Amid a steady diet of gloomy headlines, International Women’s Day sparks a moment of reflection for our writer…

I like routine. It keeps the day honest and it keeps me moving forward.

Travelling commitments permitting, I’m an early riser. On a good morning – weather behaving itself and motivation intact – I’m on the bike by about 5:30 am. The Dales are quiet, the air is sharp, and the world feels like it hasn’t quite decided to wake up yet.

The first challenge, of course, is confirming that my heart rate is actually working at such a ridiculous hour. Once that small medical reassurance is achieved, I get on with the ride.

Then it’s home. Coffee in hand. Catching up on the news.

Like many people, I scan a number of online channels to see what’s happening in the world. Politics, economics, global affairs, the odd bit of retail news – all the things that shape the environment we operate in and like most people I then spend a moment or two in a desperate attempt to sift fact from fiction.

But the other week something struck me.

Almost everything I had consumed for several days had been relentlessly negative.

Economic worries. Global tensions. Political squabbles. Retail pressures. A certain US President and just to round things off nicely, the painful reminder of it all at the petrol pump.

After a week of this steady diet of gloom, I found myself craving something quite simple – a bit of positivity.

And then, quite unexpectedly, I found it… LinkedIn.

Now I realise that sentence may surprise some people. Social media doesn’t always have the best reputation when it comes to balance and perspective. But on this particular morning my feed was filled with posts marking International Women’s Day. And they were brilliant.

Post after post from some truly inspirational women working across the security sector – a number I know personally. Women leading teams, running businesses, protecting organisations and shaping the future of our profession.

Just as striking were the posts from men in the industry. Men openly and sincerely thanking the women who had influenced their lives – colleagues, partners, mentors, mothers.

There was pride, gratitude and warmth.

And it made me stop for a moment. Because if we’re talking about remarkable women, then I would like to add one more name to the list.
My mother, Patricia.

Pat – as she is known to everyone who meets her – is now in her nineties. An amazing ninety-something.

Her memory is a fascinating thing these days. She possesses a laser-sharp recall of her childhood and teenage years, able to describe events and people from decades ago with remarkable clarity – including the colour of her childhood front door.

Yesterday, however, can be a little more elusive thanks to the perverse cruelty of Alzheimer’s.

Yet none of that changes the fact that Pat remains an absolute phenomenon.

She was the only child of fiercely working-class parents in a Lancashire pit town.

Her mother was a specialist tuberculosis nurse – tough, skilled and committed to her patients at a time when TB was a serious and frightening illness. Her mother herself contracted TB when she decided that a gravely ill child in her care needed a final loving cuddle irrespective of the scant protection offered by 1940s PPE.

Her father was an industrial electrician who, because of his skills, held a reserved occupation during the war. But that didn’t stop him contributing. He served as an auxiliary fireman covering the Liverpool docks during the Blitz.

Hardworking people. Quietly courageous and at a time when the role of the matriarch became ever more the anchor of the family.

Pat grew up in a Britain where employment was almost guaranteed for those willing to work. She often tells stories of leaving one job on a Friday and starting another on the Monday. Usually with a £1 or so increase.

No drama. No lengthy recruitment processes.  Just get on with it courtesy of recruitment performed very often through a friend of a friend.

Her own roles were varied. She worked as a hospital dark room specialist at one stage, handling X-ray development in the days long before digital imaging made such roles obsolete.

Later she became the driving force behind my late father and his various retail businesses. And “driving force” is not an exaggeration.

Where my father could lean towards pessimism, Pat was the pragmatist. Where father saw doom, gloom and financial challenges, Pat saw glimmers of light and opportunities.  Where he could be sombre, Pat was the joker.

Together they were, in every sense, a power couple long before the phrase became fashionable.

Pat had an extraordinary generosity with her time, her guidance and her love.

And then, just when you might think raising three children would be enough to keep anyone busy, she decided to do something else.

Emergency adoption.

On numerous occasions I would come downstairs for breakfast only to find a newborn baby sitting – or more accurately lying – at the head of the table.

It was simply what she did.

Children who needed a safe place arrived at our house, often with little warning, and Pat somehow absorbed them into the family as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Looking back, I still don’t quite know how she managed it all.

Pat was one of those rare people who seemed able to stretch the available hours in any given day. Everyone else’s needs were taken care of first. Only then would she think about her own.

Today Pat lives in a nursing home.

There are good days and bad days. But there is one constant. Her humour. It’s still there – sharp and mischievous. And so is the unconditional love that radiates the moment you walk into her spotless room.

When I look back over my own life, I know exactly where certain things came from.

My work ethic.

My belief in treating people properly and, I hope, at least some degree of kindness.

And yes – definitely my sense of humour. That one is unquestionably Pat’s fault.

So on a week when the news felt relentlessly heavy, I found a reminder of something much more important.

Remarkable women are everywhere. Sometimes they’re running global organisations. Sometimes they’re leading teams and shaping industries.

And sometimes they’re simply called Patricia and live out their final years in a nursing home.

My mum.