The fun day is done. And it was just that — fun. But getting there was one of the most emotionally challenging things I've done since diagnosis. Which surprised me, if I'm honest.
Where it started
Catherine has organised events like this before — fundraisers for others in really difficult situations. That's who she is. Selfless, driven, always thinking about how she can help. She does it without being asked and without making a fuss about it.
But this time it was different. This time it was for us. And that changed everything for me.
I hate asking people for help. I hate asking people for money even more. In my head I kept thinking — we don't deserve this. We're just a normal family. I appear normal on the outside. Why should people give up their time and money for us?
Those feelings are the same ones that make going for treatment feel strange sometimes. I sit in the infusion room surrounded by people who look visibly unwell — and in reality, most of them are there for a limited time while their cancer is beaten into submission. They have better outlooks. But I'm fitter than most of them and sicker than most of them at the same time. I just don't look like someone with terminal cancer. And that disconnect — looking well, being seriously ill — makes accepting help feel complicated in a way I struggle to explain.
But I wrestled with it. And eventually I made peace with it. Because the truth is, No Time For Beige was never about being selfish — it was borne out of not wanting to be selfish. The whole thing started because I wanted to give to others what I had already received. To spread the love. And you can't do that without first accepting it yourself.
The organisation
Catherine said it would be easy — and in fairness, the legal side was sorted by the venue, which was a big help. What she hadn't accounted for was that on her previous fun days, other people had organised the stalls. This time it was just the two of us. Every game, every prize sourced from China, every decision about how to set it all up and run it on the day. That's what made it a mammoth task.
We were there from 6am to midnight. Eighteen hours. On top of everything else we're carrying. But it got done.
Erin and the Misfits
The bands were all brilliant. Every single one of them donated their time for free and we are grateful beyond words. But the highlight of the entire day for me — the moment I'll carry with me for a very long time — was a new band called Erin and the Misfits.
Rosie. My daughter Rosie. Together with two daughters of close family friends. Weeks of practice leading to this one set, on this one stage, in front of everyone we love.
They were all so brave. And they absolutely smashed it. Standing there watching Rosie perform — on a day that existed because of my diagnosis — is not something I have words for. It's a memory that belongs to all of us now.
The day went past in a flash. People had a brilliant time on the stalls, the music went right through until England kicked off their World Cup match at 10pm, and we stayed until midnight clearing up and taking it all in.
What we raised
Some of the funds have already gone to help Gayle — my reflexologist — purchase a new piece of equipment so she can continue helping others in the future. The rest will be split between the charity when it is fully registered and a once in a lifetime family trip — a memory we intend to make before it's too late.
Thank you
We couldn't have done any of it without the people who showed up. Friends, family, complete strangers who donated their time, came along on the day, bought raffle tickets, ran stalls, performed on stage. People who had never met us and came anyway because they heard the story and wanted to help.
That is humbling in a way I didn't expect. And it's taught me something I needed to learn — that accepting help graciously is not weakness. It's just another way of letting people in.
So thank you. All of you. From the bottom of our hearts. 🩷
— Nick and Catherine