Six words from my book were picked up by the British tabloid media and rehashed into a series of grotesque headlines which caused me to retch up my cornflakes until the end of last week.
Six words out of eighty thousand.
They were Mark’s last words to me before He died, and this is where the media found their angle.
Two papers didn’t even mention the book. It was a naughty news story, a fluff (or snuff?) piece to fill column inches, and I was the widow who SENSATIONALLY revealed those final words for public titillation.
Except, of course, I didn’t.
I’m a woman who lost her husband, traumatically, shockingly, and who wrote about it because I simply didn’t know what else to do. And guess what? It’s helped me, and a raft of other bereft spouses who have written to me since reading the book telling me it chimes with them like Big Ben at noon.
Not that any of that matters to those who saw fit to comment, to deride and to judge on the basis of a few headline-grabbing articles. For them, my emotional evisceration isn’t complete.
In the words of Kipling, “If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken, twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools…”
On that basis, I’m working towards becoming a Man, my son. (With a new-found respect for our Chezza.)