Split skin on red knuckles, the sanitiser has left its mark.
A Common-place application, a routine, like brushing ones teeth.
Scars bare the hallmarks of a damaged soul, searching for a safe solitude.
How did I get to this point?
The point of: avoiding others, hiding away, irritable behaviour. An
Introvert? Perhaps.
A word now at least I understand, as I drift into a lonely world or some single-player fantasy.
Mask on, shield down, a warrior heads into battle; to fight an invisible war. Unsure of the outcome, unsure of himself.
Not sure of anything, anymore.

As the door closes on another England Chapter
A sterling effort far from disaster
A first major final in fifty-five years
Jubilant voices replaced by tears
But we've come along way in such a short time
Maguire and Stones a solid back-line
Pickford mature and calm between the sticks
A terrific save in penalty kicks
Shouts of "Shawberto!" From the stands
A chorus of 'Sweet Caroline' "hands touching hands"
Cries of "bring on Grealish!" Phil Foden's bleach blonde hair
Fist pumps from Southgate
The passion was there
Beating the Germans at last
Now that felt sublime
Sterling a constant menace now in his prime
But we came up short and that's what matters
Broken hearts English dreams in tatters
Yet I firmly believe this is just the beginning
So keep your heads up and keep on singing
"It's coming home it's coming home"
Cos it will one day
Even though it rains and the sky is grey
Red and white ribbons on that cup we'll see
And what a perfect sight it will be

Inside cockpit command control, a proud young captain sits fiddling with his tie. Out on the runway, a parade of boisterous holiday makers stream through a wall of steamy-sticky heat.
A scraping of cases amid jubilant faces, as they flock to their seats in frantic fashion. Offering warm greetings, the sun spreads its orange glow; kissing the face of many a passenger.
Raucous voices become feeble mutterings, drowned by roaring engines. Knuckles white as chalk from clenched fists: an anxiety that is to be short-lived.
We ascend to the clouds, above motorways and mountains; entering an endless wash of blue. Smiles chucked around like confetti bringing a sense of: new opportunity, hope and adventure. As we rise above.

With trembling knees, I took my position. The stage was set.
Before me sat a school of eyes: transfixed, gazing with anticipation. Piercing the silence with an unfurling of paper, I stepped forwards, my mouth pressed to the microphone.
A kick of adrenaline, engaging of breath and I began.
“My inspiration.”
Humble Houghton MBE; centre-half, captain, Man City.
A lioness leader, Durham born and raised.
With writing and wit, I’ll heap the praise.

England debut at just 17.
Free-kick expert, living the dream.
Old-school-gritty-no-nonsense defender.
An accurate passer - return to sender.

A right-footed shot to burst the net.
Dedicating her life, she doesn’t forget: school teams, amateur level, Sunderland weekends.

A cup final beckons: the star of the show, the women’s game - she’s watched it grow.
Now girls put on their boots, their shinnies and smile.
Aiming to go that extra mile.

The right to play football, the right to be free,
Raising awareness of MND,  
Best of the best, who can it be?
Stephanie Jayne Houghton MBE.

Stepping away from the microphone the applause raining down, I knew I’d made an impression on people. Just like Steph had on me.

Once it begins there’s no stopping it.
Like a train going full steam ahead,
Or a jet soaring through the air.
Despair, anger and fury; all packed into one box.
A time bomb ready to explode at any given moment.

Should I try to reason with it?
Probably not, so off I trot.
Up to my room, safest place, my saving grace.
A chance to cool off, whilst the storm rages on downstairs; its echoing boom pounding the walls.
The bed shakes and the light goes out.

It’ll be quiet again in the morning.
Back to normal, and the walls will bear no scars.
Evil glares and ruffled brows, replaced with sweet smiles and warming hugs.
And all will be forgotten.