Although all my clothes still fit me I know I’ve managed to gain a tiny bit of weight while on holidays in Italy (and who wouldn’t, with all that gorgeous pastry and pasta?), so I’ve been pondering whether I should go on a diet. Jokingly, I emailed one of my best friends Kate (who is seemingly effortlessly thin) and asked her for her weight loss advice. Her response? To get a tapeworm. Kate went on holidays to Cambodia, Thailand and Laos over Christmas and came back thin but contiuously hungry. The possibility that she might have caught a tapeworm infection whilst in South East Asia quickly became a bit of a running joke which even her mother was in on. Fortunately, I don’t think Kate really has such an infection, although I’m not sure she’d get rid of it if she did.

Anyway, Kate’s advice to find myself my own resident tapeworm jogged my memory. I was sure I’d heard somewhere that people had once taken tablets that contained tapeworm larvae which would result in an infection and sudden weightloss. Once upon a time it had been thought of as a legitimate weight loss technique, and there are apparently rumours that models like Claudia Schiffer may have relied upon the nasty little fiends to keep the weight off. I decided Google would give me the definitive answer, and I (sadly) stumbled across this page, on which a fellow googler has commented, “I want to know where to get the tapeworm. you may think I’m crazy, but I really want to try it. if any one knows please let me know.” Perhaps if she is so keen to experiment with worm infections, I should contact her with a link to the Guinea Worm page on wikipedia. Seeing as she has no problem with having her body overrun with worms, she won’t mind the small discomfort the Guinea Worms cause the next time she’s having a bath and they decide to break free from their bodily shackles and escape into the water she’s sitting in. But I digress. When faced with the choice between eating raw meat in the hope of getting a tapeworm infection, or cutting back on my favourite roast chicken crisps from Walkers, I think I know what option I’ll be choosing.

I have a keen dislike for Bank Holiday weekends. For starters, I have to say that I think the Australian term for having an official nation-wide ‘day off’ from work is far more accurate than the British term. We Aussies refer to these blessed days as ‘Public Holidays’, because that’s exactly what they are - a holiday for the public. The Brits, however, refer to such days as ‘Bank Holidays’, a term which harks back to week days when the banks stayed closed. Let’s face it, it’s not just a ‘Bank Holiday’ anymore is it? And why, when I refer to these holidays as ‘Public Holidays’, must I be subjected to strange looks? It’s pretty obvious what I’m referring to. Plenty of Australians would understand what a ‘Bank Holiday’ is, so why must the cultural acceptance only go one way?

My second reason for disliking Bank Holiday weekends is that they seem to bring out the worst in everyone. Take, for example, our local pub quiz. A typical Sunday night in North Wales is spent at our favourite dive of a pub where we participate in the world’s easiest (and best) pub quiz. The girls in our team are expected to charm Quiz Master Dave into giving away answers, and it’s not at all surprising if a piece of pub furniture gets broken by some drunken lout falling on top of it. Unfortunately, Bank Holiday weekends ruin this tradition for us - every man and his dog turns up at the pub to ‘have a go’ at the quiz whilst getting rip-roaring drunk, and quiz team names such as ‘We’re Shit and We Know We Are’ are some of the more sanitary of the selection. There’s basically no point in going to the quiz on a Sunday night that falls before a Bank Holiday, and thus we lose the opportunity to win two bottles of cheap wine.

Another example of Bank Holidays turning people into evil shadows of their normal selves can be seen in the typical family weekend. Usually, spending two days together on a normal weekend is just enough time to make you wish that Monday would come around just that little bit quicker, sending you back to work and away from the interrogations about what you’re doing with your life and how much your job is paying you. Unfortunately, Bank Holiday weekends are that extra bit longer, so that by the time you get to Monday night you’re near suicidal and doubting everything you’ve ever hoped and dreamed about. Guns don’t kill people, Bank Holidays do.

And so, in closing, I would like to suggest that all Bank Holidays from now on be scheduled in the middle of the working week, be renamed ‘Public Holidays’, and be spent far far away from anyone who may cause your blood pressure to rise. If this cannot be accomplished, I think the least the government could do would be to designate a few dozen bottles of top quality red wine to each household within the UK for consumption every Bank Holiday weekend. That’d be sure to win Labour the next election!

I’m reading the biography of Beatrix Potter at the moment, and her life story has really inspired me. I was familiar with her background already - I knew she’d remained unmarried until quite late in her life, and I knew she’d pushed to have her books published even when it may have been considered socially indecent to do so. I grew up with Peter Rabbit, Jemima Puddleduck and co, and I think a large part of my love for the British countryside stems from the images she portrayed in her work. Reading in greater depth about the struggles and tragedies she faced, and the humor and perserverance with which she responded, I can’t help but think that she is one of my own personal heroes. If I had half her writing talent and half her sense of self-belief, who knows where I’d find myself.

Anyway, good old Beatrix got me thinking. Who else would I consider to be my ‘heroes’? Who else do I admire or respect to the point of calling them a ‘role model’? So many of our historical figures and popular icons have only achieved the level of fame they currently experience because of their flaws, or because of controversy. Of these potential candidates for ‘hero’ status, many have been remembered in death for different reasons to the fame they experienced in life. Take Marilyn Monroe, Princess Diana, Elvis Presley, J.F.K, and so forth - while alive, they were people that inspired feelings of hope, awe, admiration, respect, even obsession. In death, they are remembered for other reasons - Marilyn Monroe has become a victim of conspiracy theories, as has Princess Diana. Elvis is the butt of many ‘weighty’ jokes, whereas JFK’s life is remembered as being tragically cut short by a ‘curse’. While these historical icons are certainly worth remembering and respecting, I’m not sure they would be worthy of being elevated to ‘hero’ status… at least not in my book.

Instead, I choose my heroes by the outstanding weight of their achievements in spite of the odds. Perhaps this is why Beatrix Potter has always been such an icon to me - she was an incredibly successful author and artist at a time when women struggled to be recognized in the public arena; she became a respected environmentalist, conservationist and campaigner for rural space; and she still remains a key literary figure in both the English and non-English speaking worlds - even though she was ‘only’ a children’s author. Her correspondence reveals her to be a woman with a cracking sense of humour, and even in her years of success she continued to write letters to her young fans. I hope I can live my life with the same sense of purpose that Beatrix did.

Another historical figure who has been elevated to ‘hero’ status in my mind is Elizabeth I. Good old Bess has had a surge in popularity in recent years, with Cate Blanchett and Judy Dench amongst the many Hollywood actresses portraying the English Queen’s life story. I’ve had a soft spot for Elizabeth for many years, and she was one of the main figures I focussed on in my undergrad degree and honours thesis. Born the second (legitimate) daughter of Henry VIII to his second wife Anne Boleyn, Elizabeth struggled for many years to retain her position in the succession to the throne. She was born into a period of religious uncertainty: her father had instigated the English Reformation in part so that he could marry her mother; whilst Elizabeth’s older sister Mary, upon taking her place on the English throne following their father and brother’s deaths, reinstated the Catholic Church and sent many Protestants to the stake. By the time Elizabeth got to the throne herself, there was great pressure for her to marry, and even further concern over her religious allegiances. Instead, Elizabeth wove a web of political intrigue and managed to remain single and quietly Protestant despite threats from Spain and the Pope himself. By the end of her life Elizabeth had instigated a ‘golden era’ for England, encouraging trade, exploration, and a vivid art and literary scene that saw Shakespeare come to the fore. Although Elizabeth has the tendency to confuse even the most qualified of historians - she was legendary for changing her mind, being ‘wishy washy’ and even being prone to bouts of jealousy - I feel quite comfortable with her presence in my hero triology. I’m quite fond of her, regardless of the claims of heresy, blood-thirstiness and promiscuity. If she was around now, I’m sure she’d give Margaret Thatcher and Hilary Clinton a run for their money.

My last, and perhaps most unusual hero, is Lee Miller, the noted war photographer. Born in the early twentieth century when women’s rights were still a major issue, Lee must have been a real kick in the teeth for all those head-strong men heading off to fight in Europe during World War II. Despite requests from her family and friends to return to New York from her home in London, Lee instead decided to stick around and take photos of the tragedy that was slowly unfolding in front of her. Noted as being incredibly beautiful (she was a model before she became a photographer) Lee jumped at the opportunity to ‘rough it’ with the soldiers and refugees of war. She unflinchingly photographed the Blitz, scenes in France following D-Day, the freeing of Paris from the occupying forces, and perhaps most significantly the terrifying images of the concentration camps of Dachau and Buchenwald. Her photographs were published all over the world. Following the war she returned to her position as a fashion photographer and journalist, but suffered from post-traumatic stress syndrome (as one can imagine), and lived the majority of her life in relative solitude. Her work is only now coming to be recognized as significant, despite the fact that many other photojournalists of her era have been considered ‘heroes’ for decades. Lee’s bravery and sense of justice must have been her driving force.

A children’s author, a Queen of England, and a photojournalist - not a bad crime-fighting team, and an even better triology of role-models to have as a guiding light throughout life’s many trials.