A few years ago, having achieved two world champion medals in a single weekend, Anna began to lose her strength and her energy – all of it. She went from world class fitness to barely able to fall out of bed and was diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.  As far as the experts were concerned, Anna’s career was over; she’d hit the wall.

Maybe that’s the difference between the winners and the rest – walls don’t stop winners; they give them something to climb over.  For the two years when all she had the energy to do was talk, Anna talked. She gave inspirational speeches to various organizations – schools and companies – about the focus and dedication you need to succeed and how this CFS was just another hurdle. And all the time she climbed.  Within five months of getting the all-clear, Anna was holding another World Class medal and she hasn’t stopped since.

Good luck in Beijing, Anna, to you and all your team!

“I tag you to write six random things about yourself. Rules on my blog.”

These are the rules:

• Link to the person who tagged you.
• Post the rules on your blog.
• Write six random things about yourself.
• Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
• Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.
• Let your tagger know when your entry is up.

I am not as tag literate as I should be but these are early days and some day, I will tag with the best of them.  Meanwhile the instruction is to be random and hey, random I can do….

1.  I was a teacher (still am at the least provocation) and thought it hilarious that anyone would pay me to tell stories. When I admitted to the nun who was my teacher years ago that I wanted to be a seanachai (traditional storyteller) she said, ‘Foolish child. You can’t earn a living telling stories. You’ll have to be a schoolteacher.’  I did and now I do. So she was wrong.

2. I do not think that I write what comes out of my imagination; I think I write what went into it.

3. I won one medal in my life – all Ireland Volleyball, cadet team.  I have a mean serve and my party trick was spinning the ball so that if anyone tried to answer the serve, it skinned her hands. Otherwise, I’m quite nice.

4. I’m ambidextrous and write completely differently with each hand – different style, different content. Typing works because it keep both sides happy but often the words come out backwards. Either that or I can’t spell.

5. I absolutely love the fact that I am Irish.

6. Recently, a man who’d booked me to do a talk, said that he had read THE JIGSAW MAKER. It took him three weeks because three years ago he had a severe stroke and reading was too difficult. It was the first book he finished in all that time. I said, ‘I hope you didn’t feel obliged to finish it.’ He said, ‘No, I wanted to know what happened.’ and he smiled.  I felt honoured and humbled.

If there were 7 things, the seventhy would be that I am lucky to know some fine people.

Over to you, Meg.

I need to write the scene where the fellow comes out of prison.  It’ll be a moving scene – he thinks he’s alone, he can’t go back, he doesn’t know how to go forward, he isn’t exactly sure where he is at the minute ( you’re not the only one, sweetheart, trust me...). It sounds easy.

It’s not. In my varied career I have been a waitress, barmaid, chambermaid, dutch bulb packer, horticultural shop assistant, teacher, catechist, public speaker and writer. I’ve been in all sorts of obscure places but never, in jail.

And for the first time in my life, that’s a pity.

To be a good writer you have to have A-U-T-H-E-N-T-I-C-I-T-Y.  The only person I’ve even seen coming out of jail was Clint Eastwood and that was not at all suitable. It was dry, dusty and you could hear the crickets whirrupping. There are no crickets in Dublin, even on a good day.  Hence the quandry.

Well, thank God for AA ads.  You know the one: person in trouble asks if friend can help, friend says, ‘No, but I know a fellow who can…’ and next thing there’s the AA man. He can and he does. That’s what sprang to mind this morning.  I scoured Google for prisons in Ireland and eventually rang one.  The chap at the end of the phone said, ‘A writer, that’s a good one.  And you need information…let me think now…’ and he pressed buttons. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘I know the very woman, hold on.’  The phone was silent for a minute then a woman’s voice asked what I wanted. I told her.  I expected that she would be too busy, not in a position to give out such information but no, she said, ‘Have you email?  Send me all the questions and I’ll get the Governor to answer them and get back to you. Will that be okay?’

Would that be okay?

The AA would be proud of her.

Surrey Life Magazine is proud of me and of my good friend, Meg Gardiner. Here’s the link

My husband was 50 this Christmas. A ski-ing holiday was his idea of a good present; ski-ing holiday is my idea of a contradiction in terms – an oxymoron, if you like.

We had a Ski-ing holiday a few years ago. The first night the chalet we were in burned down and we escaped with only minutes to spare. It explained why half the population of Morzine was outside, in the freezing air, screaming “Allez! Vite!” at three o’ clock in the morning; why the other half looked on in amazement the following day while I stood in the supermarket trying to work out my bra size in centimetres (good Irish Catholics don’t mind going through Geneva airport in pyjamas and a ski jacket but I’m damned if I was going to travel without a bra).

Two year later, we braved it again. On the second to last day, I had a series of text messages – my father had had a stroke, he was stable, he was unstable, don’t worry, come home quickly…and no idea which came in what order. We drove home. Thankfully, he’s made steady progress over the ensuing years and so, when Birthday Boy said what he’d really like was a week’s kamikazi bolting down mountains and teenage sons did their oh Mum, what do you mean tempting fate, I mean pur-lease routine, I fell for it.

Until we got to the top of the first chair lift. On the first day.

There we were, all kitted out, on the top of a piste in heavenly Saalbach after a fire free night, having ascertained that all the relatives and even their neighbours were in good health and I had a panic attack. Convinced that something dreadful was imminent I struggled woe-manfully (ie, like a complete wuss) through the week, coping with the terror only by diluting it in generous measures of gluwein at every opportunity.

And nothing bad happened. The weather was glorious, the hotel (Neuhaus) flawless, the bones intact and the lift broke down only once. That was on the last day, the day when I was feeling so good I went up on my own. Just as I skimmed the highest trees it ground to a halt, deathly silence all round and the only people I could see were my husband and sons whizzing underneath, oblivious. Then the loudspeaker on the pylon beside me crackled into action, in German. I don’t know what it said but the first words were, ‘Achtung! Achtung!’ and the rest sounded ominous. I have seldom prayed so hard…

Twenty minutes later we were off again and I can honestly say that the speed with which I travelled back down that mountain broke records.

The following morning we had a leisurely breakfast then wandered over to ski hire to return the equipment. Once the exhausted credit card was slipped back into the wallet and the efficient Austrian doors whirred open to let us back onto the street I was elated. Safe! It was over! I could pack and go home! Hurrah!

Then my mobile bleeped. It was a message from my dear friend, Sue. It said, Call me when you get this.

I did…

(to be continued……)

I sat opposite and watched (casualty of the job – writer’s curiousity) and realised I’d seen that movement before.

At breakfast.

My sons, 17, 16 and 13, are all keen canoeists and the day after a really tough workout they wrap scarves around their necks and twitch and agitate if they’ve got stiff muscles. H was too lean for a canoeist: they have a very particular shape – broad shoulders/chest, narrow waist. And they tend to be mesomorphs. This chap was tall and lean.

He noticed me watching.

‘Rower?’ I asked.

He leaned forward, beaming. ‘No – water polo. I’m off to see my chiropracter. I’m a tri-athlete – professional.’ And he sounded so proud.

If I’d been his mother, I would be proud too; it was the quickest journey to Waterloo I ever had.

Alex Lewis is training to be fast enough to get onto the Olympic Team for the 2012 Olympics.  He’s bright, friendly, very personable and talks to strange women on the train.

I said I’d keep my fingers crossed and cheer him on when the time comes. So if he makes it – and I sincerely hope he does – please cheer him on too.

He deserves it.