The balloons still litter the floor, an ostentatious carpet of celebration. The helium struggles to keep the ‘1’ and the ‘8’ bobbing hopefully, a memory of a perfect day. Helen can’t bring herself to clear them. Every day she notes
Don’t let four fool you with his desperate truths, Trust not his whispers, fuelled by darkness and shame, Lie still, Eyes scanning the shadows, and wait for Seven’s sense.
Choose now. Choose action. Choose love, loyalty and friendship. Choose to say what you mean and choose to mean what you say. Choose to fight. Choose them, choose us. Choose the right to disagree without being a dick, and if
Our children mirror our best And our worst. We reflect in their glories Adjust focus when they fail Through this lens we learn the whys of who we are See the reasons we chose the paths we trod
I’ve been 45 for a little while now. Long enough to fully digest the fact. Not long enough to accept that I’m staring into the abyss that is my late forties and beyond, and all that entails. I had planned
Summer wasn’t meant to be this way. Summer was meant to be about feeling the sun on your face, lifting your chin to let it filter down your body, enveloping you in a cocoon of gold.
This week has been trying. It’s been a week filled with the rhetoric of quasi political debate, lots of it based largely on a combination of tabloid fear-mongering, a mash-up of Internet memes and something vaguely intelligent that some bloke
On motherhood, middle-age and stuff…
How did I get to this age without ever visiting Barcelona? That was my prevailing thought during our three-day stay. I love Barcelona; properly love it in the way you love a thing that you know immediately to be flawed