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Activate is a live-action gaming adventure, based at :a[The O2 in London]{href='https://takeabreak.co.uk/holidays/take-a-break-holidays/10-reasons-why-the-o2-in-london-is-perfect-for-a-family-day-out/' }, where groups enter interactive gaming rooms to either compete against each other or work as a team to score points. Set your difficulty level and expect to work up a sweat as you jump, crawl, shoot and laugh your way through fun physical and mental challenges.

I visited midday on a Saturday in August during the school summer holidays with my husband and our two sons, Odhran, 10, and Reuben, 7. It was busy but not over-crowded.

When we arrived, we were handed a wristband to activate one of the lockers to place our belongings in. We were also each given an electronic wristband to track our individual progress so we could rack up points during the experience. Before we stepped into the gaming zone, we used one of the screens in the waiting area to enter our details and create our usernames, which appeared on a leaderboard inside the gaming space. Then, we stepped through a tunnel of lights, and a member of staff explained how to play (we found all of the staff at Activate to be really friendly and helpful).

There are 12 :a[gaming rooms]{href='https://takeabreak.co.uk/holidays/take-a-break-holidays/minecraft-experience-london-review-the-kids-enjoyed-it-but-heres-why-i-found-it-underwhelming/' } and each room has several different games to play. For example, in the Laser room, you can play a game where you've got to move from one end of the room to the other, while jumping and crawling to avoid laser beams. Or you can selected a laser shooting game. Other rooms include Grids, Hoops and Portals. At the door to each room, there's a screen to choose which game you wish to play, and you can select your difficulty level. You can find on-screen instructions of how to play. Once you've chosen your game and difficulty level, each member of the team then taps their wristband to begin, and you can choose to play as a team or against one another for a bit of :a[friendly family competition]{href='https://takeabreak.co.uk/holidays/take-a-break-holidays/we-found-a-super-fun-and-affordable-venue-to-celebrate-fathers-day-with-kids/' }. You can reset your difficulty level throughout the experience. So you try a game at one level and then move up to the next.

Odhran's favourite game was the maze laser game, while Reuben loved the laser shooting. I really enjoy the Grid rooms, where one game involved stepping on all the blue tiles as they appeared, while avoiding getting eliminated by the moving red lights on the floor. In another room, my left arm got a workout as I enthusiastically fired balls at a screen to explode approaching asteroids. My husband's favourite activity was the basketball hoops, where there is lots of variety on how you rack up points - you can play a straightforward shoot out, or you can add to the complexity of the game and make it more technical and interactive by selecting an option where each player is assigned a colour. They must only shoot into the hoop their colour flashes up behind. But the lights move around between hoops, so you have to be alert and fast to react.

You're given an hour to enjoy the experience and you can move about the rooms in whichever order you like. You're completely free to explore the whole space and play whichever games you like as many times as you like within that hour. It felt like the right amount of time, as after about 50 minutes we were hot and thirsty from all the running and jumping.

There are 10 levels for you to master at Activate, which seems incredible, as we struggled to make it past level 2! But it means you have a reason to return and try to beat your level on the next visit. By being able to set the difficulty level, it means Activate is suitable for both kids and adults. It's a fun and :a[interactive family]{href='https://takeabreak.co.uk/holidays/take-a-break-holidays/squid-game-the-experience/' }activity. There are prizes to be won if you manage to rack up enough points. We're clearly going to need a lot more practice to unlock a bigger prize next time. But the boys were happy to each win a glow-in-the-dark souvenir wristband.

Open toe shoes or high heels are not permitted. Trainers are recommended. It gets hot in there, especially with all that running around. So, wear loose clothing. Have a good drink of water before you head inside, and have water in your locker for when you emerging sweating and parched! There are toilets inside the gaming area so you don't have to leave the space if you need the loo.

Activate is suitable for groups of 2-5 guests. Players must be over age six to participate. Reuben is aged 7 and he loved it, though it is harder for little ones to reach to through the basketballs properly in the Hoops room.

Activate costs £29.50 per person when booked online. There's also a £1.50 booking fee. Walk-ins are welcome, but it's best to book in advance to avoid disappointment, as popular time slots can get booked up.

We weren't sure exactly what to expect when we arrived at Activate. But, between the staff and the on- screen instructions, it was really easy to follow the instructions on how to play each game. I worried there might be queues waiting to use each gaming room, which might eat into our hour-long time slot. But because you're able to move about the venue freely and jump between games rooms, we only ever had one group of players ahead of us, and each game is short, so queues don't build up. The kids were excited from the moment we arrived, and we all had a really fun time. It's a great way to burn off a few calories! The only criticism is that some of the games are a bit repetitive and it could maybe benefit from air conditioning and a water fountain, as you will get thirsty. But we had a laugh and will returning. Overall, we rate Activate a 4.5 out of 5.

Activate Review: We worked up a sweat at the world’s first active gaming facility. Here’s why we’ll be back…

**_When my dream seemed out of reach, I put my faith in pineapples, salty fries and a safety net. By Joma Cook, 35_**

Another friend had happily announced their pregnancy and  I felt deflated.

‘I need to be a mum,’ I said to my hubby James.  
We’d been trying for a baby since we’d married almost a year earlier.  
After suffering an early miscarriage, I’d had tests and we’d been put on the waiting list for IVF.  
But we’d suffered another blow when we were told that because the miscarriage counted as a successful pregnancy, it would be another two years before we were eligible for fertility treatment on the NHS.  
Since then, I’d tried everything from changing  my diet, to acupuncture and CBT therapy in the hope something would help.  
But none of it had worked and now it was getting harder and harder to see friends and family starting their families when it wasn’t happening for us.  
‘Let’s look at how much  it would cost to go private,’  I suggested.  
But totting it up, we balked at the £15,000 price tag.  
‘Blimey!’ I gasped.  
‘It’s a big investment,’  James said.  
‘Huge,’ I agreed. ‘Especially if it didn’t work first time.’  
But we weren’t ready to write it off just yet, so we booked an appointment at a fertility clinic near our home in Buckinghamshire.  
There, they told us about Access Fertility — a scheme that promised a refund if you weren’t successful after three fresh cycles of IVF.  
As part of that, you could have unlimited frozen embryo transfers.

We contacted the company who told us we’d be eligible for an 80 per cent refund if we didn’t have a live birth.  
Although it was still going to cost a lot, knowing we could pay that amount and keep trying gave us the safety net we needed to go for it.  
And, as we took out a bank loan to pay for it, I felt really hopeful for the first time in ages.  
Soon after, I began daily injections to boost my egg supply.  
‘Ouch!’ I moaned to James. ‘I feel like a pin cushion.’  
But determined to stay upbeat, I wrote positive affirmations on sticky notes and put them up all round the house.  
On our journey, we had discovered that the pineapple had become a symbol of hope for women having fertility treatment and that many go to appointments wearing something with the fruit on it.  
So, when we went in for my first embryo transfer, we wore matching pineapple T-shirts.  
On the way home, I asked James to stop at McDonald’s.  
‘I want to get some chips,’ I told him.  
On the IVF forums I’d joined, so many women had put their embryo taking down to them polishing off some fries from Maccy D’s!  
Now, all we could do was wait, and after two weeks,  I woke early and took a pregnancy test.  
When it was time, James and I peered at the stick and staring back at us were two strong lines.  
‘We’re having a baby!’ James shouted.

Unable to believe it, I made him go out and buy more tests — all of them were positive.  
As my pregnancy progressed, I was in and out of hospital with symptoms of pre-eclampsia.  
However, finally, at 40 weeks, our son Eden was born by emergency Caesarean.

When they placed my little son on my chest, I still couldn’t believe he was finally here.  
Now, Eden is a happy, cheeky three-year-old, who loves singing and is such a bundle of fun.  
To anyone contemplating or going through IVF, I can’t recommend Access Fertility enough. It took the financial worry out of an already stressful situation.  
It gave James and me real hope — and best of all, our beautiful son.

● For more info on the IVF Refund Programme, visit accessfertility.com

The Price of Hope: An IVF refund scheme made our dream come true

**_I’d been forced into marrying a man against my will, but it took something horrendous for me to find my freedom. By Payzee Mahmod, 37_**

In our shared room with posters of S Club 7, Spice Girls and Backstreet Boys on our wardrobe doors, my sister Banaz and I danced around and sang along to the pop songs we loved.

Downstairs, we grabbed our mugs of tea and a packet of biscuits and sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor, chatting and laughing until our cheeks hurt.

‘You two are giving me a headache,’ our mum joked when she passed.

We’d moved to London from Kurdistan, in Iraq, when I was 11.

It was a completely different world from what I knew.

Our parents were strict, not allowing me and my four sisters to socialise outside school or talk to boys, so it was difficult to make friends.

But it didn’t matter, because I had Banaz, who was only 17 months older.

While I was a chatterbox, Banaz was more reserved with a shy, cheeky smile, but we were so close.

Then, after Banaz turned 17, she told me: ‘I’m getting married.’

She explained that Dad had arranged for her to marry  a man 10 years older.

Just weeks later, I was styling Banaz’s hair for the ceremony, which was being held in our parents’ garden.

Nervous, she kept biting her lip and she was sweating so much, I had to keep straightening the curls around her face.

No one had told me that after the wedding, Banaz would move away to Birmingham to live with this stranger, her husband.

Looking at Banaz’s empty bed that night, I missed her terribly.

A week later, we visited, but I barely recognised her. She’d lost weight and was wearing a dress for mature women.

Where is my sister and best friend? I thought.

A couple of months on, I was sitting on my bed when Mum came in and said: ‘A man has approached us about marrying you. Your dad thinks it’s a good match.’

‘If that’s what Dad wants, I’ll do it,’ I said, knowing I didn’t have a choice.

The next thing I knew, my husband-to-be was in our  living room. I was just 16 and he was 30.

I was advised not to talk or look in his direction while my parents assured him I’d be a good wife.

Six months after Banaz’s wedding, I was married too. While everyone celebrated,  I just felt sick and confused.

That night was the first time I’d ever been alone with a man, and I was so terrified, I wouldn’t let him near me.

I texted one of my sisters saying: I’m ready to go home.

But it was like living with a monster. He’d drink a lot, was moody and would easily snap.

I’d never had sex education, so I didn’t understand how it had happened.

‘If you have a baby with your husband, you’ll love him more,’ Mum told me.

'I’ll be a terrible mother,’ I insisted. ‘I’ll abandon the baby.’

Unable to face the thought of being tied to my husband forever, I confessed to a nurse that I was pregnant against my will and successfully had an abortion.

As Banaz was also struggling in her marriage, Dad and our husbands decided it would be better for us to live together, so they could keep an eye on us.

Being with her when the men were out was like old times. We’d sing and dance together, just like before. But I also realised how violent and controlling her husband was.

One day, they argued and he threw a cup at her.

‘I’m not going back to him,’ she said, moving back to our parents’ home.

We stayed close and one day, after meeting up at college, I went back there and we drank tea on the kitchen floor until my husband messaged saying: I’ve finished work, I need you at home.

As I gathered my stuff, she said: ‘Text me when you’re home. See you later.’

Only next morning, Banaz wasn’t at college and didn’t reply to my messages.

Worried sick after three days with no word, I went to Mum and Dad’s. Moments after I arrived, four police officers turned up.

‘Your sister’s missing,’ one told me, as they arrested Dad.

Shock floored me as I struggled to understand what could’ve happened.

I clung to the hope she’d run away to start a new life and was OK, but months passed with no word.

Then one day, the police arrived with devastating news.

My beautiful sister Banaz had been found buried in a suitcase in a garden in Birmingham.

After moving back home, Banaz had fallen in love with a man called Rahmat Sulemani.

As she was still married, they’d tried to keep their relationship secret, but were spotted kissing in public.

Police believed my uncle, Ari Mahmod, decided Banaz needed to be killed for shaming the family.

He and Dad then recruited three men, Mohamad Hama and cousins Mohammed Saleh Ali and Omar Hussain, who’d gone to my parents’ home the day after I’d last seen Banaz and had brutally raped her, then strangled her to death with a bootlace.

It was Rahmat who’d reported her missing.

Devastated and scared of suffering the same fate, I embarked on a mission to escape my own marriage.

The month I turned 18, we held Banaz’s funeral, and I got divorced.

Afterwards, grief overwhelmed me. I couldn’t say Banaz’s name without bursting into tears.

Instead, as I went to university, I created a new persona for myself and didn’t tell anyone what had happened.

When I met someone and fell in love, I told him: ‘My family are close, my parents are a dream couple, and my mum is my best friend.’

It couldn’t have been further from reality.

In time, my father Mahmod Babakir Mahmod, 54, and uncle Ari Mahmod, 51, appeared at the Old Bailey in London and after denying Banaz’s murder, were found guilty and jailed for life.

Hama, 30, had already pleaded guilty to murder, and later, Ali and Hussain, both 28, were also handed life sentences after being convicted of murder too.

It wasn’t until 10 years after Banaz’s death that I confessed the truth to my partner.

‘It’s nothing to be ashamed about,’ he reassured me.

Two years later, as I read a story about another woman who’d been murdered by her husband, the parallels to Banaz lit a fire within me.

I joined a campaign by the IKWRO Women’s Rights Organisation for a bill to outlaw child marriage and five years later, a law was passed to raise the legal age of marriage to 18.

It felt amazing to do that for Banaz and my younger self.

He’s a blessing, but motherhood has opened a lot of old wounds.

I look at him and cannot fathom how anyone could hurt their own child.

Banaz wanted children, so sometimes I feel guilty that I’m experiencing this and she can’t.

But my son will grow up knowing about his beautiful auntie, and we often put flowers on her grave.

There’s still a lot I haven’t dealt with, and it will take a lifetime to process.

I’m currently working on  a campaign for housing for women fleeing violence, as  I find it empowering to use  my voice to make change and help others.

Everything I do is for my sweet sister Banaz, who I miss every day.

I ESCAPED a child marriage after my sister was murdered by family

**_When I took a tumble on the football pitch, I didn't know the recovery would lead to this... By Jason Deans, 38_**

As I took a tumble on the football pitch, I felt a twinge.

I’d pulled something in my groin and when the pain didn’t go away I ended up having a scan.  
It showed a 5cm tumour on my pelvis.

  
Although it was a shock, I was told it was unlikely to be cancer and I said to my wife Nicola, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.’

  
It was a relief as we had two little ones Caris, eight, and Caelan, three.

  
But days later, tests revealed I had a form of bone cancer called chondrosarcoma.

  
‘How will we tell the kids?’ I asked Nicola.

  
In the end, we decided not to, and after an operation to remove the tumour, I was free of the cancer.

  
For the first few weeks, I couldn’t stand or walk and Nicola had to help me wash and dress myself.

  
The thing that kept me going was my family.

> I felt nothing but joy as I stood at the start line

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