In the hour of grief, thank heavens for my listeners – and Moira Stuart

I’ll never forget Monday 11 January 2016. The morning started normally but quickly developed into a “where were you when…” day.

It was my last stint standing in on the Radio 2 breakfast show, and the first half-hour flew by with listeners’ texts, travel and sport updates, plus I chatted to a nice chap about his alpacas and the perils of feeding them before sunrise. (Apparently they’re pretty stealthy and sneak up on you undetected – frankly terrifying in my opinion.)

So far, so jolly. After the 7am news, read by the formidable Moira Stuart (whose presence and years of experience I’d soon be very grateful for), I glanced at Twitter, only to see one solitary tweet simply saying, “No mention of David Bowie?” Such a simple question but one with weight; its wording immediately rang alarm bells – I knew this wasn’t about a tour announcement or scandal.

Fair to say at this moment my stomach dropped, and I looked through the glass to my producer Graham to see his expression darken as he read the same tweet as well as numerous messages all pinging through on his phone. I spotted Joe, breakfast show producer on BBC6 music, our cooler cousins who live downstairs, looking slightly ashen-faced and talking to Graham. I knew then that David Bowie had died.

Like most people, my initial reaction was one of absolute shock at the unexpected news. He had chosen to keep his illness private and had released an album just a few days before.

I was lucky enough to interview him on The Big Breakfast years ago. I was really nervous – for some reason we were perched on low stools in a teepee and there was I, a 23-year-old gob on a stick interviewing an icon, but I remember he was incredibly kind and warm to me.

It’s always a challenge for me to tackle serious subjects on the radio, so Monday was tough. I find the transition from joking about the spelling of “orang-utan” (no G on the end – a common misconception) to talking about serious stuff a sticky one. To be on air as huge news breaks is very humbling, and whether it’s politics, a pop star’s passing or terrorist attacks, we DJs want to do it justice.

Hosting the Radio 1 breakfast show the morning after 9/11 was unforgettable – expats who lived in New York were emailing the show unable to sleep in the small hours, Manhattan time. One guy told me it was a comfort to hear our accents which made them feel closer to home and further away from the horror that had engulfed NYC the day before.

As far as popular culture goes, Monday’s story couldn’t be much bigger. Now we had official confirmation that David Bowie had indeed passed away and not wanting to over- or indeed under-egg the moment, I was grateful to my producer Graham for quickly typing out a short statement announcing his death. I read it with a heavy heart and played “Starman” – the first of dozens of Bowie tracks that would be played that day. Then the floodgates opened – thousands of texts, tweets and emails from listeners, many in tears, most shocked, all devastated.

I’d never been to a Bowie gig but, like millions of people, I loved his music on the radio, appreciated his genius but couldn’t claim to be his No 1 fan or aficionado. I soon realised that didn’t matter – as the DJ I was just there as a conduit for these messages. If we’d been able to print every one we could’ve created a truly stunning book of condolence – written by folks just feeling the need to share, to pay respect. Over the course of the morning, more tributes were made by everyone from David Cameron to Kanye West, but they paled beside the heartfelt words of his real fans.

I’ve been suffering from a cold back – an area of my body I’ve never really taken much notice of. Other bits have been toned, exfoliated, squished into frilly underwear, shaved, plucked, moisturised, painted and plaited. My back has always just been there, quietly going about its business, not wanting any fuss.

Until now. It is demanding to be covered, cosseted. If crop tops were my twenties, hoodies my thirties, then my forties are all about the vest. It needs to be tucked in tightly too, otherwise it feel like I have a cold draught whistling up my jumper, literally spine-chilling.

Am I regressing to my seven-year-old self or is it because I’m trundling through middle age? There are well-documented childhood behaviours that repeat as we age – one guilty pleasure is eating some foods like chilli with a spoon only; onesies are essentially Babygros; and surely my coffee flask is just an adult sippy cup. I’m wearing vest tops, though. I’ve yet to source adult vests. I’m worried they’ll be a slippery slope to elasticated trouserland.

Since bottom-burp namesake Donald “Shredded Wheat hair” Trump suggested Muslims should be banned from entering America, we’ve seen worrying evidence that it might be happening. Imam and former Lib Dem candidate Ajmal Masroor was recently prevented from flying to New York to lead prayers at a mosque in Queens. When he checked in for his Virgin Atlantic flight to New York, he was informed that his US visa had been revoked.

I love the Big Apple, but trying to get in is always a big faff, even for a blond, blue-eyed lass like me. Though, of course, I could still follow Islam – how are they to know? That’s what makes it so farcical.

Sure, working at JKF immigration is a serious job. I’m not expecting scenes from The Aviator – all dishy pilots and vanity cases – but the transition from the friendly plane to queuing in the vast passport control hall rather jolts. It’s an atmosphere not dissimilar to a prison exercise yard – guards glaring at you menacingly as if a knife fight could break out when actually you’re just there to go sightseeing, shopping and eat sandwiches bigger than your head.

What would you have done in Rob Lawrie’s shoes? The ex-soldier and father of four had been volunteering at the sprawling Calais refugee camp known as the Jungle. During his frequent visits building shelters, he befriended an Afghan man called Reza and his four-year-old daughter Bahar or “Bru”, who in looks, name and cuteness is similar to Boo from the movie Monsters, Inc.

Bru was bright as a button and her dad wanted a better life for her. He begged Rob to take her home with him to the UK and deliver her to close family down the road from Rob’s home in Leeds. Rob repeatedly refused but, exhausted late one night, agreed in a “moment of madness”, a decision he now regrets.

There was no Hollywood happy ending. He was caught, charged with immigration offences and tried in a Boulogne court. Reza and Bru plus dozens of Jungle volunteers were there this week to see him cleared before heading back to the camp.

Bravo to the French court for showing compassion for what was a foolish yet loving act. I can’t pretend I wouldn’t have been tempted to help Bru, who tonight – instead of sleeping snug in bed like my kids – will like hundreds of other children in the Jungle be at the mercy of the cold under canvas in hellish conditions.