Rebecca is a journalist, crafter and occasional event organiser – but first and foremost, she’s a writer. After a decade studying and working her way around the world, Rebecca finally settled down in London in 2010, where she qualified as an NCTJ-trained journalist.

Since then she’s upped sticks twice (a 20 month jaunt in India, covering South Asia news for The Times) and now lives in Bristol, where she writes for a mix of publications and spends her time walking, discovering new music and studying (read: drinking) wine. For Rebecca, a perfect evening requires little more than a good glass of a wine and a good yarn. What could be better?

As a Story Terrace writer, Rebecca interviews customers and turns their life stories into books. Get to know her better: you can read an autobiographical story of her own below. Get in touch today to work with her!

A room with a view

It was freezing at the top. Not that we were really at the top, there were higher peaks all around us, you just couldn’t see them. Because unlike us fools the sun wasn’t up yet. We rode up here on the gondola in the pitch black. An hour earlier I was snoring away happily in bed and now I was here, dressed like the Michelin Man and being asked to clean: “Them windows, there.”
“All of them?” I replied, gingerly.
“All of them,” said my boss for the morning.

Generally speaking, reaching for stuff’s harder when you’re five foot two (on a good day). Kitchen cupboards, roller blinds, cobwebs, most require at least a hop. But there I was, armed with some neon blue cleaner and a rubber wiper, facing a wall of floor-to-ceiling glass. As I started to wipe, my fingers thawing, I chatted with my fellow cleaner, a middle-aged Māori woman from the nearby town.

“The Prime Minister was here the other week, holding a conference,” she said, nodding her head slowly.

I looked around. The hall was mostly stained wood and glass. Not bad, but nothing extraordinary.

An hour or so later and we were making progress, albeit slowly; a lot of tea was consumed. It was nearly 7 a.m. now and our arms ached, but a change was happening. Instead of rubbing out our reflections, we began actually seeing. Slowly but surely our surroundings were coming into view, bathed in a golden-pink glow until, out of nowhere, a blinding orange sun rose before us.

And there, laid out in all their splendor for our own private viewing, were The Remarkables: New Zealand’s most famous, most beautiful, most aptly-named mountains. The jagged peaks and pristine rock faces sparkled before us, daring us to gaze on them, drenching each one of us in their iridescent white light. The best view on the island and we had it all to ourselves. Pure magic.

I’d do it again in a heartbeat.


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