the aggressive cancer she had a mastectomy and with chemotherapy her success rate was 90%, but she refused treatment until she was sure of a baby. Joy and Dev signed with the agency, and a few days later their file landed on my sister’s doorstep.

Lyndsay was struck by the couple’s sheer tenacity, their refusal to give up and give in. These were the sort of people she really felt for; a loving, hard working family unit without the child they so craved. She wanted to give them some sort of hope after the pain, disappointment and tragedy they both fought through for so many years.

Joy, Dev and my sister arranged to meet and discuss their ideas and views on how to go forward. Lyndsay was very sure she only wanted to be a host surrogate, she didn’t want a child biologically hers to be raised by other people. She wanted the detachment straight away, the idea that this baby wasn’t hers, she was just holding it a while. This fitted with Joy and Dev’s plans perfectly; they both wanted a full biological link to their child.

Treatment began straight away. It had to, with Joy refusing chemo until her eggs had been collected and fertilised. Lyndsay, like the true star she is, got pregnant on the first attempt, enabling Joy to begin her treatment. Finally, all the talk of surrogacy became very real. Joy and Dev were going to be parents. Lyndsay was having their baby.

If you live in the UK, you may have seen the documentary ‘I’m Pregnant With Their Baby.’ Lyndsay, Joy and Dev were asked to document their journey for the BBC and in the end, they were considered the ‘success’ story of the 3 stories in the programme. Lyndsay went through the pregnancy always feeling that she was serving a purpose. She felt the pregnancy was different from her own pregnancies, having to take medication and injections daily to ensure her body kept hold of the baby even it knew wasn’t hers. She kept in close contact with Joy and Dev as they prepared for the ‘surrobub’, and Joy went through her own treatment.

On the August 11th 2010, the BBC cameras watched as my sister pushed Tom into the world in her bedroom. It had been decided that a home birth worked best for them all, intimate as it could be given the cameras! Lyndsay wanted Joy to have an instant connection to the baby and the best way of ensuring that was the case. They had a great team who knew to give the baby straight to his mother, instead of to Lyndsay. Dev waited outside and Joy stayed with her, holding her hand as she encouraged her and told her how amazing she was.

Of course, she was right. But Joy was amazing too. I’ve never asked how she felt in those moments, a life time of tragedy and fight finally leading to this moment. Even with the cameras present, Joy was a picture of calm, stroking my sister gently as she was moments away from holding the baby she needed after all that time. Her entire focus was on comforting my sister and the bond between surrogate and mother seemed never more intense or natural.

At my sister’s suggestion, Joy whipped off her shirt and held her new son to her skin the moment he was handed to her. As Lyndsay was taken care of, the first few moments of Tom’s life was spent with his parents. There was a quiet glance, a soft thank you. Then Lyndsay went into her children’s bedroom to sleep a while. When she woke up, she went downstairs to visit her friends and meet their new son.

Joy, Dev and Lyndsay have remained friends to this day. She took her children to Tom’s birthday party and celebrated his first year. When she sees him, she doesn’t think about the nine months of pregnancy, the doctor’s appointments or the medications. She only sees her friend’s son, an honorary nephew. He’s a lovely little boy.

She’s doing it again, this time for another couple. We all have our fingers and toes crossed that she’s baking up another baby, for parents that don’t have a child yet. She decided to do it again after months of thought, although she does intend her surrogacy career to be over once she hands her new friends their baby.

My sister is the most amazing person I know. Surrogacy is only for the strong, the people with a firm sense of self and an iron will. When you can decide you can become a surrogate you become the best sort of superhero.

Read more about Lyndsay’s journey at her own blog Magenta is a Surrogate. Tell her I sent ya!