Tag Archives: life

The Biker

Walking toward that high raised bridge, only one thought was on my mind. It was dark and cold, even when the sun was shining. I had no other choices in my life. I’d lost everything and it had been this way for a while.

Walking across the bridge, closer and closer to what I chosen to be my fate, I heard a motorbike coming from behind me. I glanced back as I continued to walk and quickly the bike came alongside me then pulled and stopped in my path. I did not recognise the bike, nor the driver. But I was not scared.

Silently, I was offered a helmet and jacket. I glanced toward the spot on which I intended to end it all, then looked back at the gloved hands.

Still silent.

I didn’t feel the need to question, or even speak. What else did I have to lose at this point, everything was already gone.

I took the helmet and jacket, put them on, perched myself on the spare seat of the bike and off we went across the bridge that I thought would be the end.

Street lights flashed by and before I knew it, we had driven into darkness with nothing but the lights of the bike showing the way. Which way I did not know, but I felt safe, the first time I had felt anything in a long time.

For miles and miles the bike twisted and turned, without a single word from the driver or myself. We just kept on going and with no concept of time or even where I was, I still did not worry.

Shortly after dawn broke, we pulled down a thin country path covered by trees. We pulled into a large yard and stopped. I got off the bike and removed the helmet and jacket that had protected me for my journey. As I turned to the driver, I asked

“Where are we?”

They pointed at the farmhouse further down the yard. It was slightly run down with Ivy growing around the edges, but as I looked closer I realised there was smoke pouring from the chimney and there was a light on in one of the downstairs rooms.

As I turned back to the bike, it was already moving. Before I could blink, it was heading back down the country path.

I headed toward the farmhouse, still clutching the helmet and jacket given to me. I did not feel scared. I did not feel worried. I did not feel anything. I approached the door but before I could even knock, it slowly started opening.

“Needed saving did we?” Said the woman who stood before me.

“Well they wouldn’t have brought you here if you didn’t need saving Petal. Come inside”

I stepped in through the old farmhouse door and heard it click shut behind me.

How we became ultra race haters

Before the attack of 9/11 back in 2001, Terrorism was never really a big issue. It was known about, but never really made the News or worried people.

If the first plane that hit the North Tower had been the only plane that day, it would not have been seen or classed as a terror attack but an accident. Once the second plane hit the South Tower, the third in the Pentagon and the discovery of the forth heading to Washington, then it became an attack.

The aftermath of the devastation not only lead to thousands of ruined lives, it also lead to the beginning of hatred. Not just hatred toward the Terrorists, but hatred toward any race and religion linked with them. On the day of the attacks, I remember hearing about 2 school children getting the bus home. The bus driver refused to take them because of the colour of their skin and visual religious beliefs. That bus driver set an example to other children that it was perfectly fine to fling abuse and reject another human being because they are seen as different.

When children got home from school and asked about what had happened in New York, parents told them what they thought and brought those children up the same way. To believe that different skin colour and religion made them  ‘bad people’. This is exactly how we got to where we are now, 17 years later.

This is also where I get to my point.

Whenever anything that is seen as an attack happens, it is automatically published as a Terrorist Incident. Why? Because that is everything we believe that can be blamed on a group of people. A labelled group of people. And what I mean by labelled is coloured or religion. And for the next few months, even years, after an incident Muslims, Islam and other similar religions are verbally and even physically attacked by us. Anyone who’s skin colour even resembles that of a religion is attacked. And it is so, so wrong!

Why do we allow our children to think that it is O.K to treat people like this? Why do we think its acceptable to make passing comments on how someone else leads their innocent lives?

In the recent events of the Westminster attack in London, everyone automatically blamed a religion before there was even evidence of it being a Terror attack! It could have been a none religious man who suffered from severe mental health issues that lead him to that attack. But people are too quick to make judgement.

The day after the attack on Westminster, a photo emerged of a young woman wearing a head scarf walking among the chaos, visibly upset and on her phone. It was instantly criticized and made to appear that she didn’t care about what had just happened or that she gave a crap about the people dying around her, purely based on the colour of her skin and the fact she was wearing a head scarf. Yet no one mentioned the other people stood around, leaning against walls, taking photos using selfie sticks.

The woman emerged to comment on the horrendous harassment she had been facing online because of ONE arse hole idiot who posted a status along with the photo. She, in actual fact, had ensured that those around her did not require any help or assistance before she got on her phone, contacted her family letting them know she was safe. This was the moment that was captured.

I think its incredibly sad that hundreds of thousands even millions of people around the World are dying from lack of basic human needs and instead of attempting to get money and help to them, we are tearing chunks out of each other for the sake of a skin colour or religious belief.

The quicker we teach our future generations that everyone is equal and that the colour of skin or the religion we follow does not make us any different to anybody else.

It starts with us, and it starts now.

Awww, you work with animals! You must love your job!?!

‘What’s your occupation?’
‘I work in a rescue centre’
‘Awww wow! You must love your job!?!’

If it has fur, feathers, scales, 8 legs, no legs, a million legs… I’m interested… always have been, always will be. Which is funny because my family arn’t particularly ‘animal orientated’. I’ve just always loved them and grown up interested in them.
So when people state how much I must love my job, I always have the same thought… you have absolutely NO idea do you?

Every day I roll up to work, I expect exactly the same and nothing less.
I expect to be scrubbing poop and urine puddles off the tiled floors. I expect to be picking up chewed up, smelly pieces of bedding, I expect to be soaked by a leaky hose and if not a hose, a stray bucket of disinfectant water chucked by a member of staff who’s not quite paying attention. I love my job.

I expect to bump into a variety of volunteers who, as amazing as they are, will quite happily trample muddy foot prints (as well as paw prints) onto the wonderfully clean tiled floors I’ve just spent the last 2 hours of my life scrubbing. I expect to hold 30 minute conversations with those same wonderful volunteers, despite the fact I’m miles behind. But those conversations always put some form of smile on my face. I love my job.

I expect the weather to be, well British weather. The wonderful British weather that I’m about to spend my afternoon outside in… rain or shine, one dog or 5 dogs… I love my job.

I expect to be bitten, scratched, cornered, kicked, jumped on, dragged over onto my face (or my butt) snarled at, barked at, smiled at, pee’d on, poop’d on and covered from head to toe in muddy paw prints. I love my job.

I expect to meet numerous amounts of new faces. Some friendly and inquisitive, some annoyed, and some just plain damn rude. I expect to answer the constant string of phone calls and hear the sounds of happiness, sadness, tears, stress, anger and annoyance. I expect to repeat myself several times and then explain why it is that ‘you can no longer view the dogs in their kennels anymore’ on more than one occasion. I love my job.

I expect to ‘have to drop everything’ to rush out and rescue an injured animal… even if it is on a roof 4 floors up and it’s looking like it’s going to eat your face the second you get near it. I love my job.

I expect to work a rotation of 6AM starts and 7.30PM finishes, 5 days a week, including weekends, hungover or not. I expect to work every bank holiday, school holiday, festive holiday, under the sun… because after all, animals are 24/7. I expect to bring work home with me after a farmer found a family of new-borns, abandoned by their mother. I love my job.

I expect to take the ’emergency phone’ with me on a romantic night out, just in case there’s an animal in need… even at 3am…
I love my job.

So to answer the above question, yeah, I love my job… it has its downs, but it wouldn’t be my job then would it! I chose the animal life, even if I wasn’t born and raised into it.
From an outside view, it seems like the best and easiest job in the world, but would any of you cope with all of the above?