Claire-Louise Meadows

New Film Aims to Raise Awareness of Male Domestic Violence

2013-06-03T06:22:06-04:00

Recent reports suggest that about two in five of all victims of domestic abuse and violence are men, contradicting the widespread impression that it is almost always women who are violated.

Because of that men assaulted by their partners are often not taken seriously or ignored by police, see their perpetrator go free and have far fewer refuges to flee to than women (4,000 for females in England and Wales compared to only 76 for men).

Male abuse and violence is a much under reported issue. Twice as many male victims (41%) than women (19%) do not tell anyone about the domestic abuse they are suffering.

A new film raising awareness of 'male-victim' domestic violence is currently in pre-production.

Flawless is a psychological drama, the simple story of a man trying to deal with a minor glitch in his apparently perfect life.

The story uses a real-life trivial anecdote to set the plot and create the problem for the protagonist to overcome. A deceptively easy solution becomes soon impossible to achieve, while the narrative slowly takes an unexpected turn and reveals our character's deep and very private struggle.

The story explores the concepts of fear, frustration and disillusionment that are often associated with a violent and abusive domestic environment.

Director Tito Sacchi explains 'I had intended to write a story about domestic abuse for some time. I was interested in exploring a difficult, abusive relationship and the suffering involved which is often more psychological than physical. Often the normal day-by-day life routine manages to successfully camouflage such extreme situations within layers of normality'.

The statistics support Sacchi's statement:

1. Partner abuse (non-sexual) was the most commonly experienced type of intimate violence among both women and men. 24% of women (3.9 million) and 13% of men (2.1 million) reported having experienced such abuse since the age of 16: for every three victims of partner abuse, two will be female and one will be male.

2. Both women and men with a long-term illness or disability were more likely to be victims of any domestic abuse in the last year (12.8% and 7.3% respectively), compared with those without a long- term illness or disability (4.6% and 6.1%).

3. More men in managerial and professional occupations (3.0%) suffered from partner abuse in 2011/12 than women with the same occupation (2.6%)

4. Men with children (3.0%) are as likely to be victims of partner abuse than men without children. The figure is the same for female victims (3.5%)

5. The number of women convicted of perpetrating domestic abuse has more than quadrupled in the past seven years from 806 (2004/05) to 3,965 (2010/11).

6. Twice as many male victims (28%) than women (13%) do not tell anyone about the domestic abuse they are suffering - highlighting the level of underreporting. Male victims are three times (10%) more likely not to tell the police they are victim than a female victim (29%) and only 4% of male victims will tell a health professional compared to 19% of female victims.

7. In 2011/12 - 17 men (one every 21 days) died at the hands of their partner or ex-partner compared with 88 women (one every four days)

On at least 120 occasions in 2010 a caller decided not to consider a refuge or safe house because they were too far away and would mean having to completely uproot their lives, often having to leave their children and their job behind.

Tito Sacchi continues 'As a writer I was looking for a simple idea that was able to both effectively disguise the cruel reality of the abusive relationship, but at the same time gradually reveal it to its audience.

'Flawless has the potential to engage the audience as it deals with that delicate balance very well. This makes the message even stronger and more compelling'.

The project already has support from Erin Pizzey, the domestic, and family violence victim advocate, and also from the ManKind Initiative, a national charity that provides help and support for male victims of domestic abuse and domestic violence.

But Sacchi, and project producer Andreas Kubat are seeking further offers of support to ensure that work on the film goes ahead.

Says Kubat 'We would like offer people the opportunity to be part of this important film project and raise awareness of domestic and family violence in a very powerful way like only the film medium can'.

To find out how you can get involved in Flawless, visit

http://www.flawless-film.com/

Sources:

https://www.gov.uk/government/uploads/system/uploads/attachment_data/file/116483/hosb0212.pdf
http://www.ons.gov.uk/ons/dcp171778_298904.pdf
http://www.mankind.org.uk/factsmalevicitms.html

The World is Focusing on Women's Issues While Happily Ignoring Men's

2013-05-07T08:05:37-04:00

Journalist Peter Lloyd recently hit the headlines when he revealed he was suing his local gym, the Kentish Town Sports Centre in North London, on the grounds of gender bias.

Lloyd was incensed that the venue, owned by the fitness company Better, in association with Camden Council - was banning men and boys for 442 hours every year to make way for 'women-only' sessions.

'To add insult to injury' says Lloyd, in a heartfelt article in the Daily Mail last month, 'they still charge full-price membership without offering men the equivalent option of a 'male-only' session.'

I have been watching the case develop with interest, as a journalist and blogger with special research interests in the rights of men and boys.

And I am not the only one. Prominent human-rights campaigner Peter Tatchell has described Lloyd's campaign as 'sensible and fair'.

Erin Pizzey, domestic violence shelter founder turned men's right campaigner has also pledged her support 'this discrimination has no place in modern society' she says.

I interviewed Peter Lloyd last week to find out more about the thinking behind his case, and what progress he felt he had made so far.

Claire-Louise Meadows: Peter, take us back a little - what made you decide to take action on this issue?

Peter Lloyd: Primarily, I took action because the gym's policy is discriminatory, but also because I wanted to wake people up - men, women, council staff and gym bosses.

Men and boys constantly suffer sexism, and a small issue like this is a building block for other male discriminations such as father's rights, circumcision and the life expectancy gap. I want to help change that.

CLM: Have you found that you have had a lot of support? Mostly from men, women or a mix?

PL: I've had an incredible amount of support - from both genders. I've also had backing from gym staff at the Kentish Town Sports Centre, who oppose their employer's sexist policies.

Even a poll on the Huffington Post is 80% in my favour. The public aren't stupid - they know I'm right and that charging customers for hours they can't use, while simultaneously vilifying their sexuality, is wrong.

CLM: How are you gauging your success? What, in your opinion, is the ideal outcome of your case?

PL: I already consider the case successful because it exposed the gym's unfair, out-dated practice. But it's also successful because it galvanised male thinking, especially around gender politics - an area they've traditionally been locked out of.

CLM: You have been described to me, by people familiar with your work, as an excellent writer, but not usually a particularly political writer.

Have you yourself been galvanized into exploring more areas of the men's rights movement as a result of your own experiences?

PL: I've always been interesting in men's issues, but my writing focused on other things. I even worked on a women's magazine for three years. It was only when I left that and went freelance that I could focus on my own passions. It amazed me that men had no real voice in mainstream media - despite the scale of their modern issues. Editors have simply just given them sports pages.

CLM: Feminism - a driver for necessary change, or making problems with gender equality worse?

PL: Both and neither. Equality is wonderful - it's definition is clear and inflexible. Feminism is different. While many feminists are fair and balanced, much of the feminist ideology has been hijacked, corrupted and bastardised by misandrists.

Just look at how the male victims of domestic violence - a staggering 40% of ALL reported incidents - are deliberately ignored for financial and political motives. This, we are told, is a fruit of feminism. I think it's disgusting and a form of abuse in itself.

In this week's Grazia there's a feature about female genital mutilation. They're rightly outraged, but men are routinely circumcised all over the world every day. Many die or grow up to feel violated. And, unlike FGM, it's legal in the UK and America.

Perhaps when these women have sons or grandsons they'll realise that we're all connected

Currently, the world is focusing on women's issues while happily ignoring men's. That's like flying a plane with one wing. The ending will inevitably be disastrous.

CLM: How would you respond to Glen Poole's criticism of your campaign in the Guardian?

PL: Of course, Glen Poole is entitled to his own opinion on this matter. For my part, I have no comment on his views.

CLM: And how would you respond to the accusation on Adweek that your 'overly-aggressive' rhetoric was doing more harm than good to the serious issues behind your campaign?

PL: It's quite clear that the author behind that article has fallen victim to bias. Trying to imply that my unapologetic approach to tackling discrimination had aggressive undertones because I'm a man was sad. But I understand. It's all part of the general malaise facing anyone that challenges the status quo on these issues.

CLM: There is a twitter divide on your campaign, depending on whether he matter is perceived as an issue of negative gender bias, or unfair business practice - is it possible that people are missing the point of what you're trying to achieve?

PL: Totally - so many people have missed the point. This isn't about the Equality Act or whether my gym is acting lawfully. It's not even about justifying a women's hour. It's about fairness. It's about telling men not to accept - or expect - sexism because they are male. It's ultimately about empowerment.

CLM: Where are you at with the case at the moment? When can we expect a decision?

PL: The case has been filed at the small claims court. A decision can be expected this summer.

CLM: How do you plan to build on the issues your case has raised?

PL: I will always be vocal about men's issues. It's a difficult calling, but it's a calling all the same. It feels like I was always meant to be doing this.

On Pippa, Waitrose and Concrete Boots

2013-04-08T05:09:51-04:00

Ok, I'm a little late to the party.

I know that the fuss about the appointment of Pippa Middleton as a food writer to the Waitrose Kitchen magazine seems to have died down.

But I will take your penny for my thoughts, thank you very much indeed.

And I'll cut straight to the heart of the matter.

Editors, publishers, agents - in their eagerness to make this particular portion of 'Brand Middleton' acceptable, and palatable to the general public, they have overlooked one thing - this girl cannot write.

They've obviously spent a fortune on designers, food stylists, photographers to make the Waitrose column - and her book - look beautiful. And it does. But's its obviously set up to mask the fact that the writing clunks along on its way - lumpy, leaden, turgid prose that fails to resonate on any level at all.

In trying to make darling Pip the new Nigella, they seem to have forgotten one thing - Nigella could write. Nigella is a writer - I have set aside whole afternoons to read a Nigella cookbook without cooking a damn thing from it. Revelling in her ability to engage with her audience, its easy to see how one with true skill can take a passion for a subject (which Pippa may or may not truly have), and turn it into something divine, and enjoyable to read.

Now - see what I did there? I dispensed with the need to turn this into a debate about class. None of this is about class, or money. Nigella went to good schools, Nigella's father is who he is. She has a pantry full of things we've never heard of, that probably cost a fortune. And we still love her, we still understand her, we still engage with her.

We're not punishing Pip-Pip for going to good schools. Or being the sister of that similarly turgid creature, the Duchess of Cambridge.

In more expert hands, her claims to have made sushi rolls with a set of rugger-bugger friends in her first article, could have passed as a lovely, genuine anecdote that could have us reaching for our sushi mats.

But nothing she writes resonates.

She simply cannot do it. And I can't blame it on first column nerves - she wrote a whole book (it's massive), and it crawled along as if it was wearing a concrete boot.

We're wise to the fact that Pippa is being thrust in our faces, and we don't like it. We like it even less when she's thrust into our faces without the talent to justify it.

We're a lot brighter, and wiser, than the publicists, editors, advisors, agents think.

Slimming Supplement 'Scam' - How Would the Public Know the Difference?

2013-03-25T05:19:06-04:00

Green coffee beans, acai berries, African mango, white bean extract, chia, apple cider vinegar and bitter orange.

It seems every month, there's a new weight-loss miracle in a bottle on the market. The list of claims about the efficacy of each product is as long as the range of products itself.

The latest supplement to hit the market is a product called raspberry ketone. A compound of the fruit, raspberry ketones in supplement form have become a hit due to a very public endorsement by Dr Oz, a cardiothoracic surgeon who has his own television show in the US.

Following Dr Oz's endorsement, a number of companies appeared, each promoting their own version of a raspberry ketone product.

One such company is Ketone Premium. On looking into their 'trial supplement' offer it became obvious to me that there was general sense of dissatisfaction from consumers who didn't realize that taking part in the free trial automatically tied them into a contract to purchase a certain amount of supplement per month.

Seeking out the terms and conditions of their trial offer, it seemed everything was above board. The terms and conditions did state that the trial offer would automatically roll over into an ongoing subscription unless the consumer stated that they wanted to cancel the arrangement.

Searching into Ketone Premium in general on the Internet, I came across an article from the well-renowned Women's Health site.

The article, 'Raspberry Ketone Exposed: Miracle Diet or Scam', was written by a journalist named Julia Miller. Two products were reviewed - 'Ketone Premium' and 'Cleanse Premium'. Clicking on 'Cleanse Premium' in the body of the article takes you to the Ketone Premium website.

In this 'review' only one product was mentioned: Ketone Premium. This is when I started to suspect that something was amiss.

But surely, this was a legitimate article endorsed by Women's Health? By clicking on each link at the top of the page to go back to the Women's Health homepage, I was taken instead to the Ketone Premium website.

At this point, I consulted Stephen Willard, an independent branding professional, who confirmed what I had begun to suspect: the page I was looking at, supposedly an official Women's Health article, was, in fact, a fake.

Says Willard ' I knew this was a fake within seconds. The live feeds, such as the weather widget, are purely fixed graphics that do not update. And, as already discovered, the hyperlinks all link back to the product's sales portal.

'Further to this, ' continues Willard, 'copy has been written with extreme bias. The reviews towards the bottom of the page are rather dubious and far too flattering and inconsistent with the feedback you'd expect from even the most popular of products. The posting dates also change day by day which again is another clue as to their authenticity.'

But surely, the endorsements from various well known entities at the top of the article - The Guardian, Lorraine, This Morning - any company that knew anything about branding would know not to name those brands without permission?

It seems I was wrong. I contacted The Guardian, Lorraine and This Morning to ask if they had ever endorsed Ketone Premium. All came back to me with a categorical denial - not only had they never endorsed Ketone Premium as a product, they had never mentioned raspberry ketones at all.

So it would appear that Ketone Premium were falsely claiming to have been endorsed by brands with name recognition in the UK.

Probing even further led to another surprise - the journalist Julia Miller, who supposedly authored the false Women's Health piece, wasn't actually a real person.

This had already been explored by Dan Nessel on Ezinearticles, who noticed that Julia Miller had also 'investigated' the efficacy of Acai Berries as a weight loss supplement - but the Julia Miller in that article was a blue eyed blonde, whereas the Ketone Premium Julia Miller was a brunette. Further probing by the authors of these websites revealed all images of 'Julia Miller' to be stock photographs.

Now it may be that all of what I've uncovered may be explained away by stating that Ketone Premium are doing what they can to capitalize on a public desperate to get their hands on the latest weight-loss miracle. It is up for the public to decide what they buy, and why they buy it.

But how would an unsuspecting, and trusting, public know that the endorsements of Ketone Premium products in this article weren't actually genuine? As Stephen Willard says

'At first glance consumers would quite rightly be convinced by the (false Women's Health) website. Only when appraised from a technical perspective it is evident that it is in fact a complete façade'.

Goodbye, Standards... And How to Bring Them Back

2013-02-28T05:47:22-05:00

Ok... I was waiting for the funny to happen... and it never showed. We're used to it, I suppose... we suffered the unbearable Ricky Gervais as host for far longer than we should have had to.

But... wow... wasn't Seth MacFarlane awful? It's a tough gig, the Oscars. Actors, bless them, are precious at the best of times. A room of them, egos set to Code Red, is bound to lead to a failure in the humour supply line.

But defaulting to playground jokes about boobs, domestic violence, Jews? Our actor friends have a right to look miserable, especially during that compelling show-stopper 'We Saw Your Boobs'.

Take a bunch of Hollywood's finest female talent, the creme de la creme of their profession and reduce them to... boobs. That's right ladies... work as hard as you like... cut your hair, ugly-up, act your backsides off and yes, that's right... some day you will have the privilege of being reduced to being a pair of boobs at Hollywood's premier awards ceremony.

It's a tragic state of affairs that MacFarlane even made it that far, to be honest. It puts me in mind of what journalist, author and advocate Norman Cousins said many, many years ago. Writing about the demise of Saturday Review, a magazine he edited for thirty years, Cousins wrote:

"At one time people who worked in the arts would boast to one another about their ability to communicate ideas that attacked social injustice and brutality. Now some of them seem to feel that they have struck a blow for humanity if only they can use enough four-letter words... "

That man has it in a nutshell. The Academy... please stop forcing these faux-edgy losers onto us. Have some standards. Give Betty White the gig next year - the lady is a class-act. She's funny... she's gone way past proving her comedy chops. People love her, and she's a true professional in every sense of the word.

Let MacFarlane and his toilet-humour moulder in Ted 2, and we can forget the whole sorry show. Though some may argue, the only way to settle this particular score is to have Ellen DeGeneres singing 'We Saw Your Balls' at next year's Golden Globes.

Now there's a thought.

Bad Cat, Tard... Bad Cat?

2013-02-22T13:01:18-05:00

For months now, scarcely a day has gone by without a new Tard the Grumpy Cat meme appearing on our Facebook walls. Tard's strident dedication to misanthropy has struck a chord with many, many people around the world. Her Facebook page has over 90,000 followers.

The fun thing about Tard in the beginning was that she was completely impartial in her choice of targets. Anyone could be a target for a new meme - the happier, the better. There were no real views - just a blanket ban on cheerfulness.

However, that dedication to impartiality was shattered yesterday when the owners of the page posted a picture of Tard, in which the kitty KOs control on firearms magazines with a simple 'No'.

Funny? I didn't think so, but there have been some very unfunny Tard memes before. It was the caption accompanying the meme that shifted the whole situation on its axis:

'Tard is a very good kitty for wanting to uphold the Constitution'.

So now, apparently, Tard is a political animal. And it leaves one to wonder whether the owners of the page have shot themselves in the foot with this one.

They insisted it was a joke and people shouldn't take it seriously. But outrage followed - people started to leave the page. One sample complaint: 'I came to Tard's page to get away from politics - that was one of the great things about her. I have no choice but to leave the page, on principle.'

Of course, for every pro-gun control supporter, there are many more pro-gun activists, so i don't suppose Tard has to worry that much about losing page likes. But one has to question the wisdom of politicising the page... and even at a base level, of making a joke about an issue so divisive, so sensitive, whatever your political standpoint is.

And what about your international following? Europeans especially, with our capacity to stand aside and see the gun control issue for what it really is - and give equal weight, and patience to both sides of the argument.

The owners of the page, it seems, have been utterly unprepared for the torrent of outrage they have received, accusing people of 'whining', and complaining about the amount of swearing that has been posted to the wall in response to the meme. But how could you post a controversial opinion, and then not expect people to respond?

Fat and Fabulous?... Well, No Actually

2013-02-03T09:15:16-05:00

Hilary Mantel is a writer of rare ability. My first encounter with her work was when I read Wolf Hall, during the summer before last. I forget everything else around me, as I entered a world painted so vividly that I could almost smell it.

Indeed, it was often a disappointment when I had to re-acclimatise to the real world. How banal paying the milkman, making a sandwich, or travelling into Bromley to buy cotton wool pads, seemed after full immersion into the world of Thomas Cromwell. I loved every single moment of it.

I haven't actually read Bringing Up the Bodies yet - it's on my reading pile as we speak - but if its anything like Wolf Hall, Mantel deserves to lap up every single plaudit that has come her way.

But this isn't a book review. I am writing this article in response to Mantel's article about her weight in Saturday's Guardian. Due to various health problems, she is overweight, and admits that she fantasises about being thin again. I applaud her candour, and her bravery, and the ability to stand up - in the face of the 'Fat is a Feminist Issue' brigade - and say, 'there is an alternative to fat, and, yes, I dream about going there again'.

The matter has particular resonance with me. I have always been slim - a slim child, a slim teen, and a slim young woman. I rejoiced in my 23 inch waist, my small breasts, and the fact that I weighed a steady 52 kilos, for a very long time indeed. My mind-set was 'thin girl'. I bought 'thin-girl' clothes in sizes anywhere from 8 to 10 - never anything above. My weight wasn't an issue I ever thought about - as many naturally thin people will tell you, it's taken as given that is never even thought about.

But my 'thin-girl' vision of myself was shattered in 2009, when I was hospitalised in a psychiatric ward for nine weeks, following what was later diagnosed as a 'stress-induced acute nervous breakdown.' I was placed on anti-depressant medication to pre-empt any future dips in mood that would lead to a re-occurrence of my hospitalisation.

I didn't notice it while it was happening in the early stages, but weight began to creep on to my previously lithe frame, which I can only attribute to the side-effects of the medication. I've spent hours researching the side-effects online.

My diet didn't change, and although I am now self-employed as a freelance writer, as opposed to dashing round London as a legal secretary, my activity level hasn't really altered that much.

Over the course of the three years that I have been on the medication, I could hardly avoid the fact that I had firmly kissed 52 kilos goodbye. And the effect that has had on my body confidence is devastating.

After years of 'thin-girl' thinking - practically my whole life - having to go into a store, and buy clothes that are three to four sizes larger than you ever thought you'd need makes me want to cry like an infant.

My previously pert breasts are now enormous beyond what I ever could have imagined. I actually despise looking at them. Such disgust in my body seems harsh, and self-indulgent, maybe. But I live every day with the thought that, every time I look in the mirror, the body that I see is not mine. It's a form of body dysmorphia, I suppose, but with real evidence that the body I see actually does look as bad as I imagine it is.

In my own situation, I simply have no patience for the 'fat and fabulous' warriors. That's fine for them, if that's what they're happy with. But it doesn't work for me, at all... I can't be kind to the lump in the mirror. My husband rails against me in my despair - you're not as fat as you think you are, he says - but when I desperately want to be thin again, I can't accept anything less. It's not a social pressure - the pressure comes purely from inside me.

But within the last two weeks, at the very limit of my self-loathing, and fed-up with futile kicking and screaming, I've started to make positive changes.

I have ditched the anti-depressant medication. Before you get mad, and tell me that I am sacrificing my fragile mental health for the sake of vanity, my mental health is actually not that fragile at all.

My doctor has told me that I am not depressed. That I am not even a depressive, and as such, do not really need to be on the medication anymore. In fact, taking my weight related misery into account they would rather me not be on it. My breakdown is viewed, in retrospect, as being related to environmental pressures - overwork, mostly - rather than anything organic inside me.

So I've stopped taking the medication.

I've also done a week on the 5:2 or Fast Diet. This involves two days of 500 calories a day, in a week where you can eat like normal for the rest of the time. It's the latest thing - medically lauded for its practicality, and the positive effects it has on everything from your risk of developing diabetes, to your vulnerability to cancer.

And I think it's wonderful. The fast days are cleansing, and have a knock on effect on the way you eat on your normal days. I find that I don't want a second helping anymore even on 'normal' days, and I would rather have the crisp bread than the bag of crisps.

I may be jumping the gun, but I'm already starting to notice a difference. My waist looks smaller, and my little pot belly seems a fraction flatter.

I'll keep you posted on my progress.

Campaigner in Spotlight As Guest Editor of Current Affairs Blog

2013-01-16T08:46:25-05:00

Ruth Jacobs, author and seemingly tireless charity campaigner, has dedicated herself to spending this month interviewing survivors of human trafficking and sexual exploitation as well as anti-human trafficking activists, advocates, filmmakers, writers and feminists. I met her recently in London to discuss the inspiration for her latest campaign.

'January is Human Trafficking Awareness Month, and the fact that there are more slaves in the world today than at any other time in history, needs to be recognised and acted on' says Ruth, as passionate in the flesh as in print, 'We need more help for the victims of trafficking and harsher punishments for those profiteering from this heinous crime.'

It's Ruth's passion for her subject that led me to select her to guest edit my current affairs and arts blog After Nyne on Friday 18 January. I knew that she would bring a selection of thought-provoking pieces to the table. Her planned features do not disappoint.

Ruth explains where her interest in anti-trafficking campaigning began

'When I first studied prostitution in the late 1990s, I was not involved in studying sex trafficking and as the women I interviewed were call girls, they were not trafficked, not by the definition of 'trafficked' as I understood it back then.

What I have become aware of more recently is the extent of human trafficking, much of which is sex trafficking, primarily of women and children, that is happening in the world today. I want to expose this, not just because people need to know what is happening in the world, but because people need to know it can happen to them. It can happen to anyone. And it is happening everywhere'.

So what can we do about it? I asked

'Part of the solution to ending human trafficking is raising awareness, which is what I hope to achieve with the series of interviews for Human Trafficking Awareness Month and in my Guest Editorship of After Nyne this Friday.

Anti-human trafficking activists and advocates share a wealth of information on what they do, and numerous ways for people to get involved themselves.'

I leave our interview heartened at Ruth's determination, knowing that After Nyne will be in good hands.

Catch Ruth Jacobs as Guest Editor of After Nyne , Friday, 18th January

http://www.afternyne.com

Tentative Settlement Offers Fresh Hope for Trafficking Victim Sara Kruzan

2013-01-11T04:22:59-05:00

Sara Kruzan is a survivor of child molestation, rape, of child sex trafficking and of intimate battering.

On 10th March 1994, when child-sex captor G. G. Howard began to rape Sara inside of a hotel room, Sara let off the fatal gunshot that ended her sex-captor's life. A year later on May 10, 1995, at the age of 17, Sara was convicted of the first degree murder of George Gilbert Howard.

Sara was sentenced to life in prison, plus four years, with no possibility of parole. Signed on December 31, 2010, the Governor of California, Arnold Schwarzenegger, commuted Sara's sentence to life with the possibility of parole, come 2020.

Now, tentative settlement has been reached by Sara's legal team and Riverside County prosecutors in her quest for justice in the form of a new trial.

It is questionable to whether this settlement will lead to a chance for re-trial, or her freedom with credit for time-served, or something else all together. The Free Sara Kruzan Campaign Team, headed by activist Carrie Christie are hopeful.

'We're waiting is patiently waiting for January 11th to come, as that is the scheduled (informal) hearing date for the plan' says Carrie Christie.

The DA's office and Sara's legal team is not commenting at this time, however, this request was mutual and supported on both sides.

Continues Christie, 'Our team with Free Sara Kruzan remains hopeful that justice will come soon for Sara. January 11th is National Human Trafficking Awareness day in the U.S., and Riverside has the opportunity to not only rectify a human trafficking victim's case, but also shine the light of hope on this dark issue that plagues our communities'.

Sara Kruzan grew up in Riverside, California with an older sister and a single mother on welfare. Sara's father was an ex-convict and heroin addict. On one of three occasions when Sara met her father, she witnessed him shooting up heroin in a bathroom. Sara's mother was mentally ill, emotionally unstable and addicted to cocaine.

At age 11, George Gilbert Howard picked up Sara as she was walking home from school. G. G. bribed Sara with ice cream, then took her to his residence, where he undressed her and molested her, thereby committing a first degree felony sexual assault. From that date forward, G. G. Howard indoctrinated Sara into the child-sex trade.

At age 12, Sara's mother set Sara up with a 23 year old "mentor", who furnished Sara with alcohol and raped her repeatedly over the course of a year. [In the State of California under PC 261.5, sex with a minor is defined as rape.] At age 13, Sara was gang raped by three men. Sara's mother refused to allow Sara to press charges. She insisted it would backfire and that Sara had "asked for it".

At age 13, 33 year old George Gilbert Howard raped Sara Kruzan, then immediately began to sexually exploit Sara, selling her body for three years in the child-sex trade. G. G. Howard threatened Sara and set her in dangerous situations, in addition to the dangers of prostitution. At age 15, Sara was hospitalized when she survived a fatal car crash. Sara was then placed in five or six foster care homes, while she repeatedly ran away to return to G. G. Howard over the course of five months.

After trial, and a thorough evaluation of Sara Kruzan and her documents by two experts, Dr. Linda S. Barnard concluded that, "Sara was suffering from the effects of intimate partner battering in March 1994 and her behaviors and actions were affected - if not controlled by - the years of abuse she endured. By failing to have an expert on intimate partner battering and its effects to explain the many complexities involved in this case, Sara Kruzan's defense was severely limited."

Fellow expert Dr. Nancy Kaser-Boyd concluded, "Ms. Kruzan clearly suffered the common effects of intimate partner battering on the night of the shooting. Most young people [suffering from intimate partner battering and its effects] respond well to therapy and become healthy adults with therapeutic intervention."

Says Carrie Christie, 'We ask that Freedom Fighters for Sara Kruzan connect with us on social media to keep apprised of all case updates and future campaigns. The fight for Sara's freedom isn't over!'

FB page: www.facebook.com/forcesforsara
Twitter: @freesarakruzan
I am SJK Campaign: www.IamSJK.com
Website: www.freesarakruzan.org

From the Wilderness...to Wagner

2012-12-06T04:46:16-05:00

During my college 'wilderness' years, I used to wake myself up every morning with Marilyn Manson's 'Mechanical Animals'. I was most fond of the track 'Fundamentally Loathsome', which seemed to tap straight into my psyche and set the tone for the day.

Fast forward eight years, and I'm working in London. Every day, riding the number 23 bus up the Edgware Road, I used to steel myself for a day of dealing with two difficult managers by blasting out Metallica on my iPod.

Walking to my desk in time to the beat of 'For Whom the Bell Tolls', I felt invincible. At least up until the point that manager one had his first rant of the day, and manager two insisted I bent the will of the world to his need.

Heavy metal was a constant in my life from my teens - with my specialist subject being the 'Big Four' thrash metal bands: Metallica, Slayer, Anthrax and Megadeth, though i loved to keep my nose to ground for new talent, poring over Kerrang and Classic Rock with a notepad and pen.

The louder, the faster, the harder, the better. When Metallica headlined at the Big Day Out event in Milton Keynes in 1999, I was there, in the moshpit. In 2008 when they played a one-off gig at the O2, I was there in the gods, beer in hand, revelling in their majesty.

But then something very strange happened.

Last year, I turned 30, and almost overnight, all appetite for louder, faster, harder left me.

I know - it took me by surprise as well.

My iPod, formerly the home of Appetite for Destruction, Reign in Blood, and Death Magnetic, is stocked to the gills with Goldfrapp, Bat for Lashes. I'm writing this piece to the strains of Yves Montand - one of the three 'french classics' albums ordered from the Guardian music store, no less.

I have become a Classic FM groupie - Jane Jones plays complete works of an evening and I am regularly in raptures at her choices. My current favourite is Sibelius - I am in awe of his vision.

I still consider my tastes as diverse, and I still keep my nose to the ground for exciting new bands, and composers I haven't discovered before. It's just nowadays, Wagner's as heavy as it gets.

Why the sudden turnaround? I think it's complicated - it could just be a natural progression with age. But I think part of the reason is that the disaffected youth in me has finally been laid to rest.

Instead of fighting the world, and thinking in a truly insular fashion about my own struggles, I want to fight for the greater good in the world at large - not just in my own head. And the soundtrack to this is completely different.

Plus, as my own boss now, and carrying the troubles, and frequent disappointments of self-employment, I need as much peace as I can get, wherever I can find it.

On False Idols...And Empty Rhetoric

2012-11-27T04:29:58-05:00

Head met hands yesterday in the Meadows household after I read Carla Bruni's argument against contemporary feminism 'My generation don't need feminism....a woman's place is in the home'.

Oh Carla, Carla, Carla.......I'm afraid you're wrong. By the very fact that you have made such a short-sighted statement means we need it more than ever.

Bruni's, surely always untimely, statement comes after a week of setbacks for female equality. Last Monday, David Cameron decided that equality impact statements were dispensable. On Tuesday, the General Synod voted against women bishops.

On Thursday, the earlier vote to give a woman a turn on the board of the European Central Bank was ignored, giving Yves Mersch a place on an all male board, which has been that way for the past 14 years. Every week, in some shape or form, gender inequality is rearing its ugly and rather archaic head.

Bruni's argument has spurred me on to think about feminism, and its public face, and I have arrived squarely at the door of our current populist 'feminist icon' Caitlin Moran.

Moran's book, the supposed quasi-feminist tract, How to Be a Woman, has received massive press attention, and plaudits from all quarters.

You have probably even read it yourself. I have, of course, and can confirm that it is indeed rather funny, and very well-written. Moran is observant, and engaging and carries you along her path of reason in a seemingly effortless fashion.

We learn about her impoverished Midlands background, and her various battles with her sex, and it's all rather fun, and a breezy read.

As long as that is all you are looking for. Although I rather enjoyed the book, indeed, recommending it to various (younger) family members, I was left ultimately feeling rather let down.

For Moran, for all her best intentions, has not tackled feminism, or indeed any of the issues that any debate on contemporary women's issues entails, in a manner that lingers in the mind for more than a few days.

It's not just the book; as a regular reader of the Times, and of Moran's various columns therein, I was initially dazzled by her candour, but soon came to think her tone as glib and unsatisfying when I realized I couldn't remember any of her points two weeks later.

My favourite columnists make a lasting impression, and I'm afraid this is where Caitlin Moran is left wanting, the column equivalent of McDonald's - momentarily satisfying but ultimately empty calories.

Yet, she is everywhere. The Times are crazy about her. But this may be because her diatribes on council estate living are a palatable version of the truth, rather than a realistic portrait of what breadline living really is.

In this respect, Moran is a curio to the comfortably off. They can read her columns in comfort, knowing that they will never have to go to Wolverhampton.

Sure, she has a witty turn of phrase but it may be that this alone has weakened the stock of feminists everywhere - any one that approaches the subject in a less than amusing fashion is deemed too serious, anything that doesn't make us chortle over our cornflakes is too much like real life.

Could it be that Moran, by pitching for laughs, has queered the pitch for any serious discussions on feminism, on breadline Britain, on the future of the Monarchy, sexuality, the work-life balance for mothers?

If Carla Bruni had put any research behind her statement, and Googled 'contemporary feminism', I would loath to think that any of Moran's work would come up in serious discussion.

Feminism, in my eyes, isn't whether to wax your bikini line, your right to crawl through the door steaming drunk at six in the morning or how enjoyable you find masturbation.

When we're talking about the need for serious consideration of vital equality issues, could it be that Moran's ultimately empty rhetoric has done more harm than good?

I Heard the Front Door...He Heard It Too and Reacted Accordingly

2012-11-26T07:29:03-05:00

Over the course of a series of articles for the Huff Post, I am making public, for the first time my account of my abuse at the hands of a teacher at my secondary school fifteen years ago. In the last article, Mr 'D' had taken me to a desolate beauty spot, and confessed his feelings. I was 15 years old.

After work experience came to an end, my year group returned to school and started to wind down towards summer break. It was common knowledge by this point that Mr D was retiring at the end of the summer term - lots of jokes about his age ensued, whenever he covered one of our classes for our regular teacher.

I happened to mention to my mother one evening that Mr D was retiring at the end of term. My mother had a brilliant idea - why didn't we invite Mr D, to come to our house to have a
drink to celebrate his retirement? I tried to convince her that this wasn't really the done thing.

But my mother, since Mr D showed that he 'cared' by coming to pick me up that morning weeks ago, thought that he was practically a saint. She wouldn't accept my protestations, so I duly went to school, and when I next saw Mr D I made my mother's offer, and he accepted.

The day of the retirement, I hadn't been to school - though it wasn't a fake stomachache that kept me away. I rarely scored below 90% on most tests, and my contributions, especially in English, were always valued. But my attendance was terrible - especially around the end of summer term.

My mother was looking forward to Mr D's visit as something exciting and prepared accordingly - she laid out nibbles, and made sure we had enough in to drink.

After he arrived, we sat around talking about his retirement, his plans. Mother was a gracious host as always, but I tried not to make eye-contact with Mr D, who insisted, out of school, that we all call him Tony.

I didn't want to call him anything. I buried myself in my beer, and willed the rest of the evening to pass away as quickly as possible.

Needless to say, I made a pretty good job of burying myself in my beer, and by about
eight-thirty, I was tipsy and flushed. Mr D had also made a pretty good job of attacking the
stash of alcohol that my mother had bought, and she volunteered to go to the off licence
and buy more. I offered to go, but my mother insisted that I stay and keep Mr D company.

The door closed behind my mum, and I was alone with Mr D. I hadn't realised I had drunk so much - the room was spinning. It may have just been that I was drinking on an empty stomach, but I knew the best thing for me was to go to bed with an aspirin inside me. I wondered if I could make my excuses and leave.

Mr D got up from his seat, and came and sat down next to me. As I made to get up, Mr D unbuttoned the top fastenings on my cardigan, and reached down inside my top.

I felt sick. The room really was spinning. With his other arm, he held me tightly. I felt trapped. Then the kitchen door opened - but it was only my little brother, and Mr D, quickly removing his hand, made short shrift of sending him out of the room.

Once the door closed again, I made to get up out of the chair - I needed air. But that was the last thing on Mr D's mind. His gripped my side again, and without hesitation, he put his hand down the waistband of my trousers.

And then I heard the front door. Mr D heard it too and he reacted accordingly, removing his hand and flying back to his seat, just in time for the dining room door to open. My mother held up the supplies, and Mr D smiled his approval.

''I feel ill' I said, clambering out of my seat. Mother looked concerned.

''I tell you what', Mr D said 'I'll walk her around the block. I could do with some air myself.'

Mother nodded her approval.

As we left the house, and got a little way up the street, his proclamations started again.

Once the air hit me, it was if I found the fight in me. How dare he presume that this was
alright? How dare he assume that this was what I wanted. This was wrong, this was hideous.

'I hate you!' I screamed. It was the only thing I had.

'I know you don't mean it' he said 'You're drunk'

'I'm drunk, yes. But you're a pervert!' I screamed in his face.

'I'm real, not like your little fantasies. And I need you.' he screamed back.

'F*** off!' I didn't care who heard me 'You're not a bloody character in a Nabokov book!'

Mr D hustled me back into the house, and I caught a glance between him and my mother.

'Is she alright?' My mother asked.

'Yeah, she's fine. This is just what happens when people think they can handle their drink and can't' he said.

That was enough for me. I broke away, running through the back door, to the bottom of the garden, and vomited.

All names, apart from my own, have been changed

People Can't Always Handle the Truth...I Kept Quiet

2012-11-21T07:36:03-05:00

In my last post, I started to tell the story of how, as a 15-year-old, I was sexually abused by a teacher from my secondary school. In this next post, I pick up where I left off - May 1997, and Mr D had made his first move, kissing me after a staff cricket match.

Around the end of June, my year were due to undertake their work experience placements.

I was placed in the marketing and personnel section of a Hull-based bathroom
fittings manufacturer. For the large part, it was an interesting experience, and would have
passed largely without incident if it were not for one thing - Mr D had been assigned as my
mentor.

It's possible that this was just coincidence but there is always another possibility - it may
have been engineered, like his arrival at my door a few months earlier.

I had been fortunate not to have seen anything of Mr D since the first incident a few weeks earlier. I was no longer in any of his classes anyway, and I'd stopped attending the staff cricket matches. Cathy and I never mentioned the situation again.

During the second week of my work placement, a direct call came through to my section. My mentor wanted to speak to me to check on my progress. All present and correct, and what I assumed was due process except for one thing - he wanted to see me after work was over. He would drive over to the factory to pick me up.

He arrived as planned at five o'clock. I had walked out, by chance, with one of the people I was working with. Mr D saw us leave and got out of the car. He walked towards us, greeting me openly, and making up some story about why he was giving me a lift - which made it hard for me to back out of getting into the car. I mumbled goodbye to my colleague. When we got to the car, I noticed that had bought me two packets of cigarettes, which were lying on the passenger seat.

As he drove, we talked about the work placement until we pulled up at the entrance of Snuff Mill, a local wilderness ground where people walk their dogs.

"What are doing here?" I asked.

"Lets get out and walk. I need to talk to you."

I got out of the car, and followed as he led on down an alley of foliage.

"You see. I can't get you out of my mind, and it's driving me crazy." He said, not looking back
towards me.

"When I close my eyes" and here he explained in explicit detail what he wanted to do to me.

Then he turned towards me, and I became aware that I was completely alone with him in this
desolate place. I knew anything could, and had, so far happened, which made me want to get out of there pretty quickly.

"Can we go back now?" I asked. I could tell that he wanted me to say something else but
my head felt like it was filled with lead. What could I say? I led the way back to the
car, not looking back at him.

"Where do you want me to drop you?" I noticed his hands were shaking on the wheel.

I told him I was meeting Adrian at the National pub at the top of National Avenue.

"Don't say anything to him about this." We made eye contact for the first time since we had
got back in the car.

It had never occurred to me to tell Adrian about this. He thought Mr D was a legend from his time at the same school but, I knew, if he found out what was happening - there would be hell to pay. Adrian knew people who scared me, and I dreaded to think what they could be summoned to do on a moment's notice

I got out of the car without saying a word, without looking back.

In the pub, I sipped on my drink without any of my usual enthusiasm. Adrian didn't notice - he chatted on happily about the bike that he had found, and was restoring. My facade didn't slip for a second - but all I could think was "I want to tell you the truth."

I think the most terrible thing about the whole situation is the complete sense of isolation I
felt. It's like I was sitting on this tremendous well of pain, clinging to the edge of it, trying to
make sense of it. Knowing that if I let go, that the whole world around me would explode in
a way that I couldn't handle. I desperately wanted to talk to someone but my experience
with Cathy had taught me that people can't always handle the truth.

So throughout this whole experience I kept my mouth shut. It was the only way -even
though every morning, I felt like I was choking on glass at the thought of having to get up,
to face the world, I kept quiet.

All names, apart from my own, have been changed.

He Asked Me If I'd Read 'Lolita'...And Then He Kissed Me

2012-11-16T19:00:00-05:00

Every day seemingly brings fresh allegations. The cases of reported abuse in the Jimmy Savile case is said to have reached 450 victims to date and continues to rise. If ever we needed evidence that abuse can happen at every, and any level, we only have to open up our daily newspaper.

I have never needed reminding. Fifteen years ago, when I was 15 years old, I was groomed, and eventually sexually abused by one of my secondary school teachers, over a three month period.

Now, for the first time, and inspired by the bravery of Savile's victims, I feel ready to tell my story, which will be shared here over the next few weeks. If my story makes a difference to one person, I feel I have achieved what I set out to do in coming forward at last.

I've only ever told a few people about my experience that summer before today. I suppose it has only ever come up in conversation with those who I feel could bear it. I've only ever shared it
with people who I felt could stand up in the face of it and say "I love you Claire, regardless." That means a lot - and it has been part of a particular evolution in my life. It wasn't always
so.

A wilderness. That is the way I would describe that particular period of my life - 1997-2001.
I always refer to it as my wilderness years. It's not a glamorous term - I was without guidance, without hope, with only the reference point of my own ambition to prevent me from disappearing completely.

My father had left our family in March 1995. His parting gift was the fact that he cleared out
from our lives with the family savings without looking back. We found out two months after he left that he was living with the wife of our neighbour - she had left at the same time as my father. We found out that they were cohabiting in a bungalow in Selby. Mother and my aunt drove over there one evening.

Mother was told if she took another step she would be arrested. My father had called the police, and they had pulled into the cul-de-sac just as my mother was in the process of threatening to throw a bottle garden through the porch window.

"They had a BMW in the drive, Claire. Just sitting there - proud as punch."

My mother had suffered a nervous breakdown during the latter part of 1994 around the time that her marriage had started to fall apart. She suspected something wasn't right. And like many women before, and many women since, she internalised it, until it brought about destruction of a kind.

My father was absent during the time of my mother's breakdown - he would leave for his shift work at 5.30am. Some mornings, grandma would cycle over from North Hull to take over. Otherwise, I would take the day off school and sit with my mum. It wasn't a hardship, really. We sat, and watched films, mum lying on the sofa in purple roll down socks. It was really rather companionable.

Except when mother cried, clutching a home-made snow globe, demanding that we release the Kinder Egg Teeny Terrapins that were swirling inside it. Until i released the jam jar lid, letting the little plastic terrapins 'breathe' - she would sob relentlessly.

I spoke to my younger brother about this time recently. He is almost seven years younger than me. I was 12 at the time this was happening - 13 when my father left. My brother and I - 15 years on - drank gin on the rocks and sat in companionable silence.

He was so young at the time he didn't remember half of what I remembered. Except one thing - he remembered watching from the back of our car as my father drove my mother to the front door of a well known Hull mental illness facility and threatened to leave her there. Fifteen years on, it was a vivid memory - I too, remembered from a distance, a door opening, disco lighting and bodies in shadow writhing. It didn't make any sense then, and it certainly doesn't now.

By 1997, my mother had given all she could give to keep our family home afloat, and it came to nothing. We moved nearer to my grandparents in North Hull where, at least, my mother had a semblance of a support network. With this move, I shifted in status - no longer were we comfortably off in the house I'd loved and grown up in.

Suddenly, I was living on the wrong side of the tracks. I shifted social circles at school, even though it was unspoken. I kept the same friends as I had before for a while but really, i was no longer one of them. My newly acquired cigarette habit was a testament to that, much to my mother's dismay.

But it all seemed to fit into place. Distant from everything I had known, I had begun to seek solace in whatever male attention I could get. It seemed the most certain thing - if I could
turn a head, everything was alright with the world.

I always knew that each face meant nothing, shapeless, nameless entities. they desperately tried to make something of it. And for the large part, they were nice boys. But my feelings were suspended, somewhere beyond reach - it seemed the safest thing for me. I talked the talk, but it amused me in the darkest way that my friends, and those around me, couldn't see the rather timid virgin I was behind the closed doors of that facade.

In Spring 1997, I met a small time cannabis dealer named Adrian. I was 15, and he was 19, and I became the talk of my year at school when he came to meet me at the school gate in his leather trench coat and long greasy hair.

We spent time together, and although I never partook, I became involved in that world for a few months - people dropping by, scoring, staying longer, smoking, talking. I was a feature - even when Adrian and I ended our relationship, we hung out together - we had got used to each other's company, and enjoyed the proximity to each other, even though we knew our relationship was going nowhere.

I mention Adrian, as he is relevant to what happened next. He had been to the same secondary school as I was at, and knew most of the same teachers. He knew Mr D and rated him as a great guy, jovial, expressive - a certain legend within a closed atmosphere of teaching non-entities.

Mr D had been a feature in my school life since I started secondary school. Everyone in my year was comfortable with him laughing with him, joking with him. However, at the beginning of 1997, he started to take on a different air. There was something lost about him. I later found out that his wife had walked out on him after years of marriage.

I didn't notice the change in him straight away, but I had no choice to notice it by the middle of the year. I bring it upon my reader in the same way it happened to me - you know something is wrong, but you can't quite put your finger on it.

Until the end of May.

One evening, two of my friends and I had been invited to a staff cricket match. A silly thing really - we went along just to make fun of the teachers out of hours. If we were lucky, they
would stand us a beer in the bar afterwards.

Sitting and watching from the sidelines, the weather was warm, and I was allowed to have a cigarette, even though my teachers were sitting metres away. It was out of hours, and we felt a certain amount of liberation. Half time came, and Mr D made his way over to sit next to me. I commented on the progress of the team and after a brief silence, he leant over and whispered in my ear, "You know, you have a very petulant mouth."

Was that a compliment? I didn't have a chance to think about it for long as he was called back into bat more or less straight away. Still, the words were there - I turned to my friends and resumed our conversation. I didn't give it much thought. After the match, the teachers, and my friends and I retired to the bar. I found it rather odd that Mr D sat with us, and not with his colleagues, but the whole mix was intoxicating - here we were, drinking with our teachers, feeling like were in a special group.

It was exquisite, although we knew it would only last until tomorrow morning, until we returned to the humdrum of school life.

Mr D left at the same time as my friends and I. One of my friends had one beer too many, and rode off, into a hedge, much to my amusement.

Mr D and I were going in the same direction, so as we cycled away from the cricket ground, he proposed that we have a drink in another nearby pub. Arriving in the car park, I had second thoughts. There was something strange about a teacher in, what - his 50s? 60s? - having a drink with a single pupil out of school hours. I had already had a beer, but I was used to drinking in pubs with Adrian by now so I knew one more wouldn't really do me much harm.

But I felt strange about it, and told Mr D that I was going to go home. Before I had chance to breathe, and as fast as lightning, he grabbed me to him, and pressed his lips to mine. In a pause heavy with my own shock, he asked me if I had read Lolita.

I couldn't breathe. My fear at that moment felt like it was going to choke me. What was happening was wrong on so many levels. I mumbled goodbye, and peddled harder home than i had ever peddled before. I arrived home, and my mum asked me if I wanted to go to the takeaway and get us burgers for dinner.

Anything, i thought. Anything to get the image of Mr D embracing me out of my mind.

The next morning, to get out of going to school, I made out I had a stomach upset. How could I go to school and face him? The thought of it made me palpitate, and I had just settled back into my bed when I heard a knock at the front door, over the sound of my mother's vacuum. A moment later, my mother's voice "Claire, can you come down here".

I peered cautiously down the stairs, and almost collapsed on the spot. There was Mr D in my own hallway.

Mother looked suitably sheepish as he made easy conversation with her. She'd been caught out,
after all, keeping me off school.

"Look, Mr D was worried about your attendance" - which admittedly, was rather appalling - "He's come to take you back to school."

My earth felt like it was an inch wide - how was he here? I knew well enough why he was
here - he was frightened I'd said something, told on him. I hadn't. I was too ashamed to say anything - surely I'd led him on with my petulant mouth? - so no, I hadn't said anything.

I was silent in the car with him most of the way, until we got to Chanterlands Avenue,
where he announced he was going to make a detour to his flat to pick up his flask. Outside
his flat, he asked me if I wanted to come in with him. I said I'd wait in the car. He was gone for 10 minutes, and then he drove me to the supermarket, where he bought me 10 menthol cigarettes.

Back at school, I stood smoking one at a time in the girls toilets, shaking, waiting for lessons to end and break time to start. My friend Cathy came in, and I grabbed her, hustling her into the booth.

"I have to tell you something." I said. And I told her everything that had happened after she had left me the night before.

She listened, took a drag from my cigarette, and said finally,

"He was drunk."

Her smile was fixed. I could tell that the conversation was over. In her world, the things I was describing did not happen, and she had no way of processing it.

It wasn't really her fault. However, I should have known then that this would be a pattern.
How many girls are not believed at just such a point. For it only to get worse. Which it did
for me.

All names, apart from my own, have been changed

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