Needless worry or needful adrenaline-kick?

Well. I needn't have worried about the race - my finish time, or what to eat the night before - anything really. I made it. My second Half Marathon outing, was actually (a bit of) a breeze in retrospect.

I was sick with nerves the night before. Woke up at around 5.00am on race day with enough nausea blighting my stomach to render sleep obsolete. I wasn't actually sick, but I then spent those tentative pre-race hours rushing around worrying I would forget something important like my timer chip or race number, or safety pins.

I got my bag of stuff together and walked up to the bus stop, thinking that today of all days, my legs could do without that 40 minute walk to Temple Meads station. However, there wasn't another bus (being a Sunday after all) until 9.30 and I needed to be on a train to Bath by then. In a panic, I ran back down to the flat (only about 30 strides away) and rather apologetically got my housemate Victoria out of bed to give me a lift. The station was heaving with runners and a barrage of spectator-baggage, but somehow I managed to get a seat in 1st class - there wasn't an inch un-trampled anywhere on the length or breadth of the train.

I agitatedly listened and watched as close-neighbouring runners discussed their morning routine, pinning their numbers on - eating bananas: checking playlists. I felt alone, scared - like waiting for the first day of an elite club I had tasted but didn't quite feel qualified to be embraced by. But, I knew that I'd see a few familiar faces at the Penny Brohn Cancer Care tent, and that mum and Phil would be there at some point, once they'd swum through the furor.

After a few (perhaps unnecessary) portaloo stops on entering the Runners Village, I found the BPCC tent and Andrew (fundraising manager) wished me luck and offered me a banana. No thanks.... too nervous... hope I've had enough water to keep me hydrated but not too much to make me need another pee - (I have this OCD-esque tick with running where I'm not allowed to stop for ANYTHING, not to walk, not to drink, not to check my laces - once I'm going, I'm going).

As we chatter, I hear the anouncer calling us up, and I join the ever-expanding crowd of idiots in spandex, headbands, make-shift utility belts loaded with energy-fueling potions and bare skin - mostly silent, interspersed with nervous ramblings from (I'm being presumptuous) first timers.

It took around 15 minutes to reach my place near the front - I had a little 'c' next to my race number, which meant I was in the category of 1-2 hour finish time runners - felt good to be amongst the serious people. I looked to my left and saw not-to-convincingly-disguised actress/TV presenter, Nadia Sawalha on my left pimped out in all the latest gadgetry, calmly chatting to her partner in equally body-enhancing armour. At this point, even though I was tempted to listen to their conversation - I plugged into my iPod and began to zone out - as I always do when psyching up for a run. Music is an absolute necessity, and I'm glad Andrew told me to hide my iPod (they are banned, though I don't remember reading about it in the programme!), as I'd have been rather perturbed had it been confiscated at this pivotal point.

Vampire Weekend's 'A-Punk' got me off to a gleefully bouncy start - mood-lifting music for such a glorious morning. So glad I strategically crafted a playlist to accommodate the different transition points in the race: light-hearted and bouncy for the first 40mins, harder/faster for the mid section then euphoric favourites for the home-straight. Seemed to work pretty well, and I was very glad to have sewn a pocket into my shorts to hold my iPod and energy gel pouch so I was hands-free for maximum arm propelling.

I ran at a constant pace, just outside my comfort-zone for the duration and although I didn't feel quite the same adrenaline buzz that I had achieved at my first half marathon last year - I was still ecstatic to have shaved 8 minutes off my previous finish time. Did the handful of jelly babies grabbed and snaffled from a bowl on the sidelines of the second lap give me the extra energy boost I needed to push harder through the 'runner's wall'? Was it possible the weird pouch of sickly, banana-flavoured gloop (aka super intense-carb gel) provided a placebo or a real sixth-gear lever to help me sail towards the final straight? I'm pretty sure through sheer will-power I would have made it unaided - though I mustn't dismiss these man-made stimulants if they offer even a vague hint of physical/mental empowerment.

I'm annoyed with myself for not studying the course map more thoroughly before the race as I think I could have run faster through the last mile or two. But, as I didn't see the last couple of mile markers, and I wasn't really familiar with the end part of the route through the city - I didn't properly push for a sprint until the finish line was in sight.

I passed the line neither grinning like a lunitic nor waving my hands in the air. I didn't clock my time on a fancy-pants wrist watch, or collapse in a heap. I was relieved (as it was such a hot morning) though not too tired. I continued walking all the way back to the runners village - picking up my medal, and goody bag along the way. Mum and Phil were waiting for me at the PBCC tent, and both exuberantly hugged my sweaty torso.

I was one of the first PBCC runners back (out of 30 running for the charity) and also the first girl. See my official race placing here. I chatted to a guy who'd been level with me a lot of the course... we'd played a bit of a game of over-take, undertake - though I think he finished a minute or two before me in the end. I ate some gorgeously healthy PBCC-homemade flapjack and did some stretches in the sun. Mum handed me a hand mirror and a wet wipe so I could remove a crust of mineral-sweat from my eyebrows (who said running wasn't glamourous?!).

Mum, Phil and I then walked through the centre of Bath, stopping for a coffee and to watch the street busking. We were booked into Bath Spa at 2pm, and my god was I ready for some water-immersion to rest my bones. The roof-top pool was heaven - an oasis in the midst of a desert of sandy Bath stone and tiles. I lolled in the shallows until it was time for my treatment - a German sauna involving hay and camomile scented heat filtration. Strange yet oddly enticing. Couldn't quite imagine myself lying in a meadow but the naturalistic scent did make me feel deeply relaxed. I'm glad I opted for the medium-heat booth though as my body's capacity to fight light-headedness was on the verge of collapse.

20 minutes later I emmerged from the treatment room feeling calm, serene, hungry and a little dizzy, so we headed to the cafe for a smootie and chicken sandwich. Energy levels perked back up, we decided on one last 'scented pod' steamer, then I trawled through the rabbit warren of inter-compartmental changing rooms in an attempt to find my locker again.

I said goodbye to Mum and Phil as they caught their onward train at Temple Meads, jumped on a bus back to Redland and cooked myself a healthy yet decedent stir-fry with coconut milk and peanutbutter satay sauce. Followed swiftly by bed, though it took some time to drift off as I could feel every fibre of my being reconfiguring/rebuilding and contracting/expanding in order to repair from the race. It was such a strange sensation and then I suddenly got very cold, so I had to get up, boil a hot water bottle and take an iboprofen. Next day I was only achy round my lower back - headed off for work on my bike, walked off the back pain and was back in the gym the following morning, with achy knees being my only gripe.

I've officially been training for almost a year now (combo of running/cycling/gym) and it's just kind of become normality. I'm sticking to a healthy yet challenging routine - where variety of terrain and duration are keeping me on the path to long-term motivation. I've not felt this fit in years, and although the weight is not exactly falling off, I do feel strong and toned and ready for the next race.

I find it strange that although I am not a competative person, I do enjoy the buzz of race day - there's a need for the crowd to be there to help me face-up to those last few miles. I think I need it to make me forget my body and focus on mind over matter. The fundraising for Penny Brohn Cancer Care is another push - I don't think I could do all this as a personal challenge alone. I've raised almost £1,000 in two races, and although I know it'll be harder to beat higher money targets now most of my friends and family have contributed - I guess I'll just have to be more innovative with my fundraising methods/tactics. I'm thinking a spring fete themed cake bake-off may be my next endeavour to raise my combined target of £300 for the Bristol 10k and Half Marathon later this year.

Gulp. Better get my trainers on - it's Sunday and the sun is shining - absolutely no excuses not to activate those endorphins.

If you'd like to donate to PBCC, my JustGiving page is still open for online contributions: http://www.justgiving.com/Holly-Wicks0

Struggling to reach second-time euphoria

So, I'm just 13 days away from my second 1/2 marathon outing in six months. I'm not afraid to admit that I'm more scared than the first time around: firstly because I haven't managed to raise anywhere near as much money for Penny Brohn Cancer Care (total is at £150 at the moment, which doesn't even cover my required donation) thus far, and I want to get a faster race time - which means I need to push harder to make my body stronger.

I've been keeping up a regular running/gym pattern (around 6/7 hours of fitness a week) since I was basking in the self-congratulatory sense of achievement when brandishing my first 1/2 marathon medal in September 2011. I've been increasing the intensity/duration of my runs over the last few weeks, and adding more resistance training in the gym to strengthen my upper body. I know I'm fit, if not fitter than in the lead up to the Bristol 1/2, but for some reason, I can't quite strike the same note of utter dedication - can't quite loose my body's gripes in the total mind-over-matter mentality. Perhaps, like with everything in life: your first time is always the most special or memorable. It's impossible to recreate that moment of euphoria.

I know I can try harder with fundraising, but I needed an extra push to remind me why I'm putting myself through this again. For a start, to see my mum positively brimming and buzzing with enthusiasm after her three day residential course at the Penny Brohn Centre in Pill helped me to understand the ethos of the charity and gave me a greater insight into their work with cancer sufferers. Penny Brohn's ethos is to help cancer suffers live with cancer - 'live' being the operative word. The NHS or 'sausage factory', as my mum and her best friend (who has had both breasts removed due to cancer) call it, remove the life-eating cells, but Penny Brohn Cancer Care enable cancer sufferers and their families deal with life once they've been spat out of that machine - lost, confused and emotionally weak.

The number of caner sufferers is predicted to steeply increase and although more efficient treatments and procedures are also increasing- there needs to be more of a support network to make sure cancer sufferers can readjust to life after invasive surgery. The Penny Brohn method has been practiced here for thirty years, and though the charity was founded in Bristol - the team are currently setting up outreach centres, which will meet the needs of patients around the country more directly.

I'm so glad I took up the offer to go along to a special 'Runners Day' at the Penny Brohn Centre (6 miles out of Bristol) on Saturday - an opportunity to meet other runners raising money for Penny Brohn, tour the facilities at the centre, be given expert tips from a physio, a nutritionist, and training expert and also use the day as the perfect opportunity to try out a new running route that encompassed 12.34 miles along the estuary between Pill and Leigh Woods.

I set off in the sunshine, with iPod tuned to a new training playlist, with just a roughly written set of directions in the pocket of my Fred Perry tennis shorts, hoping that the weather would be kind to me. It was a beautifully warm day, and I was fired up - excited about the new route and having a meaningful interval to look forward to. I made it to the centre in 48 minutes, covering just over 6 miles.

As per usual, I strode in looking like a punched beatroot, and was greeted by Andrew, the fundraising manager - who had been at the finish line at the Bristol 1/2 marathon, and was probably not surprised to see me in such a state, as I'd been in the same condition then too. The centre is part Georgian mansion, complete with cedar trees lining the drive and sandy stone walls glowing warmly in the early spring sunshine. There are additional wings surrounding the old chassie, tastefully and complementarily fitting in, with ornate but unpretentious landscaped gardens dotted around the expansive grounds.

We were offered all sorts of holier-than-holy ethical teas with no less than three milk-but-not-milk alternatives to cows stuff. Impressed - they take nutrition very seriously, as was represented in the gluten free/wheat free mango and pecan squares smuggly waiting to be consumed. Yumm, probably tastier (and much less calorific) as a ten kilos of butter-type recipe from Nigella. I opted for two glasses of water to cool myself down a bit, followed by a Chai with Organic Manuka honey and rice milk.

Even though I was the only one who looked the part of the dedicated runner - I was the novice of the group. The trainer who talked us through race-day kit and trainers had done about 6 full marathons, 12 1/2 marathons and countless ridiculous rough-challenges for those runners who have to have pain as their companion at all times. The other runners where all either seasoned 1/2 marathon runners or in training for the London Marathon this year. I was slightly in awe... never been much of a running geek, but being in a room full of pros for the first time made me excited about running again - I wanted to learn about their experiences and how they get through the runners 'wall'. (Which I think is the technical term for my lack-luster.)

After a demo by a physio on how injuries are picked up from dodgy running technique, and how to prevent this, we then talked carbs, sports drinks (which I detest and will not be adding to my routine) and pre/post race day eating plans. I learned a few surprising facts about energy expenditure and the importance of eating protein to rebuild muscle after training. Aside from that, we discussed trainers, kit and looked at a whole bunch of scarily expensive 'tights' which apartently help circulation and support the flabby bits to decrease wobble and make you more aerodynamic... I will not be convinced to part with £62 for a pair of glorified leggings. No thanks, I'll stick to my hotch-potch approach to attire and avoid cotton, which I totally agree is the runners worst enemy when it comes to sweat-entrapment.

I gulped down an extra half of too-good-to-be-real cake and a tour of the centre commenced with Andrew taking us top to bottom incorporating treatment rooms for reiki, massage and contemplation, an art room, nutritional demo kitchen and group-therapy rooms. The art room is apparently the least used room in the centre which I found surprising and a great shame to see all the new resources sitting dormant in a light-filled space facing the formal gardens.

I thought the centre felt like a luxury spa crossed with a hippy commune - minus the hippyish pretensions/procrastinations and not a whiff of incense to be made drowsy by. Oatmeal carpets, warm oaty-coloured walls, calming lighting, floods of light through generous windows, and quiet aside from the faint sound of the water features outside: the Penny Brohn Centre would make anyone feel instantly at home.

The centre used to be £900 per resident for a three day retreat, but the team recently decided to loose the exclusivity tag, making it is free to anyone suffering or in recovery from cancer. Before I set off, Andrew and the runners discussed why more people don't know about Penny Brohn - there are hundreds of cancer charities, but none of them take the same approach to non-invasive therapy: bolstering the body by teaching sufferers the importance of using a strong immune system to fight again the alien cancer cells attacking their bodies.

I hope that the emergence of more Penny Brohn Centres around the country will create awareness and drum up more support from independent donators, corporate sponsors and government agencies. In the meantime, I'll keep trying to spread their good work - I've seen such a positive change in my mum's attitude to life after cancer, she's still brimming from her time at the centre over a month ago, and is looking forward to returning again soon for a week's retreat - where I know she'll try and get that art room full of people creating pieces of work that address their worries and release some negativity and apprehensions.

Back out in the sun, a little after 2pm, I hit the tow-path, following the meandering estuary back under the suspension bridge and back up to Clifton - clocking 6.34 miles in 50 minutes - head up, powering through, hitting my stride. Nothing like a dose of inspiration to fuel one's personal motivation.

Please donate to Penny Brohn Cancer Care and support my marathon effort here: http://www.justgiving.com/Holly-Wicks0

Nights at The Cube

My education in indie cinema has reached a new level of heightened obscurity.

I was getting delightfully accustomed to the eclectic and offbeat offerings at The Watershed, then I strayed deeper into the indie abyss and stumbled across The Cube Cinema, just off Kings Square, Stokes Croft. The Cube is so off-kilter that it makes The Watershed feel like the director's luxury suite at Cinema De Lux. The location alone should have signaled the alternative nature of this venue (it's wedged between a couple of intimidating tower blocks, just behind a rather attractive Georgian facade.) But with the tempting invitation to screen a film for free on an ample cinema screen in a city of diversity - I eagerly crossed the threshold with my short documentary, A Prickly Relationship in hand ready to join the list in the Bluescreen pot-luck filmathon.

I have screened films from my repertoire on every successive Bluescreen night since - amounting to four very different experiences. Like karaoke: open film nights must be taken with open expectations: some numbers make you want to pull your eyes out, whereas others can trigger fits of sniggers or squeals of joy. Due to the mixture of amateur and professional filmmakers in attendance - you're always sat amongst seriously bonkers enthusiasts or seriously pretentious auteurs (of the jaded or aloof variety) and a few semi-grounded filmmakers like me. There is of course also a hinterland of the average/clever/arty/jokey/weird/exploitative persuasion.

You are encouraged to introduce your film, which is a great chance to scope out the competition and gain an insight into their mental stability. There are always a few 'technical hitches' along the way, and the chap who hosts the night always always misreads names and film titles (a mixed misfortune of low-lighting and bad handwriting from entrants) - which adds to the comic absurdity of the event.

If your film is swallowed by the DVD machine or (in one case so far) you're subjected to two uber-boring 10 minute photo-montages because the DVD menu is on a loop and the technician can't be bothered to stop it/doesn't realise, I have learnt that you must sit still, breath long and hard and let it wash over you.

Last week's screening was extra entertaining as my ex-housemate Jamie's boyfriend, Fred came along. He's quite opinionated, and doesn't especially like the Cube as it is (bit low-brow for him), but he'd agreed to come as Jamie's music video was on the bill. But Jamie had made a grave mistake - arriving late. That means your film will be last on the bill, which basically means that not many people will see it, as the population decreases in the auditorium depending on how good/bad it starts and how long the films go on for (1am being the current record finish for Bluescreen's 10th year anniversary screening!).

I giggled in hysteric glee as Fred squirmed and huffed his way through the first two films on the bill: one - the double bill skateboarding photo montage mentioned earlier, two - a hideously cringy drama which included an angry psycho keeping a young man hostage then wrestling him on the floor for what felt like an eternity. Uh?!

Fred needs to learn to take the rough with the smooth if he's to become a Bluescreen vet.

By far the most amusing offering thus far comes in the shape of a mockumentary series titled 'Brenda'. I've been lucky enough to catch every episode (4), and have to say that although initially it confused me and left me cold - the story has evolved and I confess that I've become hooked to this bizarre micro-soap-op about a straight man who pretends to be a tranny in an attempt to capture the affection of his best friend who happens to be a lesbian.

I have to admit that I didn't realise 'Benda' was a mockumentary during the first episode - I thought it was just a bunch of odd-bods from Stokes Croft playing with a camera. But, as the story has developed, I think it's actually quite clever and a little bit funny. Mainly because the guy playing Brenda is gargantuan - about 7ft and the least attractive tranny I've even seen. So, you can imagine the shrieks and stomach-clutching that occurred when 'Brenda's' two veg made a three-second appearance in one scene. Just about every inch of Brenda has been laid-bare for all to see now, so what can possibly happen next?

A woman who's film was rejected/spat out of the machine about mid-way through the line-up got in such a huff with the recording device she was playing with in her lap (to record the sound of her own film being played? Or researching the competition? Odd any way) that she shouted quite audibly, "Stop turning yourself on!", (directed at her machine I presume), which promoted a ripple of giggles across the audience... and wether out of embarrassment or resentment, she and her companion abruptly left.

The interval is always a welcome chance to air concerns about the sanity of the congregation and recall the films made by the inconspicuous-geniuses hidden amongst us. Also the time for everyone who forgot they had a drink beside their feet to knock over said drink and spend an additional £2 on a replacement.

The best films always seem to proceed the break, though maybe that's just because you know there's light at the end of the cube-shaped-tunnel. Audience figures have ranged between 30 and 60, though as I said, past the 11pm home-time call for week-day workers, numbers dwindle considerably. The die-hards stay till the very end - (yes I can lay claim to being one of those ridiculous creatures).

Cube nights - are film nights subtlety vailing vaguely organised chaos, but enjoyable if you don't go with any preconceived expectations. Where else can you show a film for free, watch a hotch-potch, occasionally exceptional array of moving images crafted by regional talent? Get thy self down to The Cube and experience Bluescreen for yourself - just don't take your caravan-fetish montage and expect a genuine round of applause. In fact, I might suggest a ban for montages of any description.

Big Fat Nightmare Gypsy Christmas

I caught up with a friend a few weeks ago for a coffee and as we hadn't seen each other in a while - we backtracked to how we'd both spent Christmas.

Mine was fun, relaxed and boozy - everything the festive season should be. Sam's was utter chaos and if I'd have had to face the same situation... well - I don't think I'd have made it through to see the New Year.

Sam is a duty manager at a hotel on the outskirts of Bristol. She'd been landed with a hefty Christmas day shift: the only member of staff on duty all day, she had around 40 residents to look after until the night staff took over at 11pm.

40 residents might have been daunting enough if something went wrong and you had no backup. But my jaw dropped when Sam unravelled her story of the day from hell - when she realised half the residents were Irish gypsies, who had managed to smuggle in a rabble of friends to stay and party in their rooms.

They were drunk by 10 am in the morning. Stealing things and causing trouble in the corridors by midday. Sam had to try and control them, as well as assuring the other residents that she'd evict them before dark. The gypsies would not adhere to her pleas for them to leave the building, so she called the police. She didn't want to - worrying that it would upset the local bobbies special day. She couldn't call her boss as she was equally anxious about spoiling his special day with the family. She was well and truly alone in her fight to restore peace at the hotel.

Sam knew she had every right to evict them - the incriminating footage was safely stored on CCTV, but the sheer power in their numbers and audacious behaviour rendered her rather useless. The gypsies were teasing her, picking her up, ignoring every remonstration.

Sam called the police. She hoped the theft element of their behaviour would be enough alone for them to help her. Two officers arrived. They were not very helpful. Sam stated her case, detailing all the offenses. They remained fairly nonchalant, uncommitted.

It wasn't until one of the gypsies made a racist comment to the black officer, that they stirred into gear and began evicting the gypsies and all their messy entourage.

As if that wasn't enough, Sam then had to stay on an extra hour or so to explain the situation to the night staff and get everything settled and tidied to resume service.

The only thing that saved Sam from breakdown was the words of commendation from the non-gypsy residents who witnessed some of the ordeal and saluted her brave fight to regain power.

Bravo Sam!

The Brave Face of Youth

I've just watched the final version of a fantastic short documentary I worked on a few months ago, Brave Face, centring on a diverse group of young people affected by the summer riots in Edmonton and Tottenham. Watch the film here: http://www.mypockets.co.uk/braveface.htm

The film was funded by First Light, produced by Somerset Film (who I've freelanced for many times over the last few years) and directed by award-winning writer/director, Pete Snelling (who mentored a training scheme I attended at Somerset Film a couple of years ago).

I'd heard that Somerset Film had been awarded funding to make a film about young offenders, thought it sounded like a fantastic project and wondered how I might get involved. A month or so later, I happened to bump into Pete Snelling at Somerset Film - where I was doing a bit of freelance admin, and I inquired about the First Light film project. A week later, Pete called me to ask if I was free to production assist on the project, which was now going to be two films - one about young offenders in Bridgwater and another about the affects of the summer riots in Edmonton, North London.

I wholeheartedly agreed to both, not knowing quite what to expect, but cherishing the chance to work with such a prolific director and on such topical subject matter. The first week's shoot was in Bridgwater, predominantly working with a small group of young offenders living in a residential centre. The teenagers here had very damaged lives, and many were in the persistent cycle of reoffending and dodging meeting with their case workers in favour of escaping from themselves in drink, stealing and taking drugs.

The aim of First Light films is to interact with kids, making them the subject and production crew of the films, so that they learn new media techniques and tell their stories to a wider audience. It's a very interesting concept, as you really get to know the participants and it's quite a reflective/thearaputic process for them - to be talking about these major incidents that have shapes their young lives. I honestly warmed to them, they dropped their guards easily and got into the production process with great enthusiam. An opportunity for them to be creative and kept busy - temporarily kept away from the daemons that so often encroached.

The groups stories were exceedingly harrowing - damage done at a young age carrying through and often building into their adolescent lives. We recorded their voices only, as a lot of the stories involved evidence of current offences which might get them into trouble with court hearings and such. So, Pete came up with the novel idea to film the group from everywhich angle except for head-on visually. We used a 'Toddy-cam' (wooden 'a' frame structure on which the camera is mounted at one end and then the participant holds the other end, so that you get a fluid movement and a feeling of being a part of them without any juddering) to film them getting on with everyday things like rolling a cigarette and walking to the shops.

Although the kids were completely receptive to us, letting us in to their lives and engaging so well with the project; there was a sense of doom - that not many of them were ready to attempt to give up their vices - though a lot of it was circumstantial. There was only one boy who genuinely seemed repentant for what he'd done, and had quit the drink, drugs, and thieving. He was in the midst of reconnecting with the family he'd lost for many years, and getting back into horse racing - a passion he grew up with. The others either didn't seem to care, or were simply too damaged or failed by their caseworkers/families to want to change.

I truly believe that no one is born bad, and I wanted to believe that this group of kids would all come through in the end - but with such a mixture of pressures baring down on them, it's easy to see how these cycles of offending reoccur. This week was a challenging time for us, harrowing and heartwrenching but hopefully the film will show not just the negative things that they've done, but focus on why they have got to this dark place and how they can get out with the right kind of support.

I don't think that staying in a residential centre like that (living with a mixture of offenders and non-offenders) is totally productive, but when they have been ousted by their families (or its simply too dangerous for them to live at home), where else is it safe for them to live? One of the centre's managers came across as a beacon of hope, a very positive influence on the residents, though he despaired of their behaviour sometimes, he's one of our society's unsung heroes - just being so accommodating to us - realising that these kids need a voice, from the ground, to make the people with their heads in the clouds hear these voices and make changes for all sorts of social issues. With all the cuts to public services... if people like him are stretched even further beyond their means... they'll loose even more of the valuable time that they put in with these kids, and then who will guide them?

It was quite a different story at the youth centre in Edmonton, near Tottenham, where we shot the second film. With the same intentions, and same set up, we engaged with a massive group of kids (ranging this time from the ages of 7 to 17) who were all keen to tell their stories and although the subject matter (the summer riots) could have been much more contentious - their outlook was positive and inspirational. This group were part of a youth club run predominantly by young volunteers determined to keep their community off the streets and away from the threatening reaches of the local gangs. Such passion and proudness was evident here that it was initially hard to believe that their lives were marred by death and violence at a very immediate level. It's places like this youth centre that are the advocates of the social system - will they ever get the recognition they deserve, or will the government cuts stunt their progress?

Many of the kids that attend this centre three nights a week are damaged by a plethora of conflicting social and personal daemons, but at least they are safe when they join together and use their time productively - they will literally do anything to stay away from the gang-related crimes that are so prevalent in that area.

It was such an eye-opening experience to hear a bunch of under-ten's talk about a friend getting stabbed and killed just a street away from where most of them live, and to witness first-hand the turmoil they face if they're seen in the wrong place at the wrong time. I literally couldn't believe that kids that age are afraid to cross over the street in case they're caught up in a gang-related fray. I had such an idyllic childhood - it put a lot in perspective for me to hear these stories - the youngest ones are old beyond their years as they've had to grow up so quickly in order to avoid the troubles that surround them. Who knows if they'll survive to pursue their dreams (most of the boys want to be footballers). It would be interesting to go back in a year or so and see what has changed.

There was a feeling of hope in Edmonton which contradicted the general reputation of the area. Such a close-knit community revolving around the youth centre - it felt like an extended family - an extension of a living room, complete with table tennis, a Wii, massive TV and walls plastered with photos of activities and fun days out. There's even a music studio, which was in constant use the entire time we were shooting there, and where the soundtrack to the film was produced. Such a hotbed of talent waiting to be acknowledged.

None of the youngsters we worked with were directly involved with the riots but their lives have been inadvertently shaped by the reporting and invasion of the press eager to put faces to crimes committed during the summer. We could have found people more directly affected, or involved but we realised it was more important to focus on the positive aspects.

These kids are escaping difficult home/street lives and the youth centre provides them with a safe haven, a place where they can be children and enjoy the company of others from a multitude of ethnicities and ages. The staff (mostly unpaid) are loyal to their people - most also grew up in the area and strongly believe they are making a difference but also show their concern for the centre's future.

Both film projects tackle issues at the forefront of our society's consciousness, I sincerely hope the films get carried far and wide, and spark debates on a higher level. The young people we worked with have had a profound effect on me, I hope they can grow to be what they want to be in safety and happiness.

Everyone deserves a chance, but circumstance is a heavy burden.

Please watch here now: http://www.mypockets.co.uk/braveface.htm

The Dog That Took a Horse to Water (Short Story)

Leon bought himself a horse because he could. He wasn't at all an equine enthusiast, didn't ride it for months - so I had to make sure Marmaduke didn't turn feral or lazy.

The workmen drafted in to build our annex laughed and jested about it almost on a daily basis. Being a stubborn and proud man, Leon made the effort one day to mount his neglected steed and put a stop to the builders' jibes. I had to restrain from laughing as I caught a glimpse of Leon strutting about on his jodhpur-clad legs before the full-length mirror in the hallway. It was not very becoming, but I was glad the clothes he'd purchased at the same time as the horse were finally getting an outing.

I made a low cough to introduce myself to him gently, but he became rigid-straight as he turned to me - a slight look of anxiety flecked his eyes.

I took his hand and said, "Come on then, lets get Marms warmed up."

He picked up the whip that was resting on the bench, wishing to look every inch the showman.

I brought Marms round the front of the yard. Leon should have been using the mounting block, but he insisted he didn't need it. Marms whinnied, which caught the attention of all three of the workmen.

Several attempts to mount sans mounting block proved very unsuccessful. A flush the hue of burgundy surfaced on Leon's cheeks. I stepped forward to give him a leg-up on the side the builders couldn't see - though I strained greatly, his backside hit the saddle with a dull thud. I whispered up to ask if he wanted to be led. I know that Marms has become lazy enough not to want to bolt, but think that Leon might want the security. His look tells me everything: No, let me get this over with as quickly as possible.

I stepped away. Courage improved Leon's posture. The whip rose. There was a second's delay as Marms tried to understand what had hit his flank so rigorously. He whinnied then trotted on - ears pricked, tail flared up. The whip cracked again and Marms strides into a canter.

I looked to the builders who were muttering. All together, they raised their arms and began clapping enthusiastically in mock celebration. The noise spooked Marms so much that he swiftly upped his pace to a full-tilted gallop. Leon was leaning too far back in the saddle, but somehow managed to told tight as they sped through the gate and into the rolling hills beyond. We didn't see them again for half and hour.

Luckily for Leon, when he did return - safely dismounted but disheveled, the builders were around the other side of the house taking a coffee break. He would not speak to me, only outstretched the reins and childishly patted Marms on the rump.

So, I now have two horses along with my lovely petite Dachshund, Florence to exercise and attend to. We make a rather unusual trio (obviously I can't take both horses out at the same time) when we go out hacking. Florence had been rejected by her mother at a very young age, so I became her surrogate dog-mother, and as such - she became more like a child and I honestly believe she did not ever think that she belonged to the canine world.

Flo had to be first for everything as if her sass made up for her lack of stature. Wether we were out walking, or riding - Flo would stride ahead, legs beating like a humming bird's wings. She'd invariably want to sit astride one of the horses - in front of me as if she were the captain of a great Roman war horse.

Being close to the coast of St Ives, I was always keen to get both horses acclimatized with the sea - excellent for all-round toning and cleaning. Such a natural practice for horses and dogs, but seeing Flo swimming alongside the horses always looked bizarre and often attracted remonstrations of worry from passers by who were not accustomed to a routine I had rendered as normal.

Shortly after Leon's debut on Marms, I decided that introducing him to the sea would save me a few hours work as it would tire the horse quicker than hacking on land. I had taught my horse, Shadow a few years previously, and although initially tentative, I soon got her settled into a sea-bonding routine. Unfortunately, Marms was not so keen to breach the waters of St Ives.

He just wouldn't be led or ridden into the shallows past his hooves. I tried dragging at his halter, teasing with carrots and apples - even taking Shadow for company. I was on the verge of admitting defeat when one day, as I watched Flo lapping up her water from a shallow bowl, I had an epiphany: if Flo was hot on the heels of Marms on hacks, then surely Flo could lead Marms into the water?

So, with great trepidation, I led Marms down our usual trail towards the sea. It was a relatively calm day - perfect really. Flo, excited and eager as ever, wobbled and snaked her way out front of Marms - turning her head full back to check we were following every few minutes. Marms followed her scent and gently touched his muzzle on Flo's back occasionally.

I took a deep breath as Flo's tiny legs began striding the water - Marms' nose tickled the surface, he shivered a little, but kept moving forward. Flo disappeared briefly under a small wave. Marms stopped momentarily, but started more readily when he saw her resurface. The water was nearly at Marms' flanks and my knees - we were making progress.

I like to think that Marms was too preoccupied with Flo's course through the waves to worry about the official christening of his sea legs - but I did feel a strain as he lost contact with the seabed and made the transition of carrying both our weight without gravity's aid.

Marms' nose snorted in the surface swell but he soon settled his head at a more sensible angle. For a few minutes we were all in unison, almost enjoying this strange new foray.

Then Flo disappeared.

Marms whinnied and his gait changed into a frantic thrashing. He tired very quickly. For a few seconds he gave up and we both sank below the surface. I kicked at his sides with my legs to try and bring him back up. Somehow he regained his composure, resurfaced and as we blinked the salt water from our eyes - we both sighed with great relief as Flo paddled towards us, Marms stretched his head towards her and their noses touched briefly.

The wise little canine knew which way to lead us next.

Marms would not so much as dip one hoof into the sea without his sausage-shaped guardian after that day.

A Show of Beauty and Endurance

I have to admit, I had never heard of Kilnsey, let alone the 'Kilnsey Show and Sports' before I was whisked off Yorkshire-bound from Bristol one early morning at the end of August. Invited by a special someone who grew up in the area and promised a day of good, hearty fun - how could I possibly resist such an intriguing invitation?

We arrived mid-morning to be ushered into a free car park close to the domineering Kilnsey Crag, which provided a hardy, strong backdrop to the show ground nestled safely in the basin of an expansive valley.

As I opened the car door, I was immediately aware of being in an outlandish environment - not only was the temperature a fair few degrees chiller, but the broad accents of the two young stewards who'd directed us to our spot instantly beguiled, intrigued and enticed me with their jovial banter. One of the lads was sarcastically teasing the other about needing a bacon sandwich, the other replied: "Too right you need one, I've seen more fat on a butcher's pencil!"

Had to smile - I'd never heard this expression before. A harmless, playful comment, but it gave me a sense of the Yorkshire lilt. The dew from the grass wet my feet and I was glad I second-thoughted my lambs wool jumper - a flimsy cardigan was never going to be enough.

Being a self-confessed country bumpkin and no stranger to agricultural shows - I thought I'd be au fait with the general ambience and warm bovine smell, but things are definitely markedly different up this way. Some of the familiar signifiers are there: old codgers in tweed, flamboyant, over-exuberant food demonstrations, tents with meticulously-manicured cattle lined up with their patterned rears pointing towards impressionable visitors' faces.

Then you stumble across the dry stone walling competition - men fitting magnificently misshaped grey pieces of Yorkshire history neatly into place like an ancient game of Tetris, strangely mesmerising and endearing to see such mastery of a craft that has probably died out in more meagre areas of the country.

It was encouraging to see teams of fathers and sons - well younger men in general taking such weighted care of their heritage. There's a distinct level of proudness at play and playfully attuned - yes that's what was beginning to set Kilnsey apart from the other shows I've visited.

Just as the rain turns from a barely-bearable drizzle to angry spitting - so the brass band kick into energetic action with a melt-your-heart-as-well-as-the-precipitation rendition of 'Singing In the Rain'. The warming tones made me forget my shivers - nothing a strong coffee or a cider wouldn't curb anyway.

Next, we decided to take in the marquees filled with local crafts and culinary treasures. There were definitely one or two names that kept appearing against red-for-first certificates.

After a hearty chuckle at the odd shaped veg, warped flower ensembles and magnificent culinary concoctions we ventured outside again.

Cracking leeks and lovingly polished courgettes in neat pairs.

We were too late to see the cakes in their full glory - but the smell alone was a welcome treat as we entered the baked goods tent. Even though the entries were covered in protective/prohibitive plastic sheeting, we salivated and jested about the rationale behind the jam to cream to sponge ratio, which was often inconsistent with some of the Victoria Ss. How does anyone come up with the idea of making a pizza look like a scene from the Little Mermaid? It was obviously pain-stakingly put together and bizarrely brilliant, but who could justifiably eat it without feeling guilty?

Hot and sticky with the bustle of bargain-seeking bodies, the food court provided a suitable rain diversion. Top marks definitely went to a dazzling display of cupcakes (not the over-fussy feats of fantasy you witness in city stores), pretty, simple edible elegance.

We knew the smug (but rightly so) baker would have an empty display cabinet before tea-time.

Alongside her stall, there were others displaying more varieties of Wensleydale than you could ever conceivably tire of - but the most impressive array of morsels were of the pork pie variety. Never having eaten one before myself, I had presumed there was only one type of pork pie, but this local vendor displayed around 8 to 10 variants of these golden-facaded orbs of bewitching filling. I still wasn't tempted - but I was certainly tempted by the fresh fish counter's contents.

Whole trout, filleted trout, trout pate, trout medley - I doubt Bubba Gump could have come up with more ways to harvest a sea creature. But alas, they'd run out of trout sandwiches... which was what we were craving. Fortunately, the lady behind the counter assured us there was no shortage of sandwiches - we'd just have to go over the road to the trout farm and retrieve them from the cafe there.

A little mellowed from our midday tipple - my sprightly companion challenged me to a hike up the crag. Plenty of people were doing it, you could see pin-pricks of colour dotted up the escarpment and a few at the very top - so yes, why not? I was in training for the Bristol Half Marathon at the time, so I was in a 'yes' mood.

Well, the first tier was fairly gentle. We snaked through the grass which was a little slippy, but not too steep. Then, the grass ran out and the steepest most daunting gauntlet ensued. Inappropriate footwear aside - I began to feel a little worried - if I fell now, would I even make the Half Marathon the following week?

Taking our time and using hands to grip the rubble (refraining from looking downwards), we ascended with trepidation. It was arduous - the loose stones providing little security, but the sight of the flags at the top were a beacon to focus on. Out of breath and soaked in a misty drizzle, I soon forgot my pounding limbs and took in the sublime panorama. It was hard to believe that in a few hours, hundreds of people (young and old) would be running up this escarpment and heading straight back down again for the crag racing - with absolutely no time or inclination to admire the view.

We walked along the top of the ridge: there was no way either of us were braving the same route down. Even if this slope was covered in snow and I had my skis on - I'd still be a bit dubious about it.

Needless to say it took us a lot longer to get down, as we had to contend with slippery, wet grass. The homely-looking pub below acted as our focal point. Once safely inside, we joined the other equally triumphant and bedraggled ramblers escaping the drizzle.

I'm not much of an ale drinker, but I thought it would be positively rude not to sample a local brew. A honey-tinted, well-rounded half slipped down like a treat as we laughed and ruminated about the prospect of a "warm breakfast salad" advertised on the specials board. We were strangers to this pub, it was the early afternoon on a Tuesday - but this place had all the right ingredients associated with a leisurely bank holiday.

Damp but content after a second half of the golden liquor, we decided it best to get back to the show before we became part of the well-worn furniture... or fell victim to the ominous warm breakfast salad. As we left, one of the show's dignitaries (an old boy positively leaking tweed from every orifice) joined a group in the corner - looking every bit as proud as his attire and badges suggested. I wondered if he'd snuck out of the official show lunch hosted in the pomped-up judges marquee (imagine all the thrills and meringue-balloon drapery of a gypsy wedding) to mix with the riff-raff and savour a quick tipple?

Out in the cold and perma-drizzle again, we realised that we'd need something more than a brisk walking to fend off another fit of shivers, so coffee and flapjack was agreed on. As we left the food tent (and yes, the cupcake lady could nearly afford to pack up and get home a contented woman), we heard the announcement for the start of the crag racing, so we got a good spot near the finish line - though we could already see fast-moving maniacs scurrying up and across the hill that we'd struggled with a few hours earlier. This first batch were the under 12s, the first intrepid souls to pass us were muddy (some scuffed and bloodied), didn't appear to give even a jot of pain or anguish away in their faces - pure focus and dedication shined through.

Massive cheers of support rippled around as every new runner passed by - mostly boys, though a few iron-willed girls crossed the line at a sprint.

The open race featured burly men, the odd athletic-type, a handful of over 60s - all or mostly in unassuming, unpretentious attire, some strapped into walking boots or spikes rather than trainers.

I relished witnessing the camaraderie beyond the finish line. Many pats-on-the-back around the (one and only) water bucket where the runners were sponging mud off their legs. This appeared primitive, but strangely compelling and appropriate for such an event. I doubt this scene would be replicated at my Half Marathon in Bristol.

What a staggering feat of human will-power. Seeing these people conquor such a sharp and treacherous incline made me realise that I could do more to up-the-ante with my own running training.

The shivers were beginning to take over again, so we decided to go and investigate the Kilnsey Trout Farm, just on the other side of the show's perimeter. As we entered the cafe, they were beginning to close-down the kitchen, but we managed to persuade the girl on the counter that we'd driven from Bristol to sample the trout and we couldn't possibly leave without a sandwich. She didn't make so much as a murmur of an objection, so five minutes later we were tucking into sandwiches bursting with juicy pink flakes of trout with mayonnaise accompanied by thick crisps and salad. It was just gorgeous and well-deserved to sit inside and watch the ducks pootling around in the fishing lakes beyond the window.

Tired but content, we went back to the show for the final and hotly-anticipated event of the trotting races. As the sun dipped below the softening line of the crag, an array of traps, clinking and clattering along the way appeared from the far side of the track and began their debut parade. As with all the other beasts on display throughout the day, the horses were immaculately turned-out and the jockeys' silks were predictably and charmingly gordy.

No expenses spared, the commentator stood on a rickety scafolding tower, cursing his dodgy mic, which was faltering every time he shifted to a certain spot on his platform. A few jokes were made and the serious talk resumed. The thrill, the powerful yet steady trotting gait of the horses, the heavy clatter of their chariots all culminated in a heady mix, and a climatic charge amongst the spectators and bookies booths just behind.

We were only going to stay for a couple of races, but we ended up staying until the rosettes were handed out by the lady judge. By this time, the commentator up on his solitary podium looked ready to descend again into the furor and celebrate with the rest of show's crew in the beer tent - surreptitiously positioned beyond the field of pimped-up 4x4s and horse boxes. Temped to join him? Yes, ever-so-slightly. But it really was cold and my companion had a long drive ahead.

As the sun dipped lower, casting honey-tones over the hills and valleys, we meandered homeward through the commanding landscape - I sank lower in my seat, enjoying the warmth in the car, following a spectacular sunset.

Reflecting on the day, I really enjoyed observing the quiet confidence exuded by the breeders, showers, craftsmen at Kilnsey - they all knew their strengths and owned every right to that proudness. I loved the lay of the land and the crag racers' determination to both be at one with and master the tumultuous terrain, even if it meant having to soap themselves down with a bucket of muddy water and tend to bleeding knees in return.

There was just the right level of humour, true sportsmanship and bravado to keep me entertained - it is tough up north, but I didn't hear a single grumble from either man nor beast.

Block Party Continued

Here's some very belated pictures to complement my writings about the Nelson Street Graffiti Art Project in Bristol last month: