Letters from the Falkland Islands. Friday 11th December. 20.26.

 Letters from the Falkland Islands 

Early on in this period of quarantine, during my first allocated outside slot, I made a quite wonderful discovery. If you stand in one particular spot in the sheep pen, if you stand on tiptoes and crane your neck; it is possible to make out two red phone boxes and the unmistakable top of a red pillar box. Every time I’ve been out since I always make sure I get a glimpse of it. I’m not entirely sure why I love post boxes so much, nor why a week’s holiday in Scotland turned into a bit of a post box quest. I suppose it’s the magic that surrounds it all, the magic of letter writing. It’s about connection and communication, it’s about taking whoever you are in the moment of writing and giving that part of you to someone else. There’s an honesty and thoughtfulness to it all that seems to have been lost in the instantaneous world we’ve come to inhabit.

A few days later, or it might have just been the next day, I realised I was encountering a coffee shortage. Now, although we are in quarantine here, in a different country, we have not just been left to fend for ourselves. The British Antarctic Survey (BAS) have two logistics coordinators based in the Falklands; Liz and Brad. Now, the only extra coffee the hotel could seem to provide was decaff (which is not really coffee at all), so I messaged Brad and he was able to sort me out a jar of Nescafe. Brad also said that if there was anything else at all just to let him know. What followed was probably not the usual kind of request he receives. I asked, if it wasn’t too much trouble, would he be able to take a photo of something for me. I explained about the post box, explained it in a way that would have left him in no doubt that I was either a little bit of a geek or someone who wasn’t taking to quarantine too well! I even had to ask him to go back and take a second photo, because the first one he sent me was just of the royal cypher and not the box in its entirety. Thanks Brad! Christmas really does come early sometimes.

Wednesday 9th December. 21.23. & Into the night.

 

Letters from the Falkland Islands

 

There is still a little light clinging to this day. I’ve just ordered another whisky from the bar. It’s the second day of a nineteen day stretch of quarantine in this hotel room. That’s if everything goes to the current plan. It has felt like a long one, but not in the sense of boredom or anything like that. It’s just that it has been full of different moods and emotions, I suppose. I had the first of three covid swab tests earlier this afternoon; it wasn’t too bad, but it did feel like they took a little bit of my brain out as well. I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t at all anxious about these tests. Not the tests themselves, but the knowledge that a positive test result would put a halt to my progress South. Antarctica is the only covid-free continent, and it’s vital that it stays that way. I haven’t got any symptoms, and I’ve been as careful as I can – even slightly paranoid at times. But of course, that’s no guarantee of anything, and it’s really not easy to shake the lingering possibility of ‘what if?’ I knew this all from the outset of course, I knew there would be this period of uncertainty. But knowing a thing and experiencing the real-life doubts are vastly different. You can’t really know how you’re going to feel until you’re feeling it. And even then, we don’t always have the words to put to it. I’ve been dwelling on this a little – it’s easy to dwell on things in certain circumstances. Of course, it does no good, when has worrying ever changed a thing. So, I’m trying to drag myself away from it, and is often the case the only way to do that is to face it head on. This (writing) is my attempt at that today. It’s not the only thing that has helped, though. And it’s funny the places that we find help, and the things that give us hope. In this case I found it in a tin of biscuits. This in many ways is a story in its own right – the story of the Eskdale Fell Runners. But I’ll save that for another time, because some stories are worth the telling in full. Just before I went away, the six other members of the Eskdale Fell Runners (formally established summer 2020) gave me some cards and presents. I brought the cards with me, along with a miniature Christmas tree. There was also room in my bag for a box of biscuits which I had just assumed contained the contents listed on the tin. But when I opened them this afternoon to have with a cup of tea, I found it full of ginger biscuits made by Ali’s husband, Ian. These biscuits are made in the shape of Herdwick Sheep, and gingerbread style biscuits are one of my favourite things. It was such a strong reminder of home, and of the last time I was sat out down by the coast with those friends. It was a reminder of the constant things in life, and of remarkable friendships forged in uncertain times.

Wednesday 9th December. 08.05. Stanley, Falkland Islands.

Letters from the Falkland Islands

It’s raining. The rain seems to have quietened the nearby chickens, at least. It seemed strange to discover it was raining, I actually had to do a double check out of the window. I wondered why this was, and I suspect it’s simply because it has been bright and sunny here since I arrived and that was, up until now, all I’d ever experienced of this place. I also wonder if we find rain in any new country strange and is the rain in fact different wherever we go? How similar is this to Eskdale rain, for example? I’ll find out soon enough, it’s not long until the first of my allocated two half hour outside slots of the day. We are allowed out into this roped off grassy area in front of the hotel – this area has become affectionally known as the sheep pen. The sheep pen is about 15 metres long, and 5 metres wide. We have a printed schedule for the times we are allowed out; the area is too small for all of us quarantining here to be out at once. There are 14 of us here at the moment, mostly Twin Otter pilots, air mechanics, and air support, a few field guides, a MET forecaster, Mr Halley, and me (Station Support Assistant). Many are friends from previous Antarctic seasons. Only one I’ve never met before, and another I’ve only met once briefly – we had a few hours cross over on station last season and we had a conversation about post-it notes and drawings on a white board. It’s kind of funny how I’m in a country I’ve never been to before, but the majority of the people I’ve seen are familiar faces. The sheep pen is on the other side of the hotel to my room, which means that twice a day I get a different view. I also get to say hello to those who have rooms which look the other way; they come to the windows and we chat for a bit, or they just watch as I do some keepie-ups or run round in really small circles. It’s amazing how our definition of entertainment substantially changes during quarantine. Although, some things are just outright exciting. When I was outside yesterday, kicking a ball about from one end of the sheep pen to the other with Dutch, I was dive bombed by a Turkey Vulture. In reality, this enormous bird was at least 20 metres away from me, but it felt pretty dramatic especially when Dutch informed me that they will just swoop down and carry anything off. He even sent me a link later to a website full of information about these birds and assured me that it was a genuine website and not something that he had created in spare moments of quarantine madness. I am a little dubious about their ability to carry off humans, though. 

Letters from the Falkland Islands

 

8^th December 2020.

Woke up at 4am. It appears that there is a cockerel which lives in close proximity to the hotel. The daylight made me think that it was much later, made me think that I’d missed the breakfast which is left outside the door at 8am every day. That’s what happens when you move from winter to summer in 24 hours. There’s a touch of the surreal about it all; it seems like no time at all since I was driving down to Brize Norton in the freezing fog of an English winter. No time at all since I was swimming in the river Esk at first light, and saying some goodbyes, and hugging my mum for the last time in a while. That’s the beauty of air travel in some ways; you’re on the other side of the world in a few blinks of an eye. But it’s an awfully long way to travel without taking very much in. You’re taken out of one world and deposited in another with no available insight to the worlds you’re passing through. The flight had one stop, in Dakar, Senegal, to refuel. We were on the ground for two hours, but not allowed off the plane so all I saw of Africa was from a cabin window. I treasured those moments, though. Treasured seeing the sun rise over that most ancient of continents, and smiled as I saw the red dust, that unending red earth. To see the sunrise, to see the sunset, is a spectacle I’ll never tire of. It’s to know time, it’s to know change, it’s to know life. It connects us all, and there is something comforting about the reminder that we are all under the same skies whether in darkness or in light. I can look to the sun, and look to the moon, and know that all the people I love can see the same. Separation from our friends and family need not be that separate at all.

Ten hours after taking off from Dakar we landed in the Falkland Islands, at RAF Mount Pleasant. As with flying into Senegal, this was my first time seeing the Falklands. And in truth I knew I wouldn’t be seeing much more of this place than I did Africa. There was what I could see from the air, and what I could see from the bus journey to the hotel. But it was wonderful, and for all the world I could have been in the far North West Highlands of Scotland. I half expected to see a road sign to Scourie, or a signpost graffitied with the words ‘Flat Earth’. If the landscape reminded me of Scotland, the houses in Stanley remind me of Scandinavia. They are all brightly coloured, bright red, green, blue roofs, some with brightly coloured walls, too. I can see them from the window of this hotel room. I can also see a few trees and bushes, and a few cars and people that pass occasionally.  A moment ago, a youngish lad cycled past blasting out some music; ‘do you think my tractor’s sexy’ were the only words of the song I managed to catch. There’s a strangeness in observing this outside world, and yet finding myself almost entirely separate from it. Today is the first full day of my quarantine period in the Falklands. If everything goes to plan, I’ll be here in this hotel room until 26^th December, which is when I’ll be getting on a ship for the five day journey across the Drake Passage to Antarctica.

Muggle flying & Quidditch in Antarctica

 

One of the perks of the job, and for many a highlight down here, is the opportunity to go on a Twin Otter co-pilot flight. I got the shout the evening before that I was next in line; that in the morning I was down to be the co-pilot for the flight to Fossil Bluff. Naturally I was pretty excited about this, the only downside being that my friend Blair was leaving for the UK on the Dash-7 that very same morning. It was a slightly rushed goodbye, and I was actually sat in the cockpit of a Twin Otter as I watched his plane take off. Rothera is a place of comings and goings, and it wasn’t really something I’d anticipated of been prepared for. You meet a lot of people, form friendships quickly, and before you know it they are out into the field for weeks or heading home. Listening to others who have been down before you do get more accustomed to it, but initially I found it quite difficult. The flight to Fossil Bluff takes about 1 hour 40, and it was a straight there and back run this time – only stopping to drop off a few fuel drums and provisions. Once we were airborne and levelled off, Andy’s voice came over the headset, “It’s your turn to take control of the plane, I’ve got some paperwork to fill in.” And pretty much just like that I found myself flying a Twin otter across Antarctica. To be honest, all I had to do was hold the controls level, but it was still one of those moments where you think, ‘wow, this is flippin’ cool!’ The weather might have been crapping out a bit at Rothera, but further south there were blue skies and amazing views. We were probably only on the ground at Fossil Bluff for 20-30 minutes – enough time to unload and have a chat to Jake and Rich. I also went to visit the pee flag, but soon realised as I got my flight overalls half way down that it was going to be a bit of a faff. I’d either have to take them off entirely, or get them covered in pee. With neither being a particularly attractive option, I decided that I’d just have to exercise good bladder control on the way back. Perhaps the strangest thing about flying the plane was that once airborne you got next to no sensation of the speed you’re travelling at. This changed slightly though when Andy took the plane down to approximately 100 metres above the ‘ground’, and flew close enough to see seals and a mass of blocks which were locked in icebergs. I was soon landed back at station, off the plane, and pretty much straight into the late shift. Certainly not your average morning off before work!

As Christmas approached I was keen to organise what would be Antarctica’s first ever Quidditch match. It was something of a tradition I’d started at the hostel in Borrowdale, and now I wanted to take it to the world’s most remote continent. I didn’t think I’d have a problem getting enough players; Rothera is about a captive an audience as you can get! I also had the lure of history on my side; a chance for people to add their names alongside the likes of Amundsen, Shackleton, & Scott – Antarctic firsts and pioneers. Jess, as Station Leader, wrote a full and comprehensive risk assessment for the match, and it had to be the best document of its kind I’ve ever read. Favourite bits include, “Brooms must not be used as weapons.” & “Curses are restricted to muggle swear-words only. Spells and hexes are disallowed.” I thought the most difficult part might be convincing someone to be the Golden Snitch. I had initially tried to talk Cam into doing it, but then discovered he would be out in the field. I then approached Alex (aka blonde Jesus), & without too much resistance he agreed. However, when I spoke to him later on he seemed slightly concerned….“K, I’ve been doing a bit of research into golden snitching, and it looks like they get kneed in the balls quite a lot?” I assured him that I would specifically mention that in the category of foul play when I delivered the rule briefing. After a few postponements due to the weather and muggle flying, we finally took to the runway to play the match on Sunday 23^rd December. We had enough players for there to be subs, enough mop handles for broomsticks, and a Big Bird costume (essential polar clothing) for Alex to wear as the Golden Snitch. We learnt two things pretty quickly; just how knackering Rothera Rules Quidditch is, and that Kate Stanton is probably unrivalled anywhere in the universe when it comes to competitiveness! She later confided that she had to stop playing board games as even that got too far out of hand. Unfortunately for my team (Gryffindor), Kate was playing at the Slytherin Seeker when the Golden Snitch was released onto the pitch. Callum put up a good battle to be fair, and for a long time it seemed like Alex might elude them both for the rest of the afternoon. But eventually Kate was able to capture the sock (containing a tennis ball) from the back of Alex’s pants, which gave Slytherin the overall victory. Everyone seemed to really enjoy it, and miraculously the only injuries were to a couple of the broomsticks.

Christmas in Antarctica was, for me, memorable and special. I hadn’t thought too much about how I might feel about it; I wanted to enjoy it, and not dwell on the fact that I was a long way from home. I went for a Christmas Day run with Tom L, three laps of the runway before heading out on a recreational boat trip. It was possibly the perfect day for being out on the water – it was flat calm, still. The grey skies meant that there was no glare, so the towering icebergs were reflected clearly in the water. In fact, at times, I wondered if the reflection had more form than the real thing. The Chefs had cooked up an amazing Christmas dinner, and it was so lovely to share it with friends. A little later in the evening I went up to the Ops tower for scheds. Kate Doc had set up the keyboard, and a small group of us assembled to sing Christmas carols over the radio to the field parties. I’m not sure if it was interference over the radio, or the fact that they’d been living in the middle of Antarctica in tents for so long, but apparently we sounded pretty good! Boxing Day was back to work as normal, or as normal as life gets down here.

“Once in a while you remember exactly where the hell you are.” In this instance I was stood with Bav on the deck of the Laurence M Gould, an American research ship, just off the West Antarctic Peninsula. It was windy, snowing, and we’d been chatting, belting out the American national anthem, and trying to figure out our place in all of this. I certainly didn’t have any answers, but was yet again filled with a sense of awe, and a gratitude for everyone and everything that had led me here. We were part of a group from Rothera (including scientists doing CTD water sampling) who had the opportunity to go aboard the ship in a PAX exchange – the American scientists went ashore for tours of the station. Dee was on a lower deck photographing tanks of krill, while Scott, Sarah, and the others were enjoying the Americans’ hospitality (especially the stash of real, chocolate milk we found). When we all got back together I asked Bav & Dee about recreating that scene from Titanic. Contrary to the numerous suggestions, I didn’t mean the iceberg bit, nor the being drawn like a French girl, and certainly not the car scene. We went outside to the front of the ship, and yelled to the vast expanse of ocean that I was the king of the world. If you ever get to try that in the Southern Ocean, you’ll find out just how far from the truth those words feel; how laughable a sentiment in a land that humbles. It was not the first time here that I have been brought to a standstill – a sudden and overwhelming halt, both mentally and physically. For a second there is no movement at all, and then the thoughts begin to creep back in amongst the silent wonder. If I’ve dreamed of anything, I’ve dreamed of this. The beauty of the wild places, the mystery of life so complete it becomes the answer.

Night shift. Eternal light shift.

Part of the job role as a Station Support Assistant is to do two weeks of night shifts. Two weeks of nights, followed by three weeks of days. A night shift starts at 10pm and finishes at 7am. It involves three rounds of checks – making sure that nothing is flooded, nothing is on fire, that the generators are running, and that certain science stuff is going to plan (including checking the temperature of the freezers containing thousand year old ice cores, & waking up the sparky if there’s a problem). There’s also a 15 minute listening watch in the Ops tower at 12pm, 3am, and 6am – these are the designated times for field parties to contact the station should they need. In between those checks there is cleaning to do, some random jobs, and usually a bit of fun. Describing it as a night shift at this time of year is slightly misleading though; in an Antarctic summer it never gets dark. I’d often go out for a run, sometimes around 2am and it would still be perfectly light. In many ways it’s the best shift to see the changing colours of the sky, and because there are only ever two others working it can feel like you’ve got the place entirely to yourself. The stillness, the storms, the thinning of that layer which often makes us feel detached from the natural world. These are some of the moments I’ll never forget, but they are also the moments that are the most difficult to define. A wordless beauty; not just concerned with how things appear, but how they actually are, and how they make you feel.

You do begin to crave a little more human interaction though, a little more conversation. I remember sitting around at breakfast at the end of one particular night shift listening enthralled to Ernie telling me the exact dates and times of his last seven dental appointments. Felt like the best thing I’d heard in a long while, and I was having none of it when he said, “how do you know I haven’t just made all of that up?!” I think that working nights might temporarily do something a little bit odd to your mind – either that, or it’s your normal mind but with less restrictions. I’ll often leave notes in peoples offices, and always leave one up in the tower for the Ops team. I’m kind of hoping that these might get archived; classified as Antarctic heritage. One of these notes includes my theory that everything in the world (going right down to neutrinos) is made up from elephant seals and onions. Another documents a dream I’d had after eating some stilton. Vivid dreams are reportedly a thing down here. I’m not sure if there’s a scientific explanation for it – I reckon that we are just more attuned to them as we are not constantly bombarded by the internet and mobile phone stuff. I was up in the Ops tower, and for some reason there were a few other people there as well. They told me about this night watch check that I should be doing, that no one had told me about yet. All I had to do was to open a door and look through it, and when I looked through it I would see the world for the very first time. That pretty much blew my mind – just about the coolest dream I’ve ever had. There’s actually some truth to it though I think; that each time we see the world it is for the first time (because it has changed since last we looked). And in that sense you could argue that it’s getting newer rather than older. Which is all very well for most things, but when it comes to the Dairy Milk recipe and climate change I wish we could go back a bit.

Speaking of vintage Dairy Milk; I did come across a stash of it one night in Fuchs (the Field Guides building), best before 2006. I spent a good few moments just looking at it in awe, and then started to wonder what I could possibly offer in return for a bar. Like for like I suggested a Toblerone, but then I branched out to slightly different ideas. I had the beginnings of a conspiracy theory about elephant seal poo and crop circles which I thought might be of interest, but failing that I added to the bottom of the note that I still have 2 kidneys. The following night there were three blocks of Dairy Milk left out with a message attached; ‘Leave a kidney in the Nido jar.’ I took the chocolate but recognised that I now had a bit of a problem if I was to honour my deal with the field guides. I wondered briefly if there were similarities here to people who sell their soul to the devil, and then realise that they don’t really want to fulfil their end of the bargain. Anyway, I came up with a genius plan and left a return message. ‘Thanks so much! I’m sorry, I might have deceived you about the state of one of my kidneys – but here it is!’ Next to it I sellotaped a cashew nut. There has been no retribution. Yet. Other fun night watch activities included a delayed game of noughts and crosses with Blair on the whiteboard in Fuchs. At least, I thought I was playing against Blair but after a conversation about it, it turns out I was mostly playing against myself. That whiteboard was also used to exchange quotes with Tom L about magic, and to write a suggestion list of words that might help you fall asleep in 20 seconds. There is a guy on station who has apparently trained himself to fall asleep in 20 seconds; I’ve not watched (that would be weird), but I do believe him. You need to block everything out by focusing on just one word. I gave it a good go, but could never decide which word I was using which I suppose defeats the object.

The way the rota pans out means that you work the first week of nights with one person, and the second with another. For me that meant being on shift with Lynsay, and then with Jules. We’d also find ourselves declaring a few folk as honouree night watchers; those who’d often be around for a bit after 10pm and help us out with a few odd jobs. It’s as much the chat and the company that’s the lovely thing; you get a bit of a catch up about what has happened in the day, and it’s always good to start your shift on a positive. Bav is one of the best for this, and also Tom L, both of whom have a late night habit of eating epic sandwiches. Bav is also great at helping out with the kitchen laundry, even if he does steal the oddly satisfying job of untangling all the apron strings. Most night shifts are fairly standard, but every now and then you’d find yourself doing something that definitely wouldn’t be classed as ordinary back home! These things tended to happen when I was on shift with Lynsay; no real reason for that other than perhaps that she’s a little bit mental (in the best of ways). There was the night we tried to move what seemed like a ton of chocolate from one building to another using a plastic sledge. We then had to mount a retrieval operation for all the boxes of Snickers that had fallen off into the snow. On another occasion we were tasked by the Station Leader with a top secret mission – the details of which cannot be disclosed other than to say that it definitely falls into the category of ‘things I didn’t imagine I’d be doing whilst in Antarctica!’

Life on Station

It’s amazing how normal things become, how quickly you adapt. That’s not to say you lose the wonder of a place, but elements of day to day life do become routine. It’s certainly a strange mix of the surreal and the relatively mundane – standing at the washing up sink battling piles of baked on lasagne dishes whilst watching icebergs, penguins, and elephant seals out of the window. This mix can actually bring about a degree of internal confusion, especially when you throw in the perception of outsiders, their reactions to photos posted online etc. These pictures can in some ways be deceiving – not deceiving of its beauty, but deceptive when it comes to other realities. Even in such an incredibly stunning place a person is still subject to the usual human emotions, the highs and the lows, the bad days and the good. In many ways the extreme nature of Antarctica brings these things more sharply into focus. On the whole my experience here so far has been overwhelmingly positive; BAS are a fantastic organisation to work for, and I’ve met so many incredible, lovely people. Life here is not without its challenges though, and without a doubt (for me at least) the greatest of these is the highly concentrated social living. Interestingly though, this is also one of the best things about it – community and people are integral to the entire experience. Nothing could exist without it, and this extends much further than the confines of the station. You rely much more on others, but you also come to rely much more upon yourself. Living in this kind of environment requires a great deal of self-awareness – it’s really not easy at times and it can seem quite a struggle not to lose yourself a bit. But these are the moments, if you can hold onto what you deem to be important - those things are strengthened more than might be possible elsewhere. The people you work with are also the people you live with, and there’s nowhere else to go but here. There’s not a lot that goes unnoticed, and everything you say and do will inevitably have quite an impact. It’s so important to try and constantly be aware of this, to be mindful of others, but also not to fall into the easy trap of overthinking everything too much. Despite, and possibly because of all of this it’s an absolutely fascinating place to spend some time.

You might find yourself sat around at breakfast chatting to Canadian pilots of Chinese planes – stopping off at Rothera for a night on the way to the pole. I later asked some of our pilots if they’d ever been there, what it’s like, is it difficult to land, etc. They described it as the Heathrow of Antarctica, or probably JFK as it’s run by the Americans. These folk are great to chat to, the little things, the big things – there are even a few who were here in the last days of the dog teams. This is just a three month spell for me, but for many it has been their life. These stories are everything – it’s pretty much the entirety of the culture and human history of this place. I’m not even sure it can claim a culture of its own; the only continent on earth not able to support permanent human inhabitants. It does have plenty of its own peculiarities though, and plenty of different characters.

There is certainly not a shortage of reminders that life down here is a little different. Next to one of the phones is a telephone doodle book, and on the inside front cover is scribbled the mobile number of Elvis Presley’s eldest son. There is also a poster on the wall kindly reminding people not to chew the telephone cable because replacements are hard to come by in Antarctica. In one of the accommodation block there is the ‘Sledge of Dreams’. This is a big old fashioned sledge where people can leave things they no longer require, and it’s free for anyone else to help themselves. Some of the more random objects I’ve seen on there are a framed photograph of Dermot O’Leary, and a cuddly Cornish Pasty. I guess we all must miss slightly different things when in Antarctica. I can’t say that this was near the top of my list, but one of my friends sent me out a Lake District bus timetable in case I was feeling a bit homesick. It did cause a fair bit of mild amusement though, and Ernie even asked me to check if there was still a bus running from Glenridding to Keswick. He then proceeded to tell me the story of how he’d taken that bus once, that the route was on very windy roads, and that by the end of it he felt quite sick. Ernie is definitely one of those folk about whom it would be easy to fill an entire blog post – someone that brightens many a day. There are people from all different walks of life here; chefs, mechanics, sparkies, plumbers, scientists, plant operators (some who back home are farmers – and very passionate about what they do). I’ve been told that at Sky Blu (one of our field stations), pictures of bikini clad women have actually been replaced by photos of favourite tractors. There’s also a number of different nationalities represented here; French, Dutch, Canadian, American, New Zealand (or Australian, depending on how much you want to wind Cameron up). Cam is down here as a vehicle mech, and never fails to entertain with his stories and turn of phrase. He even has his own weather measuring system – as he walked into the dining room one morning he declared, “It’s blowing 40 bastards out there!” He was also conducting an interesting survey the other day, asking people if they prefer to do it with or without their socks on.

All the accommodation here is shared; either 2 bedded or 4 bedded rooms. There are not many people in the world who are aware of the use of Crocs as a ‘vacuum cleaner’ (particularly efficient at shuffling up hair). So when Rachel and I were sat in our room (within the first week) enthusiastically discussing this shared knowledge, our relationship was only ever going to go one way. We often go on ‘dates’ around the point, and the Station Leader (Jess) was asking what the female equivalent of a bromance is. It’s hard not to love someone who leaves random notes, makes you a cotton mouse out of a tampon, and mixes up your Rubik Cube so that you can solve it again. Rachel also gave me my Rothera nickname – Nails. It stems from my love of running in slightly ‘interesting’ conditions, mostly on the runway when it’s a little breezy out. I’m not really sure what I bring to the relationship, but I did show Rachel the gravel rash near my bum from falling over when playing football. No one else got to see that, although Hannah did say that she’d like to – in exchange for some peppermint teabags. It’s amazing what passes as currency in a place without any money!