Big Girl Pants (Murder, Mayhem & Motherhood)
A concept, an idea, or an invention—these are all products of human creativity, designed to publicize, innovate, or generate new collections of output. Such notions may be seen as experiments, means to test the boundaries of innovation, or to challenge the validity of existing theories. Yet, behind every concept lies a process not unlike that of conception itself: the movement from abstract possibility to tangible reality.
Alternatively, a concept might originate as a fleeting mental image, tenuously sparked within the brain’s synapses, sometimes corresponding to distinct entities or collections thereof. These mental constructs often shape our use of language, our faith, and our ability to differentiate one idea from another. However, as convincing as a concept may seem internally, it remains little more than a hypothesis until it is articulated or put into practice.
So why, then, is the word “conception” so closely tied to the act of creation? While it is commonly associated with human reproduction, the term should perhaps have evolved further, reflecting the broader spectrum of creativity. After all, a child is not merely an idea or invention, and viewing procreation as a form of self-promotion—akin to advertising—would be a cynically reductive stance. Yet, if we consider the philosophical notion that every act of creation implies the possibility of its opposite, then the idea of “anti-creation” emerges. This perspective can be seen in debates about abortion, where proponents might frame their argument in terms of counteracting creation itself—a line of reasoning that arguably resonates more logically than some religious positions. For example, in legislative debates across the globe, the language of “pro-life” and “pro-choice” highlights this tension, each side invoking creation or its negation to support their stance.
Just as conception brings new life into the world, charity seeks to nurture and support those lives, creating a continuum between the act of creation and the act of care. This connection is more than metaphorical; it is reflected in the very foundations of many charitable organizations, which often arise from an individual’s desire to address a need born out of the human condition.
Much like the progression from conception to implementation, ideas—no matter how inspired—may falter when put into practice. Projects driven by bold concepts sometimes fail to deliver their intended outcomes, and, in some cases, result in unintended negative consequences. This is not unlike the biological act of creation, where the process can be an expression of love or, tragically, the result of harmful intent; the human drive to create and care for new life is a delicate balance between hope and risk.
The analogy between conception and charity is especially vivid when we consider how innovative ideas can give rise to charitable initiatives that make a real difference. Take, for example, the founding of the charity “Charity: Water,” which began as a simple idea to provide clean water to those in need. Through creative campaigns and transparent operations, this organization has funded over 111,000 water projects, bringing safe drinking water to more than 15 million people worldwide. Here, the initial conception of a solution—born from empathy and vision—was nurtured into a tangible force for good, illustrating how the act of creation can evolve into sustained care.
Yet, as with all human endeavors, charity is not immune to criticism. Whether motivated by altruism, faith, or other drives, the essence of charity is to help those in need—be it through emotional support, material donations, or practical assistance. Rarely do outsiders or beneficiaries question the intent behind charitable acts. However, public trust can be shaken when the financial realities of some organizations come to light. For instance, recent reports have highlighted that some charity CEOs earn over £100,000 annually, prompting public debate about whether this aligns with the original spirit of voluntary service. Such revelations raise important questions about the balance between professional management and the voluntary ethos that once defined charitable work. Even the traditional concept of charity as “Christian love of humankind” seems, at times, to have grown hazy in the modern landscape.
Despite these challenges, charities continue to strive to help those who fall through the cracks, just as conception continues to bring new lives into the world. It is perhaps time to reflect deeply on these connections, acknowledge our missteps, and, as the saying goes, pull up our big girls’ pants and face the realities of both creation and care with renewed honesty and resolve.
*****
Break your mother’s back
Avoiding stepping on the bigger cracks in the flooring, not wanting to exacerbate the problem in the council run premises, was almost a pointless exercise. The room was quiet now, its peace returning with the departure of the ones who had come for solace, those that had been let down by the state and all its machinery, and the ones that felt abandoned by the very people who should still be with them. A desertion of support, financially and emotionally in both cases. The room, despite its pink walls, in a council inspired attempt at softening and warmth, smelt of desperation, a palpable taint to what would be used for OAP bingo in the morning. Whether that would add to the taint, or the bingo players would be infected by it was open to debate. For now, the room just filled its sole occupant with a dark and deep sadness. Sometimes during the predawn hours when sleep had finally been taken away then an anger took over. An anger at the unfairness, at the laziness and at times the sheer blind ignorance of those who should be there for these people, and who should know better.
The tidying up and stacking of chairs helped, it focussed her mind on something mundane. The meeting tonight had been poorly attended compared with normal, a fact she put down to the weather. The lost would be loath to give up any warmth or shelter they may have found and the abandoned would want to stay at home. The eleven that had made it to the centre were from across the support spectrum, something which had always been the plan from the start. The veterans who were sleeping rough or bed hopping and the families that had lost someone in the services. All coming together to create a homogonous unit, to drink tea, eat sandwiches and chiefly talk. This was all they did, there was some advice given, but they were not professionals at that, so it was largely discouraged. They could point out where to go and who to see, but they were not equipped to be counsellors.
On occasions she had been asked, occasions that had diminished over the years admittedly, she had told of the reasons for the group. The motives behind her dedication and the energy she put into supplying an environment that was conducive for engagement no matter what your place in the panoply. That reason? She had needed someone to talk to herself, she had been let down and abandoned and had nobody to turn to. Putting all her energies into this had led her to this place, five years of her life and a succession of faces.
It was as simple and damning as that, she had nobody. Admittedly at the time she had a ten-year-old son, Declan, who whilst one of the loves of her life and a light in the darkness that blighted her life, she had lost the other beacon. Matty, her husband, lover, rock and the absolute reason for existing. Blown up whilst on patrol in Afghanistan, for a reason that no amount of pontification would ever convince her was right. He was just gone, he had returned but in a sealed box, too badly broken for her even to be allowed to say goodbye. That was five years ago, her son had grown into the clone of Matty, and she had managed to keep his anger controlled. Yes he had his moments, yes he could occasionally lash out, but all in all he was a good kid.
Her anger was a completely different beast. She could keep it in check most days, and then she would find herself berating some stranger in the street for the crime of appearing happy. A chance remark from one of her friends, one she had managed to keep, Vikki, had led her to this place, and a channeling of her anger into a pot of positivism.
Donna Longstaff had begged, borrowed and cajoled to get this group running. Most of those that were approached for help and support were sympathetic, although that sympathy rarely ran to putting their hands in their pockets, Yorkshire is Yorkshire after all, and some of the idioms were quite true. But she had persisted, getting help from the council, who allowed her free use of the room in the town hall. There was a lottery grant that helped with the first two years, and Help for Heroes gave her a stipend, that allowed her to put on the refreshments and occasionally bail someone out who was really desperate. Other than that, when she was free of the group she was acting out a role that she did not know she had in her. Extracting money and supplies from anywhere and everywhere.
Some of her people that had been through the group and who were back on their feet also did not forget her, giving her assistance when they could and in whatever format they could afford. It was a hand to mouth existence but the three evenings a week that the group ran were more rewarding than anything she had known before. She was not healed by it and she never would be, but the sight of people who were going through what she had ten years ago, in the case of the young families, or the ones who were sleeping rough after leaving the service, was enough to keep her going, it was enough to keep her alive.
Donna would not fall through the cracks again, and if she could help those that had to climb out then she would get her reward. Not that she was a saint, as she was firmly of the opinion that saints did not carry around anger with them. Then again would saints go on the offensive with a campaign and haranguing local and national politicians for action. She did not think they would. Donna thought herself more of a warrior, a warrior that had more chance of survival than Matty.
The last two weeks had been worrying as the austerity that was rife in the country was starting to bite, and charity was being hit hard. The support group, Falling Through, was not in dire quandary yet, but it was a worry for Donna, and unless things changed she may have to cut back on what she could offer. The council were also making noise about charging her, even a nominal rent would cripple the group. Times were indeed hard and yet Donna knew she must fight on.
As she did one last walk round, picking up an errant toy that she had missed, and ensuring that there was nothing that would give the council ammunition or indeed would be any annoyance to the oldies and their dabbers in the morning, she sighed. She was proud of what she did, she hated the country for what it left behind for those who had been killed in action, or had been pushed out, but until something better could be done, then she and the many charities like hers would carry on.
There would be no falling through the cracks if she could help it, she would show those that stepping on the cracks was the only way to confront them, the only way they could bring some light back into a world that had been plunged into a gloom.
Giving her head a shake, it would do her no good to be depressed, as Donna was meeting Declan in a few minutes. The boy rapidly turning into a man, who would insist on walking her home.
Donna turned out the lights, and pulled the door closed, stepping out into the late Indian summer evening. A forestalling of the colder weather to come and one more thing to worry about for those sleeping on the streets, or the ones struggling to keep the heating on for the kids. As she stepped out of the light of the porch she was approached by a figure, she noticed him and for one brief second panicked as the man coalesced out of the shadows. It was Declan. She smiled when she saw him, wondering when he had got so tall. Although she may have to warn him about sneaking up on people.
*****
He knew they were coming; he had seen the signs. Nothing had been written in the stars or winnowed from the tea leaves in his cup, no it was far more mundane, and completely sinister. He had wondered about the stranger at the meeting, as he did not fit in with the normal attendees. He had been too quiet, which in itself was not necessarily an uncommon trait for the meetings, but when asked a direct question he had avoided eye contact completely, muttering something inaudible in response. The only time he had lifted his eyes was when he had inadvertently caught him staring directly at him. In the language of the street and even in the army this was a challenge, the sinister part was that the challenge was made with clear eyes and a confidence that meant he could back it up.
He had been dressed for the street, but had disappeared before the tea at the end which was the most suspicious part of the whole thing, as nobody living like they did would refuse free hot tea and a chocolate biscuit or six.
The last sign that things were about to change was the message he had received from Knighty, saying he had been hassled by suits from the MOD, and was worried. Visiting Knighty would have put him on the radar, or more on the radar if truth be told, and he had deemed it best to keep out of sight for a while. He was not going back to that hospital, and they had promised the charges regarding the firearm would be swept away. Could he believe them or was this the start of a betrayal. Or was that another betrayal. One in a long line of instances.
*****
What would Granny say?
Detective Inspector Tina Rawson, who had recently and temporarily, she hoped to given up her position in the National Crime Agency, the NCA, was pondering her place in life and the decisions leading up to this point in time. Currently she was billeted with the force CID, CBI, NBA or B&Q, or some other random set of letters and this was her immediate future. It should have been CID, but as the force was going through a transformation, albeit in a trial format, the bright sparks that thought of such things were trying a whole new set of letters. Apparently as part of an Enhanced Strategy Framework in its role as a Collaborative Partner Model, or so the email had announced. There had been a load more corporate shite in it as well, about Key Performance and Quality Assurance, but in Tina’s head it came down to one thing, and one thing only. They were trying to justify the clusterfuck they would create by forcing nine forces investigative teams into one incomprehensible mess.
The reasons behind it all were no doubt many and complex, they would hold up the shining star that was Police Scotland, they would quote efficiencies, they may even throw in the success of the NCA, her previous employers, and that this would allow greater control in the region rather than dictats from London. They may say all of that, but what they would not say was how they expected it to work. The uniform areas they were leaving alone, for now, and for a reason yet to be fathomed. What they were doing was putting all the investigative arms into one, which essentially meant you could get a job a hundred and fifty miles away, which even Tina admitted was a little impractical. They were merging IT systems and forensic services, which made complete and utter sense, and would no doubt save a few quid. To Tina it all meant that whoever was in charge of the whole shebang had probably got a very nice pay rise, from the IT savings no doubt, and would no doubt get a glittery piece of tat to hang from their uniform on high days and holidays. People thought Tina was cynical, people would be right.
That was why she was now sat in Darlington, which was in County Durham, and not in Northallerton or her local station, which were both in North Yorkshire, and would have made sense. The latter would have been a five-minute walk from her flat. She supposed it could have been worse; she could have been sent to one of the other seven forces of the Northern powerhouse police team. Tina laughed out loud at this thought as she reckoned that some Marketing bod would have already come up with that name, NPPT, which summed it up nicely. Inept.
Thankfully the creators of this farrago had also quite neatly managed to not encompass either Merseyside or Manchester forces, and probably for no more reason than statistics, although the wags in the office did say it was more likely for linguistics. Who knew. Tina certainly not for one, and to be frank she did not really care.
