Do you know something?

I think it's time... time to finally fill you in on the story of Bec over the last year or so. It's no novel - parts of it still make absolutely no sense, but that's why we sit down with a book rather than watch our own lives the whole time: reality is less structured. But it's real. So here we go... Bec the book:

It started with a bump

The last blog post I wrote before this episode of the story began was December 22nd 2007. What followed was a jovial, festive, sparkly Beijing Christmas, made all the jollier by the fact that I was to fly home for a mid-year visit the next month (Chinese new year holiday). On January 17th 2008, I sat in Beijing airport and wrote the following on the first page of a brand-new, funkily arty Chinese A4 diary scrapbook:

在飞机场 (at the airport)

Airports are good places to begin. Not only because they afford time for beginning, but because every journey necessitates the start of more than itself - as it does the ending. This book, at its beginning, is dedicated to being whatever it wants to be. Its purpose and format are neither preordained nor fixed, but I anticipate that it is going to record, perhaps unreliably, and probably sporadically, a very interesting and transformational year. A year in which structure develops

I didn't finish the sentence because something or other interrupted my train of thought... it transpires that the timing was perfect. Little did I know the extent to which those words would prove true, or how far from my expectations the definitions of 'interesting' and 'transformational' would turn out to be.

I had one of those great seats on the plane, right next to the door with all the space a Bec's legs could want. Ever since I was old enough to really know that I'm able to die, I haven't been overly fond of flights. That said, I lived in China for three years, so the fear was clearly manageable. Anyway, this flight was a smooth one with a friendly, communicative captain (which always reassured me for some reason...)

Here we are making our descent to Heathrow:

Of course, the plane is far, far, far too close to the house below it because at this point both engines had stopped responding and there was not enough power to make the runway. We were dropping from the sky towards a busy London road and I, ensconced in my deliciously leg-roomy yet windowless seat, had no idea.

We just made it over the perimeter fence before slamming into grass the other side and skidding towards the end of a runway... there was the bump to end all bumps and the crack of my top teeth slamming into my bottom teeth and then... nothing... haziness... snippets of recollection but little else: a man running from another section, desperately wanting to get off the plane; the firm, well-projected voice of a member of cabin crew taking control; jumping onto the emergency chute and wondering why I wasn't going anywhere; running across the runway and answering an, "Are you okay?" with an, "I don't know!"; starting to cry then being too shocked to continue; the kindness of other passengers: the man who gave me his (ankle-length!) emergency jacket, another who offered the use of his mobile phone (from which I forewarned Ma who was waiting in Terminal 4 for a flight that had frozen in the information board world), and the girl who pointed out the wheels of the plane lying in a far-off field and made me laugh with jokes about Chinese hats; using accumulated loose change at a pay phone to send my mother on a parent-hunting mission for a fellow passenger... to tell them he was safe and unharmed; the nun in the secluded section of the airport where we spent many hours, speaking to me with warmth and sincerity; free Pret A Manger sandwiches accompanied by exhaustion and a desperation to see my family; inarticulately answering question after question; waiting; feeling dazed; wondering which way up I was.

You see, my seat was in the space between the third door and window where there is no window. The chute I tried to slide down was the incredibly on the wonk affair behind the wing - is it any wonder I wasn't going anywhere?

The wheels of the plane in a field over yonder.

The scene of my dramatic, non-slidey escape.

These men, Peter Burkill and John Coward, saved my life. It's thanks to their skill and presence of mind that I stood and walked off flight BA38. Yes, they were doing a job, but they did it so well that day that 152 people danced with death and came out the other side. Besides which, they are the ones who faced the ordeal that we, in our blissful ignorance, were spared. The word gratitude has a new depth and significance in my vocabulary.

Why is this the start of the story of Bec? Because everything changed on that day. Everything. Why am I writing it now? Because I am finally ready to admit to it.

More next time my lovelies. Be well and be careful and don't give up. Remember: for better or worse, no experience lasts for ever. Much love, Bec x