Russ Clark

I was sitting watching Newsround when I was about nine years old and saw John Craven for the first time. He delivered the mildly youth-orientated news with a kind of truthful, compassionate acceptance that I have still not seen matched.



About two years later I was confronted with what was going to be the most difficult thing I would ever face. I was on a school trip to London Zoo, enjoying the display of rare South African birds when something almost unbeleivable, unthinkable caught my eye. Behind the cage containing the Red-taled Chafinch was John Craven's flustered and seemingly troubled face. He looked exhausted. My first thought was that he had been running from a mob of fans and found shelter with the birds. It wasn't until I saw Juliet Morris' profile a little further behind the cage that I was able to decipher the nature of their visit.



It was at this point that the dream I had carried for two years dropped and shattered on the floor at my feet. At this precise moment my future changed completely. In a state of shock I sat on the floor sobbing, rocking back and forth like a hungry orfan, listening to the South African chorus. Something must have been triggered by this wonderful sound because from that day on I was only able to communicate via the medium of song.

It was at this moment that I knew what I was going to do with my life.

My wings may be small but they carry me well.