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Twenty-two years ago, I relaunched myself. I became a teacher.

It was Jan—my mentor, my co-conspirator, my fellow Tit Hall alum—who nudged me into the in-school training program. She saw something in me before I saw it myself. The initial interview was a trial by fire: a handshake, a handwritten essay, and a broken right-hand finger. Naturally. Stoic to the core, I said nothing. Just wrote. As you do.

Jan and I taught, we laughed, we did outreach work. We were a force. Remember the story of the jugs? That was Jan.

Jugs

Through her, I moved schools. We commandeered our own office with MJ—the legend. Lisa too. We even had a fridge. Gin-filled, of course. It was a glorious rebellion wrapped in professionalism.

Jan was there for every hospital I encountered from 2009 onwards . She visited them all. We’d find ourselves stuck on staircases, locked behind fire doors, me immobile and her grinning . My stitches didn’t stand a chance. She turned every setback into a story, every corridor into a challenge to be overcome .

Remember this

Breakin

We had adventures:

• 🏐 Commonwealth Games Netball
• 🎾 Wimbledon
• 🌊 Cornwall
• 🏆 Sports Personality of the Year
• She and I were the first two spectators through the London Olympic Games Gates

She set challenges like a mischievous coach. “Get a photo of the matron,” she’d say. Or “Find Mrs Mop.” My NHS Land stories became a blog she read religiously—critiquing, encouraging, always pushing me to do more, see more, write more.

Ten months ago, Jan began her own NHS journey. True to form, she was stoic. More concerned about others than herself. Still setting challenges. Still making us laugh.

On Monday, I found myself in Luton and Dunstable Hospital, filling out the same pre-admission forms I’d completed last year. Bureaucracy at its finest. I looked around and remembered—this was where Jan had started her NHS chapter. Gill confirmed it: the anatomy poster had been turned upside down. Jan had made her do it. Naturally, I did another. Grinning. Another challenge completed.

I wish I could tell Jan.

But I can’t. She died Monday night.

We friends with her. Right up to the end. We had to call her brother. Poor man. What a shock. Jan had brushed off her symptoms, stoic as ever. She was only in hospital for six days. She loved the NHS. She couldn’t fault her care.

We are numb with shock.

But we are full of stories. Full of laughter. Full of Jan.

She taught us how to live boldly, challenge everything—rebellious dammit. Three musketeers MJ Jan and me. Although we called ourselves the Crazy Ladies.

Bloody hell Jan we have so much more adventuring to do. Too young. Too brilliant.

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