Autism is about cherishing the smallest of victories

                                      
                                          Ross with his eldest brother Micah

I’M coming to the end of a fortnight’s holiday with my youngest son Ross, and it has been absolute bliss.

A couple of years ago we spent a fortnight in a caravan on the south of France along with my dad. Then it was tough. Trying to look after a fully dependent child in a small 35 foot caravan in sweltering August heat with not all of Ross’s essentials to hand was tricky.

This time, it’s been a couple of weeks at home in relative sunshine on the Costa del Eastbourne and for long spells it has been just myself and Ross; no-one else. At times it has frustratingly meant no adult company, so bar a quick trip to the shops to pick up some provisions, I’ve not spoken to anyone.

The upside is that this has been concerted and focussed quality time, without distraction, without the clock ticking as it does on his weekend visits when no sooner have we unpacked than we're thinking about the following day and packing up to go home.

The holiday didn’t start off terribly well when Ross’s mum packed just a handful of nappies instead of two weeks’ worth.

You can’t buy nappies for a 15-year-old in a supermarket, they have to be ordered. So when I contacted the manufacturers and parted with an exorbitant £56, next day delivery turned out to be three days’ delivery once the nappies had travelled from Telford to Dorset, back to Telford and onward to East Sussex because the telephone operator mistook a BN Eastbourne postcode for Bournemouth’s BH postcode.

For Ross, his staple daily activity is sitting in front of the laptop working his way through a collection of YouTube videos; Thomas the tank engine, Barney, Mr Men, Postman Pat, using the mouse to play scenes over and over again. He will sing along to the songs, laugh at the images and sometimes cry at some of the sketches while using the Google search engine to type in the video he wants to play next.

This is Ross’s way in his unfathomed cotton-wool world of controlling his environment and making his own choices. It may seem dull, boring and even overly repetitive, but this simple routine provides him with a challenge, offers a sense of order and gives him the power of choice. What we can never truly know is what is registering in Ross's brain. 

Every day we’ve hit the seaside; playing on the stony beach, paddling in the sea, or sitting on a blanket, leaning against the groynes to read stories or throw a ball.

We’ve read together too. Ross will point to words and ask me to read them to him; sometimes he has tried to read himself. He can’t annunciate the words, instead he imitates the sound of the word - again whether Ross understands the meaning of the word, matching it to the image, or whether he knows the order of words by memory remains unclear.

Success has been Ross grabbing my hand to count to 20 by high-fiving, reciting his ABC, or trying to sing “Three Blind Mice”.

Success on this holiday has also been shaving Ross for the first time.

For the last couple of years, shaving has been a constant worry as we slowly prepare our son for adult life – only recently I have managed to cut his finger and toe-nails without a struggle. Going to the hairdressers can also be awkward, especially when clippers are applied to the back of his neck, but by and large we get by thanks to the patience of the ladies at the barbers he goes to in Warsash.

We once thought about electroylsis treatment to stop the facial hair growth. Ross’s mum also bought a new electric shaver for him, as yet unused. But then last week, in a moment of bravado, I tried Ross with my razor, lightly running the back of the razor across his top lip to see how he reacted. Rather than recoil, Ross smiled. It was an unexpected positive reaction since I fully expected him to fight at the sight of the blade.

We repeated this practice at bathtime on a couple of occasions before turning the razor over and letting the blade skim off the hairs on his top lip. Again, no recoil. A major result. So now we have been doing this nightly. I can't imagine Ross ever shaving himself, even with an electric shaver, but maybe this is an opening which can be exploited.

A small moment, maybe, but a huge, huge victory. Up until now we’ve been applying a lady’s hair remover cream to get rid of Ross's unwanted facial hair, but from this simple moment is a building block which can act as another foundation for his future.

With Ross, life is constantly about small victories and overcoming adversity. In the real world they are all part of life's natural progression, recordable milestones which are reached and passed with barely an acknowledgement. Here, those milestones are richly savoured and used as momentum towards the next step.

It is hard at times because at the age of 15, Ross should have been playing with his friends during the summer holidays, getting excited over Dr Who, Top Gear or the start of the football season, preparing for year 11 at school and his GCSEs. Instead, he lives in a dream world and an uncertain future in which he requires constant attention. A world where few people understand why that child is walking awkwardly down the street with his fingers stuck in his ears.

Just now as I’m writing this blog, Ross grabbed my hand encouraging me to sit down on the floor with him while he is watching a Spot video on his laptop. This one is Spot telling the colours – up pops a colour with its name emblazoned on the screen. For Ross, we’ve recited the letters of each of the colours, and he’s just tried to say the word.  “Grey” was “day”, but it's close enough. It’s a far cry from where he should be, but then you try not to think about that.

It's a meaningful victory and for Ross I hope he feels he is communicating, that he is getting the interaction and responses he wants. It must be very lonely at times in that world he inhabits.

Yet with all of these travails, when you look at Ross's sweet, cherubic face, with the long eyelashes and his winsome smile, Ross is special. 

I love it when I see Ross swimming. He is in his element, engaging in a media where he is an equal with others; Ross can swim - not quite front crawl or butterfly, more doggy paddle and kicking off his back, and he is happy lazing about in the deep end. He loves to be thrown in the water and then to swim back to you, slipping his arms around your neck and giving you a cuddle before the next effort. For a son who has never ever told you he loves you, this is the next best thing.

Because there is one key factor about Ross how, unlike everyone I have ever known, he never lets you down. Life is frequently about disappointment, expectations shattered often by the thoughtless actions of others. I can always rely on Ross. He may be autistic, but his personality remains reassuringly uncomplicated, permanently reliable.

Yes, Ross can be enormously frustrating at times such as when he woke up at 3am three mornings last week to have a chat. You groan when he spits out food he doesn’t like, when he suddenly stops walking and drops to the floor in the middle of a shopping centre, and even his latest, frustrating habit of releasing his bowels in the bath. Yes, nice one, and stinky pooey nappies don't get any easier after all this time.

We live with the constant Damocles’ Sword of Ross’s epilepsy and a worry of what the future holds for him as he moves into adulthood. Somehow, those fears have to be parked. Deal with today and work towards tomorrow. He's started cycling at school and now the challenge is to find a tricycle, somewhere to store it, so that he can enjoy cycling at home.

But that is Ross. There’s not a vindictive, malicious bone in his body; just endless fun and energy. Why can't everyone share those traits? 

Sometimes I’m glad he is blissfully unaware of the terrible travails facing our world, that he is ignorant of the self-induced and sometimes mindlesss pressures facing teenagers, that he is sheltered from the outrageousgreed and stinging meanness which is rife in this time.  Instead, Ross lives in a protected, coveted environment.

Ross’s love is unconditional so when you reap those precious wins, such as with the shaving, such as with Ross singing “Three Blind Mice”, and when in hospital 14 months ago just after recovering from a major epileptic fit when he started writing words on Google for the first time, then those priceless moments are ones to cherish. http://peekay-passingshots.blogspot.co.uk/2011/06/now-tell-me-theres-god.html

At the end of the day, Ross will often come and sit on my lap, put his arm around my neck and pull me close wanting a kiss on the cheek before going to bed. You know what, it really doesn’t get better than that.

Help! Mr Blobby has a sugar craving and can't stop it!!

THE nine-mile Sunday morning run around the heart of the New Forest was perfect. On a scorching day, it was the best possible antedote and a confidence-booster after a couple of pitiful leaden-footed runs earlier in the week.

A dozen of us ran along remote paths through woodland, over heathland, past a tiny ford - it was a veritable pot pourri of terrain, including a couple of tough climbs, on a glorious day when the speedies at the front looped back every mile or so to tag onto the slower runners so we all ran as a group.

As we finished the run in a car park close to the Royal Oak pub at Fritham, soaked to the skin in sweat and with the sun beating down hard, one lady looked at my bare-chested torso and cruelly remarked to everyone "Look, he's got a baby!"

Everyone else laughed and I did too, but what a blow to the solar plexus. Although it was a remark meant in jest boy did the barb hit its target. Yes, I am developing a bit of a tum which is out of the proportion of a relatively lean body. My stomach does stick out, and for the first time in my life I'm having to think seriously about diet.

For years I've been able to satisfy my sweet tooth with cakes, biscuits and chocolates without fear of putting on weight or developing any kind of midrift cushioning.

I remember Saturday mornings at work heading by Tesco's to buy a couple of almond croissants, a box of Bakewell tarts or battenburgs, some chocolates and a huge carton of fruit juice and that would do me for the day.

And throughout my running career I've loaded on sugar for runs, carrying jelly beans and jelly babies in a bum bag. For my last London marathon I collected a bag laden with a Mars Bar and Kendal Mint Cake at the half way point.

I think I'm addicted to sugar, particularly chocolate, and now it's got to stop. But how?

You see, it's not about the weight. My weight is fine, around 11 stone on a 5ft 10in body which is fine and with the running it's something that can be reasonably controlled. But what about the Mr Blobby belly, that's the conundrum? It's almost unfair. It's not as if I am a couch potato not bothering to exercise, or only exercising lightly. So why can't the belly stay in check?

I've got this set of scales at home which checks for body fat and body water content, and this morning the body fat was just short of 23% (the range for someone aged between 40 to 49 years is 13%-23%) and body water is 53% (it should be 55%), which suggests my weight and body fat is okay, but I have insufficient water intake.

I've scoured the internet for answers, but there is so much rubbish about, so much money-making baloney out there that it is hard to believe which course to follow. I don't need WeightWatchers or some strict diet, but surely it's more than doing 100 sit-ups every morning?

My dad,  a former paratrooper who's now got a bit of a stomach on him in his 70s, reckons that just like King Canute genetically, there's no way you can turn the tide of body fat. "You're going to have to live with that son," he told me kindly this week.

My friend Keith, whose wife is my dentist, reckons that the uber belly is down to diet and the fact that sugar sits on the stomach and accumulates. The only way to rectify this is to rein back the sugar diet, he told me, as he settled down to his supper of raw broccoli and dip.

I've tried to research this little gem on the internet, but not come up with any evidence to say it is so. But, sugar sitting on the belly sounds like a logical outcome. So, those sweet toothed days are coming to an end and boy has it been painful. Gone are the biscuits, the cakes and the chocolate. I can't quite give up sugar in tea, so that's been replaced by saccharine which makes the tea taste lousy and grainy.

The hard part is what to snack with?

At work, we have one of those charity sweet boxes brim full with jelly beans, midget gems, wine gums and chocolate buttons; it is placed on a desk right behind me and is so teasing and tempting.

At home in the evening after supper, while watching TV, just as a smoker will have a post-dinner cigarette, my vice has been a cake or two, or to demolish half a pack of ginger nuts or even Party Rings (still got the kid in me!) with a sugary cup of tea.

When my boys come to visit, I'll buy a couple of boxes of Bakewell tarts or chocolate mini rolls, and help them to finish the box. And inevitably, any visit to the supermarket or newsagents will not be complete without a Mars Bar or Wispa.  That is my snack routine. Isn't it everyone's?

So this week the routine has had to change. For snacking I'm eating fruit or bowls of Alpen, but somehow this snack diet doesn't have the satisfaction of a bar of Galaxy!

I've been told about these graze boxes (www.graze.com/) which are packed with nutritious snacks and which a friend of my wife swears by - there are dozens of empty Graze boxes stacked in the lounge of her home. My worry is that I'll adopt squirrel-like features with all the nuts.

The one concession is that on a Sunday I can have a bar of chocolate. My once a week guilty please. You can't go cold turkey straight away, so yesterday, after my first full week without cakes, biscuits or chocolates, I devoured a small chocolate bar which was like manna from heaven.

I'm not sure if I'm doing the right thing. My body continues to crave sweet things. Right now, a hot sugared cup of tea with half a dozen bourbon biscuits would go down a treat with my rumbling stomach. But I want to get rid of Mr Blobby and logic suggests rid your diet of major sugar items and the stomach will go. It will keep your teeth healthy too.

The trick is can I sustain this? It's like any diet, crash diets are rubbish unless you can sustain the strict routine and enjoy it. I hear from so many people who take sugar out of their tea or coffee and say they don't miss it. I can't believe that. Is there anything more satisfying or sating that a gloriously hot, sweet mug of tea with a couple of digestives?

For any successful diet you have to work the question you have to ask yourself is will you be doing this in a year's time? If you won't, then why bother starting the diet? After all the grief, you're only going to balloon the weight back on again.

This is not about vanity, actually it's about getting a better diet and hopefully it might improve my running. I'm bricking it slightly about my fitness ahead of the Swindon Half Marathon in six weeks' time when I've got to pace round an eight-and-a-half minute mile group. I want to be fit and ready for October 14th.

Anyone with any bright ideas about getting rid of bulging tums, apart from lipsuction, I will warmly listen to. In the meantime, roll on next Sunday's chocolate treat!

P.S: Just seen this article on the Daily Mail website. Take with a pinch of salt or not?
www.dailymail.co.uk/health/article-2194506/Why-having-pot-belly-bigger-heart-risk-obesity.html

Fined for cycling along Eastbourne prom? Unbloodybelieveable!!

EASTBOURNE had its finest summer clothes on this week. Ahead of the inevitable meteorological misery of the Bank Holiday weekend, the sun has shone brightly, the wind blowing off Beachy Head has been relatively calm and the beaches have been brimming with holidaymakers.

In recent months, the owner of the nearby Italian ice cream parlour has been pulling his hair out because of the disastrous summer we've had. This week, he's been filling his boots.

Also, is there not a finer sight or even smell while dusk is drawing on a summer's evening of a couple sharing vinegar-soaked fish and chips along the promenade looking out at the calm English Channel? Okay, maybe not!

It's been holiday time too for my youngest son Ross. Because of his lack of mobility - you can't walk too far with him before he drops to the floor in protest - so I've been getting him around in a specially-adapted stroller which was custom-made five years ago to allow me to run with him.

I have to say some people are so ignorant when you're walking with a pushchair. Heaven knows what it must be like for those trying to navigate a wheelchair. Dare I say the biggest culprits are older people who have an annoying arrogance about them that they will not give way, not even with 20 or 30 metres notice.

They can see you, for sure. You move a little to one side to make some room, but they stick rigid to their path. And don't tell me they're not mobile enough to move either. The other trick is to stop dead in their tracks suddenly, consult a shopping list and then have a look around, never mind they're blocking the passageway.

I thought I was being overly cynical about this elderly intransigence, but visiting on a day trip this week my father, himself a member of the free bus pass brigade, saw at first hand how bloody-minded and thoughtless folk can be as we strolled through the main shopping centre with Ross in tow.

Anyway, I digress. The stroller is perfect for getting about the seafront which this week has been bustling with folk strolling along the prom; couples walking hand in hand, children running about excitedly with joggers skipping past on their gentle runs along the wide walkway.

There are babies in pushchairs, dog walkers, inline skaters, wheelchair users and yesterday evening, amazingly, I was overtaken by one old dear haring towards the pier at breakneck speed aboard one of those mobility scooters. What is the speed limit for a mobility scooter?

Also, from time to time and along some parts of the promenade, we have to make way for Eastbourne's Dotto train - a trackless train with carriages which follows a route of about five miles from the Holywell Retreat at the foot of Beachy Head to the eastern end of Eastbourne.

Surprisingly, what you can't do on the prom is cycle. There are Gestapo-like signs posted on lampposts along the seafront warning of a ludicrous £500 fine for those who dare disobey this mealy-mouthed by-law.

And would you believe, cycling along the seafront has become the hot topic in the Eastbourne Herald in recent weeks.

To gauge the strength of feeling, here's a letter published in today's Herald:


“WHY can’t cyclists enjoy our wonderful seafront?,” asks Jane Schulze (letters Aug 3). 
They can, providing they are prepared to experience it on foot which was always its intended purpose. 
As an ex-pedal pusher myself I would be the first to acknowledge and respect that promenades, piers, pavements and precincts were all essentially designed and constructed first and foremost for pedestrians. 
Resorts that possess long, wide thoroughfares with minimal footfall may be able to offer some limited pro-sharing to cyclists with safety although that is debatable. 
Regardless, pedestrians, particularly young children, the elderly and those with hearing, vision and mobility restrictions, should all be free to go about their business on traffic-free walkways - including the promenade - with enjoyment, comfort and ease. And what’s happened to health and safety on this issue? 
Perhaps they consider that a can of white paint and a few lines and symbols on the pavement afford sufficient segregation and protection between pedestrians and cyclists? 
I suggest that local pedestrians, far from being less tolerant of cyclists, simply feel aggrieved, not to say concerned for their personal safety, as they see more areas designated for walking being hived off or under threat for a purpose that was never intended. 
And not without cause, given the current negligible chance of recompense should they be injured by a cyclist.
Sooner or later, with increasing numbers of cyclists on the road, serious thought must be given to enforcing liability insurance certainly for adults. 

Unbloodybelieveable! Eastbourne prom is wide. I've not been sad enough to take out a tape measure but we're talking at least three metres wide here - it's wide enough for a double decker bus and probably a marching band with majorettes!

I went running along Worthing seafront a couple of weeks ago whose narrow prom is marked out for cyclists. Walkers, cyclists and runners there seemed to get along just fine.

It seems incredible and so short-sighted that Eastbourne can't do the same. In fact, it's the inline skaters who are the biggest danger, weaving in and out, sometimes with huge uncertainty over which direction they are heading in. But we get on. There's room enough for everyone along this delightful stretch of coastline with a spectacular view.

To be fair Eastbourne has cycleways around town and cycle paths along far stretches of the seafront. The town even has its own cycling festival, so the council does its bit for cycling, although it could do more - and the prom would be a start.

When we talk about a post-Olympic legacy, it's not only about producing future sporting champions surely it's also about producing a healthier future generation. We were happy to bask in the glories of Bradley Wiggins, Chris Hoy and Victoria Pendleton just a few weeks ago, but do we really do enough for our cyclists? Or do we merely pay just lip service?

Visit Holland where cycleways are central to any planning development and road network. Culturally, cycling is part of a way of life there because it is safe. Cycling is enjoyable and actively encouraged - encouraged not just as a sport or a way of transport, but as a pastime. Families can get out and cycle safely together without playing chicken with cars or sharing their exhaust fumes.

I can't believe there are similar no stern cycling signs posted on promenades along Dutch seaside resorts with draconian fines imposed for those who flaunt the regulation.

Here, cycling has a sad anorak image of cycle clips and luminous yellow jackets, of school kids with cycle helmets and rucksacks, city bankers with their natty fold-up bikes and racing cyclists in their tight-fitting lycra out for a Sunday spin on their state-of-the art, lightweight contraptions .

We don't think of cycling as a pure leisure pursuit. We don't go out of our way to encourage cycling, to provide a cheap and healthy way of getting around.

Cyclists are regarded as second class citizens. I don't cycle a huge amount, I prefer putting on a pair of running shoes to get around, but why are we threatening cyclists with £500 fines for cycling along the promenade in Eastbourne? How much does a tin of paint and a day's white-lining work cost?

Patronising letters like the one above just demonstrate how short-sighted our vision has become about cycling. Why can't we share, why can't we accommodate cyclists with walkers, runners, skaters, the Dotto train and even speeding mobility scooters? What has happened to our tolerant society?

All rise! Going to court is a question of character.

I'VE sat in a magistrates' court so many times over the past 30 years; never in the dock, fortunately, but I've heard all sorts of cases, either attending as a journalist or sitting as a Justice of the Peace; from murder remands, the nastiest of assault cases, dangerous dog cases and animal suffering, to common or garden shoplifting.

Some days courts were dull and tedious, rife with adjournment after adjournment, or loads of dull paperwork to sort.

Others were packed with high drama and emotion - I remember well the first time as a magistrate when, as part of a bench of three, we sent someone to prison. I couldn't sleep that night as I thought about what that person must be going through right now, not withstanding what they had done. You're playing God, you are depriving someone of their liberty, having a huge impact on theirs and their family's lives.

It's bizarre how the same characters kept reappearing in the dock like a judicial carousel; you knew who they were, they knew who you were, the advocates on both sides of defence and prosecution had dealt with them before, and the sparring continued.

During sentencing, defendants filled out a means form to calculate any fine. Inevitably, they were not in work, living off benefits to support a family of six and didn't have a bean to their name. As you read through the means form, which was often hidden with half truths about the state of their exchequer, the trick was to ask the defendant for a phone or contact point. Quick as a flash, the brain-ache dork in the dock, tastefully attired in enough bling to grace a pharaoh's tomb and whose life inevitably supported the black economy, would produce the latest expensive mobile to reel off their phone number to the court. Muppet!

So on Friday it was a new experience to be in court as a witness - court three at Swindon Magistrates' Court. This time it was to act as a character witness for a friend.

It was curious how differently you are treated by court officials depending on whether you are there for the prosecution or defence.

When I turned up to the court desk to explain I was a witness in a trial, they assumed I was a witness for the prosecution and deferentially asked how my journey had been, explained that someone would be down in a minute to take me to the witness room, pointed out that the cafe was open should I want a quick cup of tea and that the toilets were in the far corner. When I corrected them that I was a witness for the defence, the tone changed sharply. "Oh, well, you can sit over there, I'm sure someone will be along for you shortly". Thanks!

Actually, the court officials were good. I found myself sitting alone outside court for a large chunk of the day waiting for my turn to be called. Two of the court officials recognised me from my days on the Swindon Advertiser, so we passed the time of day catching up on the latest news about the town, discussing the merits of coach holidays and the history of the House of Parliament, and about people we knew in Swindon.

But it was a long wait, as I quietly read my book on the hard metal seats, frustratingly unable to hear the evidence from inside the court room.

Finally, after lunch, I was called. Last witness of the day before summing up, making the walk to the witness box, past Matt from the Adver who was sitting at the press bench taking shorthand notes, taking the oath and then giving evidence.

I'd seen this done many times before, but it was strange to be there on the spot - speak slowly and clearly, think wisely and address the District Judge at all times. But then you think about how you appear. You feel as if you are standing there awkwardly. Where do you put your hands - behind your back, do you hold both sites of the witness box? You certainly don't lean on sides of the box. Don't sway from side to side either.

My evidence as a character witness was quick - too quick, in fact. Less than five minutes. The defence solicitor wasn't the greatest of leads - he's supposed to serve you up a series of easy half volley questions which you dispatch for six. He didn't push as much as he should have done with his leads, but then I guess he knew what he was doing in the context of the case.

Although I couldn't comment on the case, my character evidence could have been more damning with the right questions, since what I couldn't do was to go on a Stanley Holloway monologue and ramble.

The lady from the Crown Prosecution Service remained seated firmly on her bench right in front of me at the end of my evidence, not even venturing to cross examination - what a shame, now that would have been good and may have offered the openings I wanted. Although in the wider picture, it is doubtful it would have changed the verdict, merely served as mitigation in sentence.

The District Judge looked up from his note-taking, thanked me for my evidence, said it would be given due weight. And that was it. I walked out thinking "was that it?"

My friend was later found guilty, sadly. I can't have made that much of an impact, but within the strict letter of the law, which the District Judge applied, she was guilty. Within the spirit of the law? Well that's a different issue altogether. However, life moves on for her and also for the court.

For the current headteacher at Royal Wootton Bassett Academy, who was sat in the public gallery beside the chairman of governors during the court case, life also moves on. The chairman of governors is also a magistrate, by the way, so he will have understood the evidence very clearly given the context of that evidence.

The next governors' meeting should be a very interesting one after serious questions were raised in court about the headteacher's conduct during the whole incident.

Read the story below, and you'll see how George Croxford hardly comes out of the whole episode smelling of roses. One would expect some sort of action will be taken by the governors, though I'm not holding my breath...and I write that totally "tongue in cheek"!

http://www.swindonadvertiser.co.uk/news/9881311.Former_beauty_queen_spied_on_headteacher_s_email/?ref=mr

Green shoots of recovery in Swindon

IT'S a wet and grey Friday morning in Swindon. As I look out of my hotel room in the town centre, labourers are toiling among clinging mud as JCB diggers carve out huge swathes of land to lay the foundations for the £350million Union Square project.

This is where the old police station was once situated and the project, which began earlier this year, will regenerate this part of town with new offices and a car park. Okay, not the most exciting of projects but it is progress on a piece of land which has lain dormant for many years.

Just up the road at Regents Circus, the eyesore that was the old Swindon College building has, after many years of wrangling, finally been demolished. Driving past the barren site last night, it was amazing how much lighter the area was and how the view had changed. Within two years, this £50million project should see a new six-screen cinema, a Morrison's sore, eight restaurants and another car park!

When I was working in Swindon there was a lot of talk about these regeneration projects. The trouble was, deep in recession, nothing was moving. Fine words, but no deeds.

Now, even though the economy continues to lurch from crisis to crisis here we are seeing real progress. Swindon is a bit of planning hot-potch and would certainly not win any architectural awards, but what is happening in front of me, amidst the cloying mud of Union Sqaure demonstrates progress.

I'm currently reading a book about the poet Sir John Betjeman, who was appointed Poet Laureate in 1972, and who had close links with Wiltshire which figured in many guises in his work as a broadcaster, writer and poet.

Although Betjeman, who was a bit of an architectural snob, wrote of M4 neighbour Slough:

Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!

... yet.he had a soft spot for Swindon, especially the historical parts around Old Town and also the old Railway Village.

In fact, in 1962 Betjeman wrote how he had come to love Swindon because of its people, although he felt very dubious about the look of the new housing estates. He wrote then: "There aren't enough playing fields yet, it seems, for the children. Everything looks impersonal, though it's well meant. Is this Swindon?"

I've got a soft spot for Swindon for so many reasons, but it's people primarily. When you mention Swindon to outsiders, you can see sneer stretch across their faces. They've never visited the place, it's insinuation by reputation. But it is a town where things are happening.

Swindon will never compete with the likes of Oxford or Bath in terms of historical importance, it will struggle with the likes of Bristol and even Reading as a haven for shoppers, but as a commercial proposition for investors, Swindon is in the Premier League.

Here we have a go-ahead town which has traditionally bucked economic downturns. Here is a place which is perhaps beginning to show small green shoots of recovery and so the vision in front of my hotel window this grey Friday morning is a bright one.

If there's a blue moon tonight, then you know Ron Travolta is at it again!

WHEN the Prime Minister talks about the value of Big Society, then Ron Travolta had the currency to fit perfectly into that ideal - selfless, thoughtful, committed and an all-round decent guy.

Ron, his real name was Ron Inglis, died suddenly early this morning from a heart attack, just a day before his 56th birthday.

In truth, before today, I didn't have the foggiest how old Ron was - this follically-challenged friend possessed just a whiff of close cropped grey hair around the temples, sported one of those weathered faces, owned a bright toothy smile and packed a familiar throaty laugh which broke into a coughing fit if ever he overdid the chuckles.

Ron certainly wasn't looking forward to drawing his pension. This guy had a passion for life and also a passion for people. You were drawn to him by his charm and magnetic personality.

He was one of the driving forces behind the community radio station Swindon 105.5, which began broadcasting in March 2008 after being awarded a licence by Ofcom a year earlier.

Home initially was a broom cupboard - well, it was a bit bigger than that - at the back of Swindon Town Football Club's County Ground.

In those early years, I made several appearances on the daily breakfast show with Ron and station manager, Shirley Ludford, as Ron's wicked sense of humour really pushed the boundaries of broadcasting and good taste. Occasionally, it was just the two of us and then we were really stretching the decency zone with some decidedly dodgy music choices and tongue-in-cheek male chauvinist views.

When the radio station moved to new premises at the Bentley Centre, I hosted a series of Thursday evening programmes for a three-month spell, with Ron teaching me audio editing, interviewing techniques with a microphone and the essentials of producing a radio show. He had endless energy, huge amounts of patience, as well as a delicate knack of bringing the best out of you on air. Ron was slicker than Bambi on ice skates and a masterful multi-tasker.

Swindon 105.5 became Ron's life and raison d'etre as an unpaid volunteer, among the scores of other volunteers from all walks of life who keep this wonderful radio station going 24 hours-a-day, seven days-a-week.

His night job was working as a professional DJ, primarily at clubs in Bristol and Cardiff, but also, it seemed, that every other waking hour was spent at the studios - using his technical expertise to coax equipment into life, problem solving for others, presenting on air, tech-opping, and generally ensuring the smooth running of a station which lies at the heart of the community in Swindon, offering radio as a valuable media to young and old across a diverse range of communities.

When the radio station's computer system was hacked into a couple of years ago, and thousands of hours of stored music was lost, Ron worked tirelessly over the course of one weekend to ensure Swindon 105.5 remained on air. This criminal act could have spelled the end for the radio station, but toiling through the early hours of the morning, Ron doggedly completed the job with the help of other volunteers to get this jewel in Swindon's crown back to what it does best - giving all of Swindon a true and decidedly different voice.

Ron could be blunt and abrasive too at times. He had a neat line in sarcasm too. I remember once when he gave Swindon's then chief superintendent of police, Paul Howlett, a right old grilling on air about policing outside clubs and pubs in the town centre. It was bruising.

But it was that wicked sense of humour, that never-ending desire to have fun which shone through, often at other people's expense - particularly if it involved football and his beloved Manchester City.

The anthem "Blue Moon" would frequently get an airing on Ron's "Breakfast Show" to herald another win for City, and even as recently as Sunday, he was revelling in their Charity Shield victory over Chelsea with pithy Facebook entries such as.....

• Pre-season training giving rides on Blackpool beach pays off for Torres

• Chelsea are baiting City fans.... To be fair, I've heard it said that Chelsea are Master Baiters!

Ron was a top guy who was DJ at Alison and my wedding just three months ago at the Blunsdon House Hotel, and he was brilliant. Shirley was there too to share in our big day - little did we know that Ron and Shirley were due to be married in November. Life can simply be so cruel at times.

I contrast that with a phone call I took yesterday from a dear friend whose wife was diagnosed with stomach cancer earlier this year. She had been given anywhere from between two months to two years to live. After months of traipsing up and down to hospital in Oxford, they have been told by doctors that the tumour has cleared and that the treatment has worked. They're not out of the woods yet, but this is a wonderful step forward. Life can also be sobering at times.

Four years ago, together with Shirley, Tony Martin from the Zurich Community Trust and the then Mayor, Steve Wakefield, we created the Pride of Swindon awards which each year honours the great and the good of the town who have unselfishly done so much in the service of their community.

Every year, a gold mine of unsung heroes is unearthed, each receiving a special badge, and the lucky few have their names emblazoned on a plaque which hangs in Swindon's Central Library.

Ron Travolta - great name, but dodgy football team - fits the bill perfectly as a man who was intrinsically the Pride of Swindon. Behind the laugh, behind the wit, here was a man who was respected and who cared.

If you see a blue moon tonight, then you know Ron is at it again! A top guy who will be truly missed.

How can you not feel inspired after the British Olympic gold rush?

I'M sitting by the computer, towel draped round my shoulders, sweating like a weightwatcher in a cream cake shop at the end of a brisk six-mile early morning run along the seafront. Straight eight minute miles all the way in lovely cool conditions and a far cry from the junk I was running on Thursday evening.

The Olympic Games is inspiring and after one of the greatest weekends ever of British sport it puts into perspective the quality of those achievements against our own mere mortal abilities.

Everyone may feel Bradley Wiggins is a shoe-in for BBC Sports Personality of the Year, but what about Mo Farah, Jess Ennis, Greg Rutherford, Victoria Pendleton, any of the rowers, and dare I suggest it, Andy Murray?

I don't get the super sulk that is Andy Murray so it's hard to warm to the sour Scot. But his demolition of Roger Federer on Sunday was phenomenal coming just a month after the most soul-destroying of Wimbledon final defeats.

It was interesting to hear Andy speak after the Olympic tennis final how he had been inspired by the gold medal-winning feats of other British athletes, notably Mo Farah. "I do 400m repetitions in my training and when I'm completely fresh I can run it in 57 seconds. Mo's last lap after 9,600m was 53 seconds. It's just unbelieveable fitness."

I was thinking about those comments on my run this morning. My eight minute miling along a deserted sea front at 6am, respectable as it was for a well past his best fortysomething, sits light years away from the fitness of these Olympians.

I was watching the women's 10,000m final the other night when the runners were clocking close to three minutes every kilometre around the track. My best 10km time is 40 minutes, I've never ducked under the runners' holy grail of sub-40 which in a club race puts you easily into the top 100 - that puts into perspective just how fast these guys are. Untouchable!

And in 400m repetitions on the track, I'm doing well if I can get below 70 seconds! The Olympians' running is on another planet.

There was so much good to come out of the weekend's carnival of joy. The one moment which got me was when Katherine Copeland and partner Sophie Hosking won the women's lightweight double sculls. The faces of joy, amazement and sheer pleasure after their years of punishing training and hard work were simply wonderful. I felt genuine tears of joy sharing their joy - and I had never heard of them before Saturday morning.

The flurry of gold medals has injected a much-needed feelgood factor to the country, so let's hope that the Government realises that sport is a force for good and not a political football - not only in terms of producing Olympic medallists but for the health of the nation. The sooner governments of any persuasion start to take school sport seriously with much-needed funding, creating a curriculum which puts physical education among the core subjects, so much the better.

On Facebook last night and in the wake of the British Olympic gold rush, several friends posted the following message carrying an image of Jess Ennis: "Dear British Media, Please can we have more of these types of celebrities and less of the Jordans and BB contestants so our children can grow up with more positive role models."

Fine words indeed, but it's a little naive. Our media culture is driven by demand and though it would be lovely if we kicked the pampered celebs into touch, you can be sure that celebrity mags such as Hello and Ok! will be selling shedloads this week, that Towie and Big Brother will enjoy steady TV ratings and celebrity-dominated newspapers such as the red tops will lead the market.

The media may set agendas but it is the public which drives demand and the rather naive posting, as laudable as it is, was like suggesting that from tomorrow everyone boycotts chocolate because it's damages your teeth. It ain't going to happen.

But what can happen is that we seize this moment, feel inspired and realise how sport can truly be a force for good. It doesn't matter how good or bad you're at sport, just give it a go.

Like me right now, I feel knackered, I'm ready for a bath before work, but that glorious run along the seafront has set me up perfectly for the day.