We're all cut flowers

There's nothing quite like covering a murder trial to focus the mind. And there isn't a person reading this who is not familiar with the expression "life's too short", but my goodness a tired old cliche it may be, but how very, very true. I can't go into the details of this murder case as it's still ongoing. But it's one with which most of you would be familiar as the murder in question took place 29 years ago and no-one has yet been found guilty. I've covered this case for the past four weeks; the family of the murdered person are in court each day, silent in their grief and united in their determination to hear every last shred of evidence, no matter how harrowing. They sit, in a line, to the left of the dock, which contains the accused, and just under the public gallery into which every day, stream a variety of people some of whom acknowledge the accused with a raised fist of solidarity and occasionally grin to each other as various pieces of evidence are read out. To describe the family members of the dead person as courageous and dignified does not quite do them justice. I'm sure that nobody takes the thought of dying lightly, but once you've become a parent, clinging onto life becomes something of an obsession. And it's a purely unselfish obsession because you spend your time worrying about dying not for yourself, but because you cannot bear to think of leaving your children alone and without a parent. You realise that losing your own life for its own sake is unimportant; I know unquestionably that I would give my life in a heartbeat if it would save my child's. That must be the definition of true, unconditional love. But at the same time I cannot countenance losing my life and thus depriving my children of all the love, protection and guidance that only I can offer them. And that must surely be the paradox of true, unconditional love. The person who was murdered 29 years ago left behind three children. Of course they're grown ups now, but seeing them every day, the pain subtly but indelibly etched upon their faces, becoming the public facade of the private pain that family has endured for so long. About this time last year Rachel, a fellow news producer from the BBC was about to celebrate her 43rd birthday. Then she died, her body finally caving in to the bone cancer that had stalked her for about ten years. The funeral was like a who's who of BBC faces past and present, all crammed into a charming old church in Berkshire. People had come from far and wide to celebrate her life and as we sat there, watching the sunlight kaleidoscope prettily through the stained glass windows, we all vowed silently that from now on we would not sweat the small stuff because, you see, there really isn't time. No mother should ever have to bury their child. It's a complete subversion of what it is to be a parent. George and Whitney both warbled on about believing children are our future, so if you have to bury your own, does that mean that there is no future anymore? That's what if must have felt like for Rachel's mother as she bravely stood and spoke through her tears, about her feisty, funny, one-in-a-million daughter who we all knew simply as Rachel. Rachel, she explained, knew she was dying and had done since the age of about 36. She refused to feel self-pity and simply carried on, in between bouts of chemo, working, travelling and riding her beloved horse. "We're all cut flowers" is the one phrase from her mother's elegy that has stayed with me ever since. Of course we all know we're dying, from the moment we're born, we're effectively dying. So what do most of us do? We LIVE of course, as much as we can. We fall in love, we have children, we scramble up the greasy career pole, we lavish attention on our homes, pets and gardens, we amuse ourselves cooking from elaborate recipes and if we can, we spend our hard-earned cash on travel and adventures, we fill our lives with as much detail as possible so that not a scrap of this precious time is wasted. “Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It's the transition that's troublesome.” ― Isaac Asimov

Things nobody tells you about becoming a parent - part 1

OK here's one for you: when is it acceptable to admonish someone else's child? Answers on a postcard please. I thought I knew the answer but just now, I'm not so sure. Before I go on I must tell you that I have never, in my whole decade of being a parent, gone up to someone else's child and had a go at them for upsetting mine. God knows but I've been tempted, several times, once most memorably, at a birthday party. The very child who had apparently been making my offspring's life a living hell for weeks,(tears, school refusal, loss of appetite, acute anxiety) came within touching distance at the same time as everyone else leaving the room. Reader I had to suppress the almost animal instinct rising rapidly within my breast. What I longed to do was to grab said child, push them up against the wall and croak evilly into their ear something along the lines of "you stay away from my child, d'you hear me?" and watch with satisfaction as they trembled and shook and slid to the ground like an unset jelly. Of course what I actually did was...nothing. Not even an evil eyeball moment. The child wasn't looking at me anyway, being more absorbed in the contents of the party bag they'd just been given. Another reason for demonstrating such admirable self control (I know, it came as a shock to me too), was that I really felt I wanted my child to think of a way to sort out the problem for themselves rather than having mummy get involved. This is how we equip our kids for life; for every difficult situation that they survive now, the learning curve will be huge and will stand them in good stead later on. But the best laid plans and all that, a few weeks later I found myself having a discreet word with the offending child's mum as the situation was deteriorating and getting more personal. The mum is a good friend and having her on board seemed to do the trick. The playground politics improved and now they are friends. The fact is, no matter how clear cut a situation seems, what a parent must, must comprehend is that from their child's mouth they have only been fed one side of the story. And you don't have to be a journalist to realise that to every single story, there are always at least two sides. Clearly there are exceptions to this; if it's an adult doing something bad to a child or if a person is suddenly attacked in the street by a complete stranger then without doubt there is a completely innocent party involved. But when you're dealing with primary school kids in a playground, well, unless you were there in a fly on the wall capacity, you know nothing for sure. This leads me onto several things about being a parent which no-one ever warns you about. 1. At some point your child may be the victim of a bully. The pain that you will experience as a result of this will be like nothing else you have ever known. It will dominate days of waking (and possibly sleeping) time. You will feel so helpless and yet strangely murderous at the same time. 2. At some point your child may be accused of being a bully. The bewilderment you will feel will occupy acres of brain-space. You will ask all your friends and family members if they think your child is evil/manipulative/a liar *delete as appropriate* and you will turn conversations over and over in your mind, seeking a glimpse, just a chink of truth that you can cling to in the hope that the accuser has got it wrong. 3. You are only as happy as your least unhappy child. This is applicable to any given moment of family life. Think about it; you're on a cross channel ferry and one child is sea-sick: nobody can relax and enjoy the journey. You've been offered a fabulous, well-paid position at work which will do more than just financially keep your head above water: one of your children is in tears each morning as the new child-care arrangement means they feel they don't have enough time to get all their homework done. You can't enjoy your work until it's sorted. 4. Your own personal needs can never come first ever again. If you do (as I did just last night in fact) get grumpy with one of your offspring because they keep getting out of bed to tell you they can't go to sleep and you shout at them to "just go back to bed!" because you're feeling desperate as it's now 8.30pm and you really need to sit down and eat some dinner as you've been at work all day and haven't stopped to draw breath since walking in the door at 6.30...well you get guilt-induced indigestion as suddenly you're trying to eat against a backdrop of child crying themselves to sleep. Fact. Back to admonishing someone else's child then, a quick and massively unscientific poll taken from fellow mums reveals the following opinions: 'S' - "I think it's ok if you're in charge of that child, if what they are doing is dangerous/silly, if you know the parents well enough that you know they would react in the same way and wouldn't mind you doing so" 'G' - "if the kid is biting one's own offspring and rather than telling off said kid, the mother attempts to 'distract' her child, thus epitomising one aspect of nervous, middle-class parenting or if the kid is very annoying and the mother is weak willed" ('G' who has a colourful way with words, actually used phrases other than 'telling off' and 'weak willed' but in the interests of propriety I've paraphrased a little...) 'W' - "when the parent isn't there and the issue needs immediate action or if serious and parent is there but doesn't say anything" 'B' - "when they are in your home and not following your house rules, of if hurting your child (or any child!). Maybe for rudeness of bad language" So there you have it. To sum up; if at all possible sort it out with the parent, not the child, and if in doubt then don't. And remember, there are always two sides to every tell-tale unless you've seen and heard the entire event unfold before your very eyes.......

Court up in the drama

I'm in court again. No, no, it's not what you think. I'm here with my BBC News hat on, sitting in the press or public gallery, trying not to stare too intently at the accused in the dock. Court rooms are funny old places. It’s always a bit like being at the theatre; you arrive in good time, take your seats and wait for the action to begin in the form of the practised double knock and then the command “all rise!” as the judge sweeps majestically in. Seats are re-taken and the drama unfolds. Most of the courts I’ve been to are hermetically sealed boxes into which natural daylight is forbidden to penetrate and even everyday sounds like traffic, phones ringing and snatches of conversation are absent. The gentle hum of the air conditioning provides the backdrop to the voices that narrate the story. It’s very easy to lose track of time once inside; all the easier I suppose to surrender oneself to the tale being acted out in which everyone has a defined role. I, of course, form part of the audience. I’m not permitted to participate, interrupt or draw attention to myself in any way. Mobile phones, naturally, must be switched to silent. The barristers are the leading men and ladies, well-rehearsed and word perfect, eager for their moment to stand up and speak convincingly to the court. The jury playing the part of the chorus, lend the proceedings a Greecian element of tragedy as they glide in and out, stage right, moving as one at the appointed moments, occasionally passing a note to the judge questioning, probing, submitting careful queries to hold the rest of the court to account. Witnesses make cameo appearances, sometimes mentioned so often in other evidence, the anticipation of actually seeing them in the flesh and, gasp, hearing them speak, is nearly overwhelming. The judge, is of course, the director, sitting up on high, centre stage, elevated, lit, separate, controlling procedures from above, ably assisted by his charming stage hands, the ushers, who ensure that everything runs to plan. The hapless defendant sitting stage left, safely contained behind the glass of the dock, is undoubtedly the baddie of the piece. Watching how they react to evidence from various witnesses and more interestingly, how certain witnesses feel brave enough to eyeball them furiously from the safety of the stand, gives a real insight into the case. Props are deployed when necessary, occasionally one suspects, more for dramatic effect rather than to back up the evidence. Am I ever able to predict the outcome? Sometimes, rather pleasingly yes. The whisper of “verdicts, they have verdicts” ripples like a stiff breeze through the waiting hacks, some of whom have attended every day to report on a trial that may have lasted weeks or indeed months. Waiting for the jury members to come back with their decision reminds me of waiting to give birth. You know it’s going to happen, you know that logically it HAS to happen, but you have absolutely no control over when and it can be a bit of a bore just sitting around waiting. When I’m covering a trial, once that jury has been sent out to begin deliberations, it’s as if my life is suddenly temporarily, on hold. I can’t move too far away from the court, even nipping out for a bit of fresh air is risky as they may come back at any time. I can’t move onto another story as by now, too much time and too many resources have been put towards covering this verdict. The court tannoy, as indistinct as it’s humanly possible to be, (honestly railway stations and airports have nothing on this), crackles into life every few minutes and your ears strain for a mention of “your” courtroom. I’ve been doing this job full time since January and have so far been privy to a paedophile case where the evidence was so disturbing that afterwards the judge exempted the jury from further service for fifteen years, the longest he could give. A GBH case in which the victim was scarred for life was distressing too, especially when, after the defendant was found guilty, the poor victim ran from the courtroom in tears having sat through four weeks of having their life laid bare. It was something of a relief to cover a good old fashioned case of theft; the defendant walked free from that one, contrary to everyone’s expectations. I now have that particular defence barrister on speed-dial as if I’m ever in the dock myself, I want him on my side! By Easter when my contract comes to an end, I’ll be putting all this behind me and will attempt to morph seamlessly back in to my ‘normal’ life which is a mixture of freelance journalism, writing, kids, taekwondo and the odd building project. It’s a strange existence being a Courts Producer and I’ll miss it.