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Attacked by my ex boyfriend | Sell your story

October 27, 2017 by Jamie Mountain

Attacked by my ex! Have you been the victim of violence from a partner or lover? Share your story and warn others.

Simply fill out the form on this page, telling us a little about your story. One of our team will get straight back to you with a valuation of how much we can pay you to share your story. There is no obligation. We won’t use anything without your permission.

Recent client story | Attacked by my ex boyfriend. This the moment a mother was battered to the floor by her yob ex-boyfriend. Then he dragged her lifeless body along a road.

James Davies, 28, was jailed for 18 months for the sickening public attack on then-partner Charlie Davies, 24. Police released a short CCTV clip of the ordeal.

But brave Charlie has now released the full three-minute video of the sustained beating. The video was given to her by police.

It shows callous Davies carrying her lifeless body onto the street – having repeatadly punched her in the face after accusing her of “mugging me off” off camera.

The yob then throws her to the ground, punches her repeatedly around the face, before dragging her into the road and sauntering off.

Drags her around

But after less than a minute he skips back and drags her around 100 yards to their home – passing an astonished elderly couple who look on in horror.

Charlie has revealed her identity for the first time and alleged he downed 15 pints before beating her after falsely accusing her of cheating on him.

She said: “When I saw the footage I just felt sick.

“It looked like he was dragging a dead body. It was like he was dragging a piece of carpet.

“I don’t know how he could do that to anyone – let alone me.

“Physically I’m ok but mentally I’m still suffering. I think it will be hard to trust anyone again.”

The pair had been going out for a year and were out to celebrate their first anniversary for a curry when they parked up near home in October last year.

15 pints of larger

Charlie claims Davies had drunk around 15 pints of lager and some mixer drinks when they started arguing about his suspicions she was going to dump him.

She claims she got out to leave and go to her mum’s home when he punched her “full pelt in the face about ten times”.

She added: “He kicked me to my body and head and I was on the floor crying my eyes out.

“He dragged my by my hair and started carrying me – that’s when the video starts on the CCTV.

“He chucked me on the floor and kept attacking me and kept saying ‘you mugged me off so I’m going to mug you off’.

“I was in and out of consciousness. I could hear him shouting at people who saw us.

“He started dragging me back to the flat. It was like I was a dead body. That’s all I can remember really.”

Shocked onlookers

Charlie believe she must have managed to escape because when police arrived – having been called by shocked onlookers – she was laying outside crying.

She was taken to hospital but miraculously didn’t suffer any broken bones and was left with two black eyes and extensive bruising and graze marks to her body.

The CCTV of the attack was shown to Charlie – but only a short clip was released because Davies pleaded guilty to causing actual bodily harm.

She has released the full clip in a bid to move on with her life and added: “He wrote his mum a letter which she showed to me saying he hoped we could still be together when he gets out.

“I laughed when I read that. There’s no way that’s going to happen.”

Catherine Donnelly, defending Davies at Maidstone Crown Court at his sentencing in December, said he had a problem with drink.

Disgraceful piece of violence

Judge Charles Macdonald QC said the context of the offence was a stormy relationship where some force was used in the past “in both directions”.

He added: “It was a single, though disgraceful piece of violence. You had an argument with your former partner in the car. Both of you had been drinking.

“It turned to violence when something she said provoked you. You grabbed her hair. When out of the car you punched her to the face and head a number of times.

“She was vulnerable because of intoxication.

“It was a very sustained attack. It is also a case where the intention was to do more harm than actually occurred.

“This was a case of domestic violence. You were drunk. There is genuine remorse and there was some provocation. Clearly, this is a case for immediate custody.”

This was a case of domestic violence

Det Cons Phil Pead of Kent Police praised Charlie and added: “I would like to pay tribute to her for the courage she has displayed throughout. Including her wanting footage of the incident to be made public.

“I hope it sends a clear message to other victims of domestic abuse that there is no excuse for such violence and that you do not need to suffer in silence.

“I would like to thank everyone who assisted with the investigation. Including those who reported the incident to us having been appalled and concerned by what they were witnessing.”

If you have a story similar to ‘Attacked by my ex!’ please get in touch and let us know. We help hundreds of people share their domestic violence stories every year. You can help others in a similar situation, and raise money for yourself or a charity.

Fill out the Story Valuation Form on this page and one of our friendly, trained writers will get back to you if your story is suitable.

To find out more about the story selling process, see our Sell My Story page. You can see other brave clients who’ve shared their domestic abuse and violence stories here: Domestic Violence Stories

My dad abused me: The bravest woman confronts her father. What he said next was unbelievable.

December 22, 2015 by Sell My Story

My dad abused me. He locked me in the car boot, drugged me, and repeatedly raped me.

SellUsYourStory.com is part of the largest independent press agency in the UK, providing a free service to help people share their stories, get the maximum payouts, and stay in control of their stories. We’ve helped hundreds of people tell their story to magazines and newspapers, but rarely have we come across a woman as brave as Bobbi. Bobbi, 34, has told how she was raped by her own father during a decade of depraved sexual abuse in which he kept her prisoner – locked in the boot of his car. Read Bobbi’s story below – ‘My dad abused me and the police did nothing, so I snared him myself’.

We helped Bobbi get a magazine deal and she waived her right to anonymity to expose her dad, Colin Goss, now 77, after he began abusing her when she was just four or five years old. As his daughter got older, sick Goss went on to abduct her, force her to live in the cramped boot of his Peugeot and rape her.

After confiding in a family friend and teachers, the defenceless schoolgirl was taken into care – but predator Goss tracked her down and abducted her from her care home aged 11. He smuggled her 270 miles away to a remote cottage and forced her to live in the boot of his car while he was at work, letting her out at night so he could rape her.

The evil molester drugged her and repeatedly abused her. He also allowed another man, Dean Angear, 41, to rape Bobbi multiple times, when she was 14 or 15 years old and horrifyingly watched on.

Thankfully after almost a year she was rescued by a police following a TV appeal by Phillip Schofield which was seen by a neighbour.

Bobbi’s nightmare only came to an end in October last year, when she plucked up the courage to snare her evil dad. She bought a dictaphone and met Goss in person for the first time in six years, before secretly recording him in a 45-minute confession and handing it straight to police.

Shockingly the mum-of-one had reported Goss four times previously – begging officers to arrest him. Goss was even questioned in relation to Bobbi’s allegations, but despite her pleas he evaded justice. Police and the crown prosecution service viewed that there was not enough evidence to prosecute him.

Bobbi gave three recorded interviews over a decade but her case wasn’t taken to court until last year. But there was no escaping the hand of the law this time. Goss pleaded guilty to eight charges and was jailed for 16 years before the judge decided to increase his term to 18 years.

While Angear denied to specimen charges of rape. He was found guilty by a jury after a three-day trial and caged for 11 years.

‘Your daddy’s here!’ my mum called, as his car pulled up outside. With my little suitcase packed and waiting by the door, I was ready for my first holiday to Devon.

‘Hello Bobbi,’ my dad, Colin Goss, said, crouching down to my height. He was so close to my face I could feel his hot breath. ‘Are you excited for our break?’

Shy, I scurried away and hid behind my mum’s legs, clinging to her tightly, before I poked my head out and nodded gingerly. I was four years old and dad had planned to take me to a farm with relatives for two weeks.

My parents had split up when I was just two and I hadn’t seen him since. But I gave mum a kiss goodbye and took his hand, strolling off without so much as glancing back, as he led me to his car.

Sat in the back seat, I smiled and waved at mum through the window as we drove off. Dad seemed warm and friendly. But my delight at getting to know him quickly turned to dread.

A few days into our trip dad turned to me and said: ‘You need to rub this special cream on me. If you don’t, I will get really poorly and have to go into hospital,’ he explained. ‘You wouldn’t want that now would you sweetheart?’

I shook my head. I didn’t want dad to be ill so I put the lotion on his privates – like he had asked. I wasn’t sure if all daughters helped their daddies in this way. I was so young I didn’t understand what was happening when he got an erection.

‘Did you have a nice time?’ mum asked when I got home. My eyes filled with tears. ‘What’s wrong?’ she soothed. I told her and a family friend what dad had made me do.

Horrified, they called the police, but dad answered ‘no comment’ to all of the questions officers asked. Mum was told there wasn’t enough evidence to proceed. Still I was kept away from him. I never expected to see dad again. But before long, mum struggled to cope on her own, and I was taken into care.

I’d never felt so alone. A few years later, when I was seven, dad got in touch with the care home I was living in. He was the only relative to ever visit or show any interest in me. He quickly changed me from a shy and innocent little girl to a spoilt brat by lavishing me with gifts. He bought me jars of sweets and rollerskates every time he showed up. Then one day, he told me he had come to pick me up.

‘You’re coming to live with me now,’ dad said. Although last time it had ended badly, it was so long ago, I thought it must have been a one-off, a silly mistake, dad wouldn’t repeat. I pushed any niggles to the back of my mind. Thrilled to finally be part of a family I longed for.

Dad had sons, which meant I had brothers. But they wanted very little to do with me. But on my first night at dad’s house, he told me I needed to sleep with him in his bed. As I climbed between the sheets, completely naked, I thought: ‘This is strange.’

I knew my pyjamas were packed in my overnight bag, so I wondered why dad didn’t want me to wear them. Dad began touching me and getting me to touch him. As time passed the abuse became more frequent, but I didn’t know any different. To me, it was normal.

When I was at school, I started to realise what dad was doing was wrong. But I’d been dumped with this man and I felt trapped. It took me a year to pluck up the courage to tell anyone what had been happening and when I was eight, I confided in a teacher at school. When blurted it out, they immediately called the police and officers turned up at my classroom to collect me. They took me to live with my mum again, but after just four days I was back in a care home in Corby, Northamptonshire. But I was still within dad’s reach.

There was supposed to be a protection order in place – meaning all his visits would be supervised. It wasn’t long before he turned up again and wormed his way in – bringing fruit baskets and chocolates for the staff to get close to me. He had wads of cash too and he even took them out and treated them to meals.

Dad drove other family members away from me, so I soon came to depend on him. Then one day, when I was 11, I was walking to school when dad suddenly showed up and demanded that I go with him. He picked me up off the street and smuggled me 270 miles away to a remote holiday cottage in Saltash, Cornwall. He forced me to stay indoors with the curtains pulled.

There the abuse escalated and dad started raping me regularly. My stomach churned with sickness and worry, every time he came near. Dad worked in a garage near the property he rented.

In the days, he forced me into the boot of his Peugeot 405. ‘Stay there,’ he said, slamming the boot firmly shut. It was dark and the air was musty. I felt sick as I bumped around as he drove along country lanes. When the vehicle came to a stop, I expected dad to open the boot and let me out, but instead he slammed his car door and I heard his footsteps trail off as he walked away.

I wanted to scream. I thought he might have just popped into a shop and he wouldn’t be long or maybe he’d forgotten I was in there. Curled up in a ball, I shivered in the cold, waiting in silence for him to return. When dad did return – hours later – and opened the boot, I squinted as my eyes adjusted to the brightness of daylight.

As I quickly looked around, I realised we must be at his workplace, near the forecourt. ‘Quickly, get out and go to the loo if you need to,’ dad instructed me, before making me climb back in. I did what I was told. Dad would often get drunk and become violent. I’d get vicious beatings if I stepped a foot out of line.

Dad then handed me something to eat and a carton of juice. He also pressed a pill into my hand. ‘Swallow that,’ he demanded. I had no idea what it was at the time. It must have been ecstasy. ‘Now be quiet,’ he told me. ‘I’ll be back later.’

All I had was a quilt to keep me warm. From then on he gave me one or two tablets a day. I was off my face most of the time and if I wasn’t I was shaking from a come-down.

After his shift, dad drove back to the cottage – I was still in the boot. At night he let me out, but I don’t know what was worse – being kept as a prisoner in the boot of his car or as his sex slave back at the cottage. Dad treated me as if I was his wife, not his daughter.

I didn’t go to school. I was at home instead. I cooked and cleaned and even trimmed his ear hair. He’d come home and we’d eat, watch TV and then go to bed.

Dad told me he’d change though. ‘We’ll be a proper family,’ he said. The promise was dangled in front of me like a carrot and I fell for it, hook, line and sinker. On one shopping trip, dad even bought me a black lacy lingerie set with suspenders.

As soon as we walked through the front door, dad turned to me and said: ‘You’ve had a good day, haven’t you? Are you going to show me what I’ve bought you?’ he smiled. I couldn’t put the suspenders on, but he corrected them for me. And I walked around for him feeling uncomfortable. He stared at me and I felt his eyes piercing my body. ‘You’re so tall and womanly for your age Bobbi,’ he complimented.

But things only went from bad to worse, when dad invited his friend – Dean Angear – over. I was given drugs and dad allowed Dean to have sex with me, while he watched and pleasured himself. I felt sick, but I had no choice. It happened more than once.

I panicked I would fall pregnant and end up having dad’s baby. I’d started my periods at an early age and by 11 I was well developed. Dad never thought to wear a condom, but he got anusol – which is meant to go in your bottom – and made me use it as contraception. It was only when I got older, that it dawned on me that that wasn’t what it was supposed to be used for.

I had no idea, but dad had abducted me from the care home when he came to pick me up and told me I was going to be living with him. A missing persons appeal had been launched which appeared on 1990s ITV show called Schofield’s Quest.

Presenter Phillip Schofield investigated mysteries on the programme and in my case it was a missing person. A year after first being snatched, I was recognised by a neighbour who called the police. Officers swooped on the premises and dad was arrested once more. I was flown back up North by plane, in case dad tried to intercept the police on the motorway.

The CPS decided not to prosecute dad on sex abuse charges. But he did plead guilty to two counts of child abduction at Corby Magistrates’ Court and received a 24-month conditional discharge.

Desperate, I even tried to report him to police when I was aged 14, but once again it dismissed due to an apparent lack of evidence. It seemed no matter what dad did, he could get away with it.

I hit the drink and drugs hard and when I was 15 I slept around. Never disclosing what dad had been doing to me throughout my childhood. But despite being removed from my dad’s clutches, as I reached adulthood he was still able to creep back into my life. Although the physical abuse came to an end, the mental torture continued.

In time, I met a lovely man and we became a couple. We got married and went on to have a daughter, now seven. I eventually told my husband what my dad had done to me. Furious, he called dad and threatened to kill him if he came anywhere near me. He thought he had kept dad at bay, but it couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Dad was constantly ringing me and turning up at my house. I even had two mobile phones – one I hid from my husband – as dad would call it non-stop. My partner would be livid if he had known. Dad called every day. If I didn’t answer, he would keep ringing until I did. He once called 80 times in a week. It was relentless.

He still had a hold over me. I couldn’t talk to anyone about what he’d done. I tried to shut him out, but he caused so much trouble and he always crept back in. If I didn’t answer he would show up uninvitied at my workplace or house. It was easier to stay in touch with him and try to stay one step ahead of him.

But when my eight-year marriage broke down, in October last year, I decided it couldn’t continue and planned to catch dad out myself. It was clear no one else was going to help. I hadn’t seen my dad in person for six years when I called him.

Shaking as I dialled his number, I confronted him and said I was going for a jog and asked if it was OK if I popped in to his home in Plymouth, Devon, to see him. ‘Of course,’ he replied.

Armed with a recording device, I walked into his house. I’d set up the dictaphone before I went inside and hid it on me. I sat with him and we were talking for around 45 minutes. I tearily poured my heart out and all he could say was that he was sorry.

Incredibly, throughout the conversation he said how he wanted to live the rest of his life in peace. He asked if I could get help without going to the police. But I knew I could never move on from it, until dad was in prison and out of my life for good. I’d snared dad in a confession and handed the tape straight to the police.

I built the whole case against dad myself, but I knew there was no other way. I was determined for it to see it through this time.

Dad was finally arrested and the prosecution which should have happened 30 years earlier took place.

Colin Goss, now 77, pleaded guilty to eight charges and was jailed for 16 years at Plymouth Crown Court, before the term was increased to 18 years. He admitted one count of indecency with a child, two charges of indecent assault and three counts of rape between 1985 and 1995, as well as two counts of child abduction.

He was originally jailed for 16 years at Plymouth Crown Court, in July this year. However the term was later extended to 18 years imprisonment after the judge decided Goss had not pleaded guilty at the earliest opportunity.

His sick pal Dean Angear, 41, denied two specimen charges of rape, he was found guilty by a jury after a three-day trial and caged for 11 years.

There’s not a day that goes by where I don’t think about what he put me through. It haunts me. Part of me can’t help but feel a little bit guilty about sending my dad to prison. I do care about him, no matter how rotten he is and has been. I’m the one with the life sentence. My dad has had his life, I have lost the bigger part of mine and I will never be free.

Do you have a story to sell?

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Whether you want to raise awareness, help those in a similar situation, or just make some money, read more about selling your on our Sell My Story page.

Recent clients

Here’s a selection of recent clients who’ve bravely shared their domestic abuse and domestic violence stories to help those going through something similar. To see other stories, click here.

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One of the Worst Cases of Domestic Violence the Police have Ever Seen

March 11, 2015 by Harriet Rose-Gale

Have you been the victim of domestic violence? We help hundreds of brave victims share their stories with the press to help warn others in similar situations. It’s important to highlight the issue through the media and raise awareness. We helped Suzanne Thomas, 32, tell her story. Police said it was ‘one of the worst cases of domestic violence they have ever seen’.

Slipping on a pair of stilettos I glanced at my reflection in the mirror one last time before leaving my home in Nottingham for a night out with the girls. “Let’s get going ladies,” I called out to my friends before we tottered down the road and into the waiting taxi. As usual I was wearing one of my signature mini dresses to show off my tanned legs. Feeling confident in my freshly bronzed skin, I couldn’t help but smile when my friend told me that Jason McLean was out tonight.

I’d met Jason through mutual friends a few weeks earlier and I couldn’t wait to see him again. Luckily he seemed just as keen as me. After spending all night by each others side we spent the next few weeks exchanging text messages. I suggested we kept things casual at first but I soon became smitten with how sweet and charming he was. “He’s so protective of me,” I gushed to my friends, “I feel like I could trust him with anything.” In March 2013 I was delighted when we finally made our relationship official. Five months later I asked him to move in with me.

It seemed like the next natural step for us but the reality of living under one roof together didn’t turn out to be as perfect as I’d hoped. Jason and I were bickering more than we talked. He would pick fights over the smallest things and on one occasion he really lost his temper and gave me a shove that smashed my head into a wall. “Sorry Suzanne,” he muttered later but I didn’t feel like he truly meant it. I found myself tip-toeing around him more and more, frightened of doing anything to annoy him because I didn’t know how he might react.

Things were getting out of control and I didn’t feel like my usual bubbly self any more. Reminding myself that he was the one living in my house, I plucked up the courage to confront him about his mood swings. “Things just aren’t working out Jason,” I told him firmly. “I want you to pack up your things and move out of my house.” I was disappointed to be calling time on our relationship so soon but deep down I knew I was making the right decision. Jason packed a bag and left the same day saying he’d collect the rest of his things later.

My friends did their best to cheer me up and suggested I meet them at a pub in town rather than sitting alone at home. While we were out I had a few missed calls from Jason but I just wanted to forget about him and switched my phone off. At half four in the morning my friends and I decided to call it a night and one of my friends offered to walk me home. As soon as we approached the front door I noticed something wasn’t quite right. “That’s strange, my living room window is wide open.” “Did you not leave it that way?” said my friend. “No” I replied shaking my head in confusion.

Then through the glass I spotted a figure lurking inside. It was Jason. In his hand I could make out a large knife with a black handle that I immediately recognised as one from my kitchen. He pushed the window open further and leapt through it. As he approached me all I could see was the rage burning in his eyes. “Just calm down, Jason,” I said as softly as I could as he ranted and called me a slag. He demanded I open the front door with my key and I was so scared I thought I had no choice but to do what he said.

The next thing I knew he’d pulled me into the house and pushed me to the ground. I lay pressed to the carpet as he stamped repeatedly on my head and face. “Please stop!” I yelled through my sobs but there was nothing I could say to get through to him. Wrapping my arms tight across my head I tried to protect myself as best I could but as the kicks continued I slowly began to lose consciousness. When I woke the first thing I saw was Jason standing over me. He was clutching my kettle in his hands. Then I felt sharp splashes hitting my lap as I lay on the ground. Jason continued to empty the freshly boiled water over my stomach and onto my arms and legs. “Do you want another one?” he screamed at me.

I didn’t have a choice. Before I could plead with him he dissipated back to the kitchen to boil a second pot. I feared for my life but thankfully, Jason was stopped in his tracks by the blare of police sirens getting closer. My friend had managed to flag down a passing car after Jason had dragged me into the house. The officers burst in but not before Jason had managed to escape by scampering out the back door. When they found me I was in complete agony and had to be taken to hospital straight away to have the burns scrubbed and assessed in theatre.

The hospital staff gasped when they saw the extent of my injuries. I suffered third degree burns and they told me that if Jason had succeeded in pouring the second kettle I might not have survived. After I had a CT scan to assess the damage to my head I was put on a special unit to recover as my blistered skin was shedding frantically. When the bandages were taken off to be replaced I could see the drip marks etched on my skin where each bit of scolding water had splashed me. The pain was so bad that it would take weeks before I could even attempt to walk again.

Although I was slowly recovering my nightmare still wasn’t over. The police still hadn’t caught Jason and I was sick with fear that he was on the loose. Then one day as I lay in my hospital bed my worst fear came true – Jason came to pay me a visit. I froze as his eyes scanned over my bandages taking in the extent of the damage he caused. “You haven’t seen anything yet, if you think this is bad see what comes next,” he sneered. I desperately wanted to scream out and run away but I was hooked up to morphine drip and in so much pain. Luckily Jason didn’t stick around. As soon as he was gone I told a nurse what happened and reported it to the police but weeks later there was still no sign of him.

After leaving hospital I moved in with my Mum to help with my recovery. We had a panic button installed in the house because I was so frightened Jason might come and see me again. Finally, in November 2013, a month after the attack, Jason handed himself into the police. He pleaded not guilty to all charges so I had to give evidence against him in court. As he stood in the docks he showed no remorse for his actions. He smirked at my family and laughed when evidence was being given. But thankfully I got the justice I deserved when he was found guilty of Grievious Body Harm with intent and sentenced to 14 years. In their statement the police said it was one of the worst cases of domestic violence they’d ever seen. Knowing he’d be inside for such a long time was a relief but it won’t take away the scars I’ll carry for the rest of my life.

What Jason did to me that night has completely changed my life. Before the attack I loved showing off my figure and tanning my skin but now I’m unable go outside at all without applying a high factor sun cream. I’ve been warned against swimming in chlorine pools but I can’t even face having a bath as my fear of water still haunts me. One of the hardest things to deal with is knowing that Jason was someone I trusted and loved. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to let someone get close to me again.

If you have a domestic abuse story that you would like to share with the media, we are here to help. Not only will we hold your hand every step of the way, we will ensure that you get the best fee for yourself or a charity of your choice. Nothing will ever be printed without your permission and we can make sure that everything is checked by you before it appears in a magazine.

Simply contact our friendly and professional team using the ‘story valuation’ form on the right hand side of this page. Just provide a brief outline of what happened to you. This will go straight to our features team who will call you or email you back.

You can see a small selection of domestic violence stories that we’ve written for women’s magazines here: https://www.sellusyourstory.com/news/category/domestic-violence-abuse/ You can also read more about selling a story to a magazine on our sell my story page.

Terrifying True Story – Trapped in the Lion’s Den

June 30, 2014 by Laura Elvin

Trapped in the Lion’s Den: Family’s terrifying true story. When they found themselves trapped in a burning car inside a lion enclosure at a safari park, they faced the choice of burning to death or chancing it with a pack of 12 hungry lions…

If you have been through a terrifying ordeal and have a story to tell, please get in touch with us today. We’d love to hear your story, and help you get paid the maximum fees on offer. Simply fill out the form on the right hand side of this page, or visit the Contact Us page. Read this family’s unbelievable story here…

I was busy getting the kids’ dinner ready when my eldest, Charlie, 12, came running into the kitchen.

“Mummy, mummy, can we go to Longleat Safari Park, please, please, please?”

Charlie loved anything to do with the natural world, and would watch every documentary on TV. Whether David Attenborough or Bear Grylls, she loved them all.

But her favourite was Steve Backshall’s Deadly 60 programme on CBBC where he travels the globe in search of the ’world’s 60 most deadly animals’; she hadn’t missed an episode.

“Steve Backshall is giving a demonstration at Longleat this Easter,” she said.

“They’ve just announced it on the tele.”

I wiped my hands on the tea towel and gave her a kiss on the forehead.

“Of course we can,” I said.

“We’ll add to your list of birthday presents, shall we?”

Charlie had already asked for a mobile phone for her birthday, but with my salary as a sales assistant at the local village shop, I couldn’t afford a brand new phone.

I managed to get her a second hand iPhone 3 for £50 and had given her the present early.

“You’ll get nothing on the day, though,” I warned.

“Oh thank you, mummy,” she said, her little face lighting up as she switched it on.

Her brother, George, nine, looked on with a hint brotherly jealousy on his face.

The trip to Longleat would please them both equally, so as soon as I’d put the tea in the oven, I went on the Internet to book the tickets.

A few weeks later and the kids were off school for the holidays and when Easter Sunday came around, we piled in the back of the car and drove from our home in Kingswood, Gloucestershire.

“Don’t forget your new phone, Charlie,” I said, knowing it was the last thing she’d leave behind.

“Got it right here, mum,” she said.

The weather was lovely and we were lucky with the traffic and managed to make it to Wiltshire within about an hour and a half.

Longleat was packed – there were literally cars everywhere, and we were jammed in like sardines as we made our way around the park.

Longleat is not like other zoos. There is a safari park where you drive around a track through different enclosures, and the animals come to you. Or not – it depends how lucky you are.

Then there is the adventure park where Steve Backshall was giving his demonstrations. We had tickets to see him in the afternoon, so spent the morning driving around the safari looking out for animals.

The track is bumper to bumper and as soon as they stop, you know there are animals close by. Cars can overtake in the right hand lane, but generally, the animals are on the left.

The first paddock we drove through was the Zebra paddock, and when the traffic evened out, we got to see the wonderful animals.

With his nose pressed up against the glass window of our giant Fiat Ulysse 4X4, George oohed and ahhed.

“Look, mum,” he kept saying, pointing at the zebras. “Look over there.”

Charlie was busy taking pictures on her phone and I was trying to keep us moving so we wouldn’t lose our place in the line.

After the zebras, we entered the giraffe enclosure. But I was distracted because I knew what the next part of the trip was.

It was the monkey enclosure, and I’d heard stories about them getting into your car and causing havoc.

Fittingly, they called the enclosure ‘Monkey Mayhem’ and we were warned that they have a fondness for windscreen wipers and car aerials.

As we approached, there was a sign saying ‘ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK’, and people were advised that they could skip this part of the safari altogether.

“That’s just for people with posh cars, mummy,” Charlie said. “Let’s go!”

We crossed the cattle grid and approached the monkey ‘Drive-Thru’; we wound our windows up tight and waited for the onslaught.

Charlie and George screamed as about a dozen cheeky monkeys leapt onto the bonnet and roof, pulling at the windscreen wipers and aerials.

Then they jumped and scurried to the back of the car and started pulling at the rear windscreen wiper.

It was over as soon as it had begun. They couldn’t pull the wind screen wipers off and the aerial had long since fallen off.

Our car wasn’t a banger, but at ten years old it had certainly seen better days.

“Is that it?” George snapped from the back seat.

“I think it might be,” I said hiding my relief. “It’s the lions next, though…”

We entered the ‘Big Cat Enclosure’ and got a great look at the tigers before moving up to the lion compound.

The second we entered we were gridlocked. Up ahead cars were moving off slowly, but the traffic was ground to a halt as people leaned up against their windows and took pictures of the lions.

There were red signs everywhere saying, ‘DO NOT EXIT FROM YOUR VEHICLES’ and ‘DO NOT ATTEMPT TO FEED THE LIONS’ and ‘KEEP YOUR WINDOWS UP AT ALL TIMES’.

There were two prides of lions at Longleat, and each pride boasted cubs, and we were dying to see them.

After a good ten minutes of not moving, George was getting impatient in the back.

“Aww we’ll never get to see them at this rate, mum. Can’t you go around?”

I was a bit concerned with all the starting and stopping of the car, that the engine might overheat, but everyone else was in the same boat, and there were no cars on fire.

I steered the car out of the single lane and drove up on the right hand side up toward the top of the hill.

George and Charlie’s faces were pressed up against the left windows trying to see in between the cars.

We stopped about 100m from the nearest of the two zebra-patterned ranger’s jeeps that were patrolling the paddock.

But we still couldn’t see the lions. They were about 50 metres to the left of us, dozing under the trees.

Suddenly, I noticed steam rolling over the bonnet.

I turned the engine off and told myself it was just the heat – nothing to worry about.

But then the steam turned into thick smoke, and it began rolling up the bonnet toward the windscreen.

“What’s the smell?” Charlie said next to me, looking concerned.

“It’s nothing,” I said, trying to reassure her. But inside I was starting to get worried. I knew if there was a problem with the car and it wouldn’t start, it really wasn’t the best place to break down.

“I’ll just let it cool down for a few minutes. It’s probably just a little over heated from all the starting and stopping.”

The cars by the side of us started moving slowly forward and we got our very first glimpse of the lions.

They looked much closer than just 50m and they were all looking our way.

My heart started beating in my chest, and I could feel my palms getting sweaty on the steering wheel.

I looked back at the bonnet and the smoke looked like it was starting to subside.

Then when I looked again, it was coming through the vents. Within seconds, the car had filled up with thick black smoke.

Through the smoke, I could still make out the bonnet of the car and could see that flames were now rising out of the vents.

“Oh my god,” I said. “We’re on fire!”

My mind immediately went to all those films I’ve watched where the car blows up seconds after it catches fire, and I started to think we were sitting in a ticking time bomb.

I remembered seeing one of the signs as we entered the ‘Big Cat Enclosure’ that read: ‘SOUND YOU HORN IF YOU NEED ASSISTANCE’.

So I gently beeped my horn, wanting to get their attention, but not wanting to make too much of a fuss, in the typical English way.

Then, when the flames began rising out of the bonnet, and the car was almost filled thick black smoke and the rangers were no closer, I leant on the horn as hard as I could.

“God, we’ve got to out,” I said.

“No mum, we need to stay where we are,” Charlie said.

But George had already opened the sliding side door and was half way out of the car.

“I’m getting out of here,” George said,

I automatically opened the window on the driver’s side to let the smoke out and get some air.

Then I realised what was happening and turned in my seat and told George to get back in and close the door.

Before he could, a zebra-patterned ranger’s jeep drove by and the ranger yelled at George to get back in the vehicle.

“But we can’t stay here, the car’s on fire, “I yelled back, getting frightened.

“No, you must remain in the vehicle, Ma’am,” he said.

I looked to my left and saw that all the cars had moved off to get away from us, and now there was nothing between us and about a dozen fully-grown lions.

And they were all looking our way.

“Well you’ve got to come and help us then – look at the car!” I shouted, feeling the panic rising in my throat.

Then the other ranger’s jeep came screeching to a halt next to us, opened his door and yelled at us to leap from the flaming shell of our car.

George leapt across first, and then Charlie jumped on top of him and on top of the ranger.

I grabbed the keys out of the ignition, as they had my house keys attached and took the leap of faith from one car to the next.

“Mum, my phone!” cried Charlie.

It was on the passenger seat and she’d left it behind on the panic.

“It’s too late, Charlie,” I said. “You can’t get it back now. Maybe it’ll be all right when the flames go out.”

They were both crying. It was such a frightening moment.

“It’s all right,” I soothed. “It’s only a car. It’s no big deal. At least we’re safe and sound.”

The jeep sped off down the hill and the other jeep cut off the track so that other cars couldn’t get through and risk getting too close to the burning wreckage.

The lions were all fully awake now and were taking considerable interest in the flames erupting from the car.

They had taken over the vehicle now and were well over a metre hire – the entire car was up in flames.

I realised how lucky we were to have got out when we did – a minute longer and we would’ve been a tasty meal for the lions. Cooked to perfection too!

The jeep stopped at the bottom of the hill, outside of the enclosure, and I got out to take a picture with my phone.

When I looked back, the car was a melting shell. There was no way to save it now. Poor Charlie never saw her phone again.

The ranger transferred us to another jeep and then sped us off to the Longleat office.

The fire brigade came to ask us a few questions and then the insurance company called to pick up the vehicle and arrange a taxi for us.

“Does this mean we can’t see Steve Backshall,” Charlie said with a sad look on her face.

“Not at all. At the end of the day it was only a car,” I said.

“We can count ourselves lucky that none of us were injured and that the lions didn’t have us for dinner.”

We left the office and walked over to the Adventure Park and had a wonderful afternoon watching the impressive shows they put on with birds of prey.

Charlie was delighted at seeing her idol off TV, and soon forgot that we were trapped in a burning car in the middle of the lion enclosure just an hour before.

And even though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the sun was hot on our shoulders, there was no more chance of over-heating.

To read more about selling your own story to the press, read our Sell My Story page. You can read some of our recent stories on our True Stories page, which shows a selection of real life stories from some of the people we’ve recently worked with.

Lost My Leg Thanks To Manky Manicure

June 20, 2014 by Laura Elvin

My Manky Manicure Cost Me My Leg! Be warned – find out what can happen from an innocuous manicure mistake. I lost my leg!

My monthly visit to the beauty salon was a treat I always looked forward to. I’d been having manicures done for over twenty years and I never tired of looking down and seeing my hands decorated in fabulous shades of fuchsia, peach and my favourite, pillar box red.

One afternoon in October 2012, after being pampered at my local salon, I spotted a poster on the wall advertising a new kind of manicure. The Shellac treatment promised long-lasting, no chip varnish. “Well, that sounds ideal!” I said to the lady behind the desk. It’s the hot new trend in nail care.” She told me. “And even better – it’s on special offer at the moment. Once you have Shellac – you never go back!” She chuckled.

I glanced at the shiny, hot pink nails on the poster – they certainly got my attention. A month later I arrived at the salon with a spring in my step for my first Shellac treatment. With this treatment thin coats of polish are applied to your natural nails – with a brief time for curing under a UV lamp between each layer. I sat in the chair and waited eagerly as the warm, bright lights beamed down on my fingers. I couldn’t wait to see what they’d look like, and I wasn’t disappointed.

When I pulled my hands out of the UV glare my nails looked glossy, glamorous and best of all they’d be chip-free for weeks. A few weeks before Christmas I found myself back in the salon for my next Shellac treatment. This time I opted for a deep shade of crimson – perfect for the festive season.

I’d been having my nails done for so long now that the appointments always went by so fast I was barely conscious of what was happening. But this was one trip to the salon I would never forget. About three weeks after my manicure I noticed a lump about the size of a ball point pen tip under my nail. Over the next few days I kept my eye on it and watched it turn from pale pink to a deep shade of purple. The puffy bruise became increasingly sore and when the constant jabbing pains started reducing me to tears I knew it was time to see my GP.

He told me it appeared to be a nasty blood blister that had become infected. He asked what I’d been doing lately that could have caused such a cut. I racked my brains but struggled to come up with any explanation. I usually got a few scrapes from gardening but it was the middle of winter and I hadn’t tended to my flowers for a while now. Tapping my fingers together on the desk I tried to think just what it could be – when suddenly it hit me. “I did have my nails manicured last week” I blurted out. My GP looked at me knowingly. He said that was a very likely cause of my blister and he’d even seen a few cases just like it in the past.

Glad to have gotten to the root of the problem I thanked the doctor and walked away with a prescription for some morphine tablets to ease the throbbing. However, it wasn’t long before I found myself back in the waiting room as the pain refused to subside. This time I came away with liquid morphine which I was told to take alongside the pills from my earlier appointment. The combination of the powerful medication made me extremely drowsy and I felt a long way from my usual chipper self.
Continually reminding myself, “It’s just for one month. I’ll be better soon,” was the only thought that kept me strong. However, all of my hopes of a speedy recovery started to diminish when my finger tip started to turn black and I could see that the discolouring was spreading down my finger, towards my hand.
This was getting serious. “Third time lucky,” I thought to myself as I put on my winter coat and headed back to the GP. I whipped my gloves off to reveal my blackened finger and waited for his response. His face turned solemn as he broke the bad news to me.

My finger was infected so badly that there was nothing else for it – the tip would have to be surgically removed. “If we don’t act now Linda you could lose the whole finger,” my GP warned. There was no point arguing – within two weeks I was booked in to have the op. When I was in hospital undergoing the preparations for theatre a nurse went through all the routine questions with me. ‘Have you been ill in the last two weeks, Linda?” she asked from behind her clipboard. I confessed that I’d had an upset tummy in the last week or so that I’d only just started recovering from. The next thing I knew I was meeting with the surgeon – but on the ward not in theatre.

He said that regrettably, due to my illness, my op would have to be postponed. I would have to live with the infection growing in my finger for a little while longer. While I was waiting for news of my next operation I was struck by another disaster. It seemed that bad things really do come in threes. I was taking some washing out of the tumble dryer and slipped on the kitchen tiles – I landed on my left leg with a clatter and I couldn’t get back up from the cold floor.

I called for an ambulance but when the paramedics arrived and told me that nothing was broken I decided to stay at home and recover. But within days I started to deteriorate rapidly. I had an upset tummy, headaches and the familiar agonising throb in my finger was back with a vengeance. My GP sent me to hospital where I was kept on a ward to be monitored for a few days. It seemed there was no end to my bad luck.

Whilst sitting on my hospital bed I felt the most peculiar sensation on my leg. “It feels like water is dripping down my skin,” I told the nurses. It’s like someone has turned a tap on under there,” I said pointing to my bandages. A team of nurses slowly opened up the dressing to reveal that the skin on my leg had started to crack. I’ve always had dry skin but this was something else. I watched as the cracks began to spread and deepen. It felt like I was watching it happen to someone else, I had never seen anything like it.

My skin was just falling apart before my eyes. It was like was viewing a scene from a gory horror film in slow motion but with no pause button to stop it.
After that initial shock the events that followed passed by in a whirlwind I remember being wheeled off to theatre and crying out to the nurses: “Please don’t let them cut off my leg.”
I woke up hours later in an isolation ward. It was too risky for me to be near anyone else, I was too prone to infection. When I had come round the consultants told me that I’d developed a rare form of septecima which had seeped into my bloodstream and poisoned my whole leg. They were convinced that the infection originated from the the blister on my finger caused by the manicure.

There was no other explanation for it – my hands had been left under the UV light for too long. In the end it took a staggering four operations to clear away the infected skin and a further trip to surgery for a skin graft. I was left with just a stump of flesh for a leg – but I knew I was very lucky to have it all. After 12 weeks in hospital I was finally ready to go home – but I had completely lost my independence.
I needed help with everything – I had to be hoisted into bed and had all my furniture moved to downstairs. The strangest thing was having to learn to walk again – I felt like I’d been the victim of a car accident rather than a dodgy manicure. For someone who used to be so bothered about looking my best I’ve been forced to not be so vain. The flesh on my leg won’t ever grow back, so I’m adjusting to life with my new appearance. Whenever I go out I always make sure my legs are always covered with a blanket, it’s not nice for people to see. I’m getting used to it though and I am keeping positive – I refer to my new look leg as my shark bite.
The doctors have said that my looking on the bright side has been the key to my recovery.
I still haven’t been back for a manicure since – I’ll be painting my own nails from now on with a good old fashioned pot and brush.

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