Bobby J #RIP

Bobby J
13.09.47 – 15.11.12
Rest in Peace to the bestest Dad in the world xx

 

The momentum of hope

Four years ago today I was in Virginia, USA. I was on holiday in the States on my own, staying with one of my closest friends and her kids. In the days running up to the election the energy, momentum, hope and excitement were palpable. You could feel it, get drawn into it, in fact you could almost smell it; wherever you went, on the subway, wandering the streets, in the museums, on the bus, there was an over-riding sense of optimism and potential in the air.

(cc) Photo by farmgalphotos on flickr

For someone who derives considerable personal motivation from a belief in what is possible, not just the reality one finds oneself in, this was quite some experience.

I knew the election was due to happen when I was on holiday, in fact it had influenced my decision to travel at that time, but I hadn’t expected to get so drawn into it. Which was ridiculous with hindsight, the Obama campaign was so strong, had so many unique elements, was so engaged at a grass routes level, it heavily relied on social media so I was probably more exposed to it than I was anticipating, but it also drew me in because it was so positive. So full of hope.

On election day I went for lunch with my mate and a few of her work colleagues, having grown up not really discussing religion or politics with people you didn’t know well, it was a great lunch chat. There were a mixed group and boy did they get into the conversation. Young children and no babysitters on such a momentous night meant no all nighter down the pub for us but we took up residence on Sarah’s sofa and settled down for an evening viewing the show. And what a show it was.

The day after the election I caught the subway into DC and wandered the streets, soaking up the atmosphere and drinking coffee and chatting with people. What a day, everyone I came into contact with was in a good mood, there was a heady air of optimism, of belief and hope. Like the first day of a new school term, where everyone wants to be there and there’s a strong belief  in what great things lie ahead. Strangers were wishing each other good day in the street, coffee shops were buzzing and as a tourist it was a great day, as a complete stranger who was leaving shortly I still felt a part of it. I’d witnessed this historic change and, if I’m honest, I’d got caught up in the gulf stream of hope and optimism.

Fast forward four years and Obama is looking tired. His enthusiasm is muted, no less sincere, but lets just say he’s now more older Statesman than youthful Tigger.

Not that I can talk, I’m feeling tired, bone tired and my belief in hope and optimism (as a personal or professional strategy) has been sorely tested of late. Life seems more monochrome, more challenging, more about survival than hope. I take some comfort from knowing that doing good isn’t easy and finding your path in life is a journey, not a single simple decision; it’s more complicated than simply ticking a box on a ballot sheet.

I read an excellent blog post from @dcurtis that grabbed my attention yesterday, you can read it here, but this struck a chord for me:

…The truth is that, in order to make progress, you need to physically and mentally fight against the momentum of ordinary events. The default state of any new idea is failure. It’s the execution–the fight against inertia–that matters. You have to remember to go against your instinct, to confront the ordinary, and to put up a fight.

As America goes to the polls, I am settling down for my third night at my parent’s house with the Bobby monitor, not knowing what might happen, politically or personally.

The soup of anticipation, anxiety and hope is bubbling and while there are no guarantees of what the next four years hold, I for one am digging deep to recapture the potential that shone so brightly four years ago, to remember and relive the hope that was, to fight against the momentum of ordinary and unearth something special. I hope America does too.

Five things I wish I knew when my Dad was diagnosed with cancer

Back in the summer I wrote a post ‘Five things I wish I knew when I collected my A-Level results‘ and it got a great response; that response could have been because it was topical, because it was blunt, because it was a ‘five things’ rather than a deep ramble about one thing, or maybe just because there was something useful in it. I particularly liked the format – so I thought I’d repeat it here and share five things that in hindsight I wish I’d known when my Dad was diagnosed with bile duct cancer (cholangiocarcinoma) five years ago. I know it wont generate the same reaction as the last post but I hope that it might be useful for someone, somewhere. Disclaimer: as ever it’s written from my perspective as someone whose Dad is terminally ill, this isn’t necessarily what my Dad would think at all!

1. A cancer diagnosis changes your life, and the life of those who love you, in an instant but it’s not all doom and gloom

Cancer, the word is just so harsh in your mouth, leaves a kind of after taste. I wasn’t blogging at the time my Dad was diagnosed with cancer but if I had been I’m sure I’d have talked about the shock of it (Dad was a recently retired, fit and healthy, non-smoker, very rare drinker who had a good diet and ticked all the right boxes for a long, happy and healthy retirement) and how finite, gloomy and hard it felt. Quite simply it’s not fair. There were many emotions, inequity and anger were high on the list; there was very little to feel happy or content about – especially with such poor odds, there were no happy stories of recovery; it felt like someone had shut a big door and locked us all into a prison cell of cancer – and we were thrown into it together. That said, that technicolour experience and heightened awareness extends to the good times too; I’ve found myself appreciating the things that really matter, feeling grateful at the start of each day (when you’re not just feeling exhausted – see point two), making important decisions and really questioning whether you’re living your life in the best way you could. It has also meant that causes for celebration, a wedding, new baby, even a funeral, are really savoured, I really find myself grateful for the focus that Dad’s cancer has given us all. Life just feels that much more real, the good as well as the bad.

2. You can spend a long time living/dying (delete as you see appropriate)

My Dad has fought hard to stay alive, that’s the only way I can describe it, a long, thoughtful and determined fight. He knows that he is dying, he knows that his body is fighting itself, he also knows that we all have the greatest admiration for the way he has approached this experience – at least I hope he does. The thing I wanted to touch on though is that you can spend a long time engaged in this battle, or dance, pick which ever metaphor works for you. The cancer becomes the focus at the centre of everything and its exhausting, it’s always present for everyone, not just the person with it. I can’t remember the last time I made a decision and didn’t consider cancer within it; big decisions like quitting my job, moving where I live, disappearing on an adult gap year to find myself (two of these have not yet, and may never, come to fruition) but also more everyday ones like whether to book a holiday or weekend away; whether or not to have a drink tonight or being ever ready to jump in my car and head to their house; whether to walk to the train station or drive so my car is there if I return in a hurry etc etc etc

That level of focus, pervasive focus, is hard to live with. You don’t get much time off from it, I’m sure a lot depends on personality and approach to life but cancer has been ever present for over five years now. For many of those years it has felt like death was imminent, just lurking around the corner ready to pounce. Dad has had a number of episodes where he has recovered from very serious surgery, infections, complications, treatment side effects, there have been so many times when I thought he wouldn’t live much longer. The key learning for me has been the importance of staying connected, of trying to find down time, of recharging and in hindsight there are holidays I wish I’d taken, choices I may have made differently, I perhaps would have been more selfish if I’d known Dad would live as long as he has, but mostly I’d have stocked up on energy in the early days so I had more to draw on now.

3. Take a wallet with change for the parking machines and leave it in your glove compartment

OK, simple one this one, and it only really applies if you’re a driver, but I can’t tell you how much stress was caused arriving at hospital (sometimes because things had deteriorated, sometimes as an emergency, many times as a visitor) only to discover I didn’t have the right change for the parking meter. It took me months to actually get around to addressing this proactively and removing this stress from my life by getting myself a parking wallet! There are also other practical things that make life easier, I keep PJs and a change of clothes at my parent’s house for unanticipated overnight stays, I had a wash bag and new outfit in the boot of my car for the best part of two years – ever ready for the unexpected.

4. It’s a game of chance not science

Sometimes I still can’t quite get my head around this. Years ago if someone said cancer my thoughts and word association would have been: white coat, laboratory, science, macmillan, no hair, chemo drip, death, something like that, all quite clinical I guess (possibly due to my undeveloped and over simplified understanding of science). Now if someone says cancer things are quite different, I’ve realised that it really is a game of chance a lot of the time, one of the images would probably be a handful of dice. That’s not to denigrate the work of the amazing people who have cared for Dad and treated his cancer, but it’s to acknowledge that even with the amazing advances of science, and phenomenally dedicated, passionate and knowledgeable staff, a lot of the time there is no certainty, no science, it’s a more complex and natural equation. There are few certainties, it is impossible to know how Dad’s body will react to the treatment given, how long he has left, how many more times he can fight back from a brink – life, cancer, his treatment really is more personalised than I’d imagined, and with that it is impossible to know or find certainty. So the easiest thing is to accept that these gods and gurus, the consultants, specialist nurses, oncologists, surgeons, healthcare assistants, hospice workers, who offer so much are just mortal like the rest of us, and they can not provide certainty, so I’ve tried hard to stop seeking it.

5. People are inherently kind and good and support will come from the least expected places

Finally, it’s what it says really. My Dad’s experience of cancer and the impact it has had on my life has reassured me of one thing above all others, that people are inherently good and kind. Some people want to fix things, some want to ignore it, some will discuss it and want gory details, others will disappear from your life quicker than Usain Bolt could run 100m, some will emerge from the shadows of distant relationships, some people will find you and new friendships will forge at a really difficult time. My friends, family, twitter network, colleagues have been amazing, not all but on balance most, and the good far outweigh the bad (who aren’t actually bad they just have their own reasons for not wanting to deal with cancer/you/life/death right now).

At times knowing someone you love, who loves you unconditionally, is living with or dying from a serious illness can be overwhelming. It’s quite a challenging thing to face up to and live with. It impacts on nearly everything. I only make plans now with people who I know will understand if I break them at the last minute, I’ve been a fairly rubbish friend (not to mention girlfriend) over the last few years and the last couple of months especially. My capacity has been stretched to a point that I didn’t know it could reach without snapping. It has been, and continues to be, one of life’s biggest adventures and I am beyond grateful to all of the people who make it an exciting and uplifting adventure and not a dark, tragic, disaster movie.

If you are reading this because someone you love has just been diagnosed with cancer, or any other serious illness, know that it’s not all bad. It is unbelievably hard at times, but it is also amazingly rewarding. I wouldn’t wish cancer on anyone but I am humbled by the experience, the support and the learning that has come from this crappy situation. Find people who are positive, look for the good and remember you are never alone…and it’s perfectly OK to have bad days/weeks/months, just surround yourself with people who will walk with you until the good days come bouncing back.

Technology for living Pt2

Earlier this week I wrote a short post about the benefits of a baby monitor in supporting life with my Dad who is terminally ill. It allows him to be in bed but still remain connected to my Mum, myself or anyone else who is at home looking out for him. There were a few downsides that I’ve discovered since – notably the constant requests for cups of tea that make you jump as they emanate into the atmosphere; some interference with the wifi when I was trying to use Skype; and it also has the risk of fuelling my own paranoia. Any of my mates who have had me babysit (especially when they are uber little) know that I doubt the tech, and if I dont hear anything for a while I end up going and watching their precious bundle of newbornness to see if their chests are rising – this week I ended up doing the same with Dad; stood in his doorway staring at his chest. I guess the reality is that this is nothing to do with technology, it is to do with the fragility of life and my own need to watch over it.

Anyhow I digress….the other downside of the baby monitor is that it is one-way, it helps us connect to Dad but it doesn’t keep him connected with us, but this does:

Take a bow the wifi enabled photo frame. This thing is amazing, it allows my folks to get photos of their grandchildren, granddogs and of course grandcat; their kids, scenery, cake, whatever. We just take a photo, email it to an email address and hey presto it arrives, usually immediately although sometimes it takes an hour or two. This device is amazing, it has been a brilliant connection for my folks to keep in touch with the everyday existence that goes on, especially when yours isn’t so normal. The last few weeks it has come into its own, Dad has been home from the hospice a week and has barely made it out of bed, but this little gem allows the outside world to come to him. It gives Dad something to look forward to (the symbol on the front lets him know there are new photos waiting), the photos arrive and loop constantly, you can sort by sender or most recent and when all else fails it’s a great, ever changing talking point.

The importance of feedback

A couple of weeks ago I made a momentous decision.

I decided to resign from my job.

Dear Colleague

It is with regret that I am writing to let you know that I have taken the decision to resign as Director of research in practice for adults, and move on from Dartington. I’ve worked for RiPfA for over six years, have enjoyed my time immensely and feel privileged to have had the opportunity to work closely with so many committed and passionate people across the adult social care sector.

I am extremely proud of RiPfA, the support it provides and the progress that it has made to support evidence-informed practice over the past seven years. I will remain in post until the end of November. We are using this opportunity to look at the leadership needs of the organisation over the coming years and we expect recruitment to start later this year.

Please don’t hesitate to get in touch if you would like to discuss or if you have any questions.

This was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made. I love my job and really enjoy the people that I work with, within RiPfA and throughout the social care sector. I’m sure in time I’ll blog some more about the decision, the learning and the stacks and stacks of ideas that I’m not likely to now see to fruition but I hope someone else will take and use. In the meantime the answer to the question I’ve been asked the most is: I don’t know. I have no concrete plans for the future, a stack of ideas, but no job or certain plans so do get in touch if you would like any of them and/or if you know of any opportunities I might be interested in.

The other point I wanted to make was just how lovely most people have been since I shared my decision with them. I have been blown away by the compliments, the support and the regard that people seemed to have for me, as well as for RiPfA.

It really has been a difficult but wonderful week.

So my final thought for now is that if you know someone who you think does a good job, then why not let them know next week. I suspect we all probably underestimate the power of positive feedback and as lovely as it is to hear things now I’m moving on, I probably could have done with hearing them (or believing them) before. Go on, make someone’s day.

Exceptional achievements – spirit in motion

I can’t quite believe I’m typing this. At the start of the year I booked Thursday off work – it would be my Dad’s 65th birthday and I booked it so that I could spend the day with Mum, reminiscing and supporting her. I was completely confident that Dad would have died months previously. It is almost five years since my Dad was diagnosed with cholangiocarcinoma, cancer of the bile duct. It was his 60th birthday celebration when we realised he was properly poorly and had turned yellow! I’ve written before of what has happened since then and earlier this year we were told Dad was terminally ill, with no treatment options left but chemotherapy. Once the palliative chemo was finished (a couple weeks ago) it was onto a new, and final phase, of symptom management.

Yet, amazingly, spurred on by the joy of being a Grandad for the second time, and inspired by the Olympics and Paralympics, Bobby is still very much alive and kicking. He isn’t as alive as he once was, he isn’t actually kicking, but he is still able to walk around and get himself up and downstairs. Dad’s scan results show that his tumour continues to grow and the cancer to spread. My parents have both separately discussed dying with me and both mention that they expect (and hope) that Dad’s death will be sudden and not a long, slow decline. The unspoken element of this is the simple fact that Dad has been on a long, painfully slow decline for the past five years but luckily it has been so slow that we’ve come to accept it without realising it or focusing on it too much.

As the paralympic ceremony closes, and we all take a moment to recognise exceptional achievements, I’m scribbling this blog post as a note to self about Bobby J’s embodiment of the paralympic motto ‘Spirit in Motion’. Dad has an amazing spirit, his own superhuman endeavours and ultimately what I consider to be a truly exceptional achievement in living with cancer, living not dying.

Reverse road trip

More years ago than I care to remember I went to Cardiff to university. No-one in my family had been to university before and I had no idea what to expect. I had some messed up mental image that the Halls of Residence I’d been allocated through clearing would be like some perfect combination of a boarding school mixed with an army camp (neither of which I’d ever stayed at – what can I say I had a vivid imagination). The upshot of not really knowing, and deciding at very short notice to goto university, was that as I travelled to Wales in the back of my parent’s car for the first time I was a mix of anticipation, nerves and excitement.

My parents also had no idea of what it would be like. I remember my Mum talking non stop as we travelled over the Severn Bridge, I think she was filling the silence in an attempt to mask her own nerves. My parents dropped me off and returned home, and years later my Dad told me that my Mum cried all the way home. We used to joke that my poor Mum suffered from a severe case of ‘empty nest syndrome’, our house had always been full and suddenly myself and my big bruv both left home within weeks of each other, with very little notice leaving just my little sister at home to fill the silence. Except of course in the holidays, and for some bizarre reason that I still don’t understand now, in the holidays of my first year at uni, I had to empty my room of all my belongings and take them home (and no they didn’t use the rooms for conferences, I truly have no idea why they did it) but it meant that my Dad would come and collect me and all my stuff.

We did this trip to Cardiff and back together four times during my first year, Mum came that first time but then it was just Dad and I. Dad and I are very similar, not in every regard but I have some traits I have definitely inherited or learnt from him – depending on whether I’m viewing them favourably or not they would be tenacity or stubbornness, determination and commitment or wilfulness, and passion or an argumentative streak. These shared traits meant that as a teenager Dad and I didn’t always see eye to eye and I really couldn’t wait to leave home, to leave behind dreary Torbados and move to the bright lights of a city. As soon as I left home I found that my relationship with Dad got better and better. It got to the stage when I really looked forward to those road trips, the time that Dad and I would share together to or from Cardiff. Don’t let me lull you into a false sense of security, it wasn’t all like a scene from The Waltons, as soon as we got home we’d regress into old habits, but those trips together became something I looked forward to. We would catch up, talk about what we’d been up to, I’d share news of my studies and the social, he’d fill me in on the local scandal or news and what was going on at Cadets. On more than one of those trips Dad arrived to find me in a state of disarray, never starting packing early enough, always distracted by a final night out, and Dad would swoop into action, skillfully packing boxes while I made tea and went looking for paracetamol. This all done on top of a full day’s work as a postman. He never once complained either.

This week I attended the wedding of one of my closest mates from university, in Cardiff and got to meet my new niece on the way home on Wednesday (she was born on Sunday night). When I was away Mum told me that Dad had been quite poorly, his haemoglobin level was down to 7.6 which I think is the lowest measure he’s ever had. He was given three units of blood and it felt a bit like an egg timer had been turned, once Dad gets a transfusion it has an almost instant effect on his energy levels, but it doesn’t last long. It didn’t seem fair that I’d got to meet Phoebe and he hadn’t when he’d been waiting for that moment for so long and had fought to stay alive for it.

I asked for Friday off on annual leave and decided that a reverse road trip was in order – instead of Dad taking me to Wales I would take him and the reward at the end, getting to meet his new granddaughter, would hopefully go some way towards repaying all the lifts and road trips and packing he did for me all those years ago. So Thursday evening Bobby and I set off on the path we took all those years before. We even ended up going over the old bridge because my sister and her husband live near Chepstow. We couldn’t have asked for a better trip, there was next to no traffic and we got up there in record time and Grandad got to meet Phoebe, something none of us had confidently thought was likely to happen:

Thursday night we spent under the uprights of the Severn Bridge in the Welfare House at camp and Friday morning we got to spend a couple hours with Phoebe and Libbie, her big sister. Libbie was beyond excited when her Mum told her we were coming and when we arrived she was in the doorway shouting ‘Grandad, come and meet my sister Grandad’. It has been a couple of months since she’s seen Dad, he hasn’t been more than half an hour from the hospital in months, but she was so proud of her baby sister and so delighted to see Dad. We all had breakfast together and then her and Bobby J had a full on session of Peppa Pig Sticker Album sticking.

An hour or so later we took a trip to the park (which is behind their house). Dad didn’t have his walking stick with him and so got to push Phoebe’s pram for support, and we got some fresh air and I got some great photos and memories. We got back to my sis’s for a cuppa and Dad was whacked. He was so pale and slightly breathless, nothing that a brew didn’t sort out though and we soon got on our way. I didn’t want to get stuck in traffic and I wanted Dad to get home if he was going to be ill. Luckily the bank holiday traffic wasn’t as bad as it could have been, although it still took us twice as long to get home as it had to get up there. Dad has been exhausted ever since but Friday was the best day’s annual leave I’ve ever taken. I’m so glad he got to meet Phoebe and we got to spend some time together on our reverse road trip.

The power of short term goals

About two and a half years ago my little sister gave birth to my gorgeous niece. It was about that time that I started blogging, partly because I hoped that I’d be able to record what happened in life and give her a sense when she’s older (if she wanted it) of how awesome her Grandad was….at the time I never thought she’d live to be old enough to actually remember her Grandad or know that for herself. Dad had lived with bile duct cancer for two and a half years when she was born and living long enough to meet her had been a significant motivation.

This was the two of them when she was a few hours old in the hospital

If anyone had said then that Dad would get to see her grow into a toddler and maybe even live long enough to meet her younger sister (if medical imaging is correct), I don’t think any of us would have dared hope so, never mind believe it.

Yet here we are, my sister is overdue and is going to be induced next week. Dad has been really poorly over the last weeks and months. About ten days ago he started coughing up blood, this is a new development for him. He had occasionally vomited and has been bleeding internally (which was the reason for the palliative chemo) but never before had this happened. I wasn’t at my folks house but Mum rang to say what had happened and I met them out at the hospital. To cut a long story short Dad spent three days in hospital as they stabilised him, all the while waiting for a bed at our local hospice to become available so he could go there for assessment on the way home. Last weekend there was still no bed available and Dad didn’t want to spend the weekend in hospital (it was particularly unpleasant that week, if you can remember that far back it was sunny, and there was no air on the ward and half the windows had been screwed shut which didn’t exactly help). Dad convinced the hospital palliative care team that he was good to go home and home he went.

We watched the Olympic diving together last weekend, Mum Dad and myself. I think we all shed a tear when the video intro to Tom Daley was played – his Dad was only 40 when he died last year from a brain tumour. He was 40 and Tom D was a seventeen your old lad, training for the Olympics and studying for his A-Levels. He won bronze last weekend and the local paper informs me that he maxed out on his results, with 3 As and A*s, what a success. I am almost (not quite, steady on) but almost twice Tom Daley’s age and I am seriously struggling to get my head around my Dad’s situation still. I don’t think anyone can underestimate the scale of his achievement.

The last fortnight has felt different to any that have gone before. Mum and I were out of kilter (which rarely happens) but meant we weren’t communicating very well. Dad was very, very low and has now seriously picked himself up again, fighting all the way. In terms of lists of things I never thought Dad would live to see, London 2012 was up there too. For all the complaints about us being a nation of fickle slobs jumping on the Olympic bandwagon to become armchair pundits, I’m not complaining, it has seriously helped Dad’s positivity and determination, so #ourgreatestteam can take a bow as far as I’m concerned.

So, here we are. The middle of August 2012. Dad has a matter of days (hopefully) until he becomes a Grandad again. He is also now less than four weeks away from his 65th birthday and a very significant transaction. My Dad joined the Navy as a teenager and worked ever since, until he took early retirement and two months later was diagnosed with cancer. Having worked all his life he is incredibly determined to claim his pension, at least once. Some fairly powerful short term goals going on there.

One of the absolute hardest things about life at the moment is the lack of certainty and structure. The inability to plan more than a day or so ahead. The fear I have to making commitments or booking a holiday. The constant niggle when I try to make arrangements. I’m on standby duty for my sister, she has mates around all weekend and is booked to go into hospital next week but if she goes into labour on Sunday night I’ll be jumping in my motor to get to her’s to look after number one niece while number two niece arrives. As much as I hate uncertainty these days, and hate not knowing if I’ll be called on, for this occasion I’m chuffed. I can not wait to visit a hospital for a good reason and more to the point I can’t wait for my Dad to meet his granddaughter. I’ll make sure when she’s older that she knows what an important part she played, a solid strong motivator for her Grandad to hang on and find some more energy and courage to live a little longer, fighting a hideous disease.

A month or so ago my sister got upset when I rang her because she couldn’t do anything to help. I reassured her then that she was doing more than she realised, she was reproducing, she was carrying a ray of hope in her belly, so much more than I could ever have done. After all its the short term goals, however small and insignificant in the big scheme of things, that provide the moments that make life worth fighting for.

***Update*** My new niece, Phoebe George, arrived last night (19 August) weighing in at 8lb 6oz. I’m hoping to get to meet her the day after tomorrow and will post some photos afterwards. Next goal is for Dad to meet her….watch this space

The important thing in life is not the triumph but the struggle

Baron Pierre de Coubertin, considered to be the instigator of the modern Olympic movement, focused on the possibility that athletic competition could promote understanding across cultures. Coubertin’s philosophy was that competing was more important than winning.

L’important dans la vie ce n’est point le triomphe, mais le combat, l’essentiel ce n’est pas d’avoir vaincu mais de s’être bien battu - The important thing in life is not the triumph but the struggle, the essential thing is not to have conquered but to have fought well.

This is completely realised by two brothers, Connor and Cayden Long from Tennessee. Connor is 9 years old and he competes with his younger brother, Cayden, who has cerebral palsy and doesn’t walk or talk.

They compete together in triathlons, not to come first, second or even third….but to come last and celebrate in competing. Take a look, it’s 90 seconds well spent!

With thanks to Russell Howard’s Good News for alerting the British public to Connor and Cayden’s awesomeness.

Gold medals = Gold postboxes #inspired

Seven days after the spectacular opening ceremony of the 30th Olympiad, something quite remarkable has happened, Team GB is sitting third in the medals table. Seven days in and we have 14 Gold Medals, 7 Silver and 8 Bronze. That’s not it, the tally will continue to rise. Who’d have thought it.

Well seemingly Royal Mail had thought of it. They are issuing special stamps to celebrate each win of a Team GB Gold. Team GB Gold Medal stamps will feature an action image of each Team GB member or team that wins gold this summer and perhaps most impressively the stamps are all due to be on sale in at least 500 Post Offices within 24 hours of the Gold medal win. Thinking about it maybe they didn’t think we’d be as successful as we have been!

Even better than Gold Medal Stamps though, are Gold Medal Postboxes. To further honour the successes of Team GB, the Royal Mail have a team of people on standby to paint one post box Gold in the home town of each medal winner (pairs will get a Gold Post Box in each of their home towns and teams of more than two will have one in a location of significance to the whole team). The post boxes will be painted within a couple of days of the win, and the website features photos of each post box and the address so you could go visit.

An inspired response from Royal Mail in honour of some seriously inspiring performances.