Get A Grip

I’VE been invited on many days out in my life, but never while hanging by one hand 30 feet above the floor. looked down at my climbing partner, Dom, partly to check I’d heard him right, and partly to check he still had a good grip on the rope.

Then I fell off.

He caught me, as he always does, by checking the rope’s run through his harness and stopping my fall.

There’s nothing like having a friend to hold your lifeline, to provide security while you venture outside your comfort zone and explore those places you wouldn’t have the guts to go otherwise.

Like the top of a 10-metre wall in the local sports centre.

I hadn’t always had that security, friend or lifeline. Before this, I’d been a bit of a wreck, struggling with the aftermath of divorce.

Nerves in pieces, confidence in tatters and, if I’m honest, pretty overwhelmed by raising three kids on my own.

I wasn’t so much living as surviving, hunkered down inside my tiny comfort zone, hiding from any kind of challenge.

The children had triggered the Big Change, three years earlier, by dragging me over to one of those mobile climbing-towers at the summer fête.

“Please, Mummy?” they’d begged.

I couldn’t understand why they wanted to leave terra firma and head skywards with nothing more than a bit of rope between them and, well, terra firma.

Onlookers had congregated around a temporary fence of big orange netting, and an instructor was handing out information. She spotted me dithering.

“Would you like a go? If you reach the top you get to ring the bell!”

“Um . . .” I took a leaflet, scanning the health and safety advice and noting the disclaimer and at-yourown-risk references. “The kids are keen, but I’m not sure. It doesn’t seem safe to me.”

“It’s natural to be cautious.” She smiled. “But we’re all qualified instructors, and our equipment is inspected and tested every day.

“We’re fully compliant with health and safety regulations and the whole rig gets a statutory inspection every six months.”

She gave me an understanding look.

“The last one was a week ago.”

“OK,” I said. “I suppose that’s . . .”

“Come on, Mummy!” The kids herded me into the queue, corralling me until I’d paid the money and they could take their turn.

“Face me, and stand with a foot in each loop,” the instructor said, laying out four harnesses in a row on the grass.

“There are just the three children,” I said.

“You can go up, too. You paid for four.”

“Did I?” I stole forward, not wanting to back out in front of the kids, and not wanting to look foolish in front of the watching crowd, but really just wanting to run away.

I looked foolish enough minutes later as my children swarmed upwards, leaving me struggling on the lower holds.

“See if you can reach that one above your left hand,”

Why had I got myself into this? I was way outside my comfort zone!