I am eight years old and walking in the Welsh rain. The pace is fast and I imagine I’m a soldier who mustn’t stop marching. Even as a child, I already know that that’s just what you do: you don’t give up.
Swallowing my dislodged tooth during a camping weekend with my dad and his work friends, so they wouldn’t think I was weak. Living in a tent for a period during university. I could make a long list of all the times in my life when I didn’t quit; when I shut up, sucked it up, manned up and carried on.
