Whispers and Wanderings

In our hotel room, the curtains hang, like two cheerful orange sentries guarding us from the world that lies beyond the glass. The air in the room  is still and they, stand steady and resolute. As Claire sits on the bed reading her book, I am still. Gazing at the stark white ceiling, my thoughts are of the day we have spent here in the ancient city of Valletta, I hold my coffee cup as it warms my hand, though my thoughts are such that I’ve forgotten to drink the brown liquid it contains. I take a sip and, the bitterness as I swallow, brings me back to the present. Music hums from my phone. It is not so loud as to distract Claire from her book, but just enough to seep through into my thoughts as Lady Gaga invites me to consider if I'm "happy in this modern world? ....or is there something else I'm searchin' for?" The small enclosed balcony beyond the door feels like a threshold - a no man's land, an in-between space not quite inside, nor fully outside either an...

Claire and I were sitting in the kitchen when we heard the mirror fall that morning. It never reached the floor but slid from the wall and lodged itself behind the sofa, tilted and breathing, as if the house had changed its mind halfway through. The surface of the mirror didn’t shatter – it remained whole, held there at an awkward angle, reflecting only the narrow strip of the white wall it faced. The black glass beads that had once adorned it were fragmented and lay scattered like tiny jewels on the sofa cushion – never again to be whole. I didn’t know it then but, just like that mirror, my life was about to change forever. My Dad, already ill by then, was being cared for at home by my sisters. I had been there the night before, finishing my weekend shift beside him. It had been challenging; Dad wasn’t eating or drinking. He was distressed, and we had struggled to secure the medical support he needed in the days after his impromptu and somewhat surprising discharge from hospital. Afte...

It’s quiet in your makeshift bedroom tonight, Dad. The light pushes through the glass panes of the living room doors and casts a faint silver glow on your sleeping face. You snore gently, then you stop. It seems an age till your next breath breaks the silence, and I listen in anticipation. Your chest heaves, your lip twitches, and another sound is emitted, this time a moan, some panting, another snore and the silence reigns anew. Your hand slips down the duvet, your fingers grasping at the cover, searching blindly for something. It finds my blue painted nails, covers the back of my hand and you squeeze my fingers gently. I clasp your hand and squeeze back and, for a moment, I am a child again. I am your little girl and you are my Dad - we are flawed, but we are beautiful. I cannot heal you, I cannot protect you, I cannot save you but, for the time we have left, I can love you. I can hold your hand, and you can hold mine.

It was late October 2025 when I accepted the challenge of writing a piece about a milk snatcher. However, Rupert J Thatcher is a shy kind of person and he has taken a while to make himself known to me.  Over the last few months, his story has taken the form of a newspaper article, a death notice, and an aborted short story about an avenging widower with a hatred of politicians and a love of Formula 1. None of these ideas really worked, but tonight The Ballad of Rupert J Thatcher manifested in my mind as I cleaned my teeth and prepared for bed. The idea for this piece originated in the days following the unwanted late night visit  of a burglar.  When the police came to investigate, they discovered that my visitor, who had gained entry through my garden, had left a half-drunk carton of milk by the back gate. The police officer nicknamed him the “Milk Bandit,” and somehow, thinking of him in this way made the event feel a little less frightening. In the poem that follows, I ...

It is a night after Christmas, and all through the house not a creature is stirring. Well except for me, sleepless once more, bolt upright in bed, my body warm from the heat of the electric blanket - a gift from a Christmas past.  I scribble another line, and in sheer frustration, I delete it again. So far my page is empty and my hands are cold - the price they pay as I search for the inspiration for this post. New Year’s Day is now passed. The buzz of Christmas is fading and tonight, as I sit here, my thoughts turn towards the days and months to follow. I find that I am feeling a mixture of excitement, anticipation and trepidation. The coming year feels like an enigma, it is like my blank page, just waiting for the scratch of a pen. It reminds me of the fourth ghost in a Christmas Carol - The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. It is silent, unreadable, and brings the unknown. Just like that ghost, the year ahead holds both promise and uncertainty. Thankfully, unlike the ghost, the fu...

24 DECEMBER 2025 - IT IS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS.  It is the night before Christmas , and all through the house not a creature is stirring. Well, except me, wallowing like a mighty walrus, in my hot bubble-bath. I am lathered in Imperial Leather and I smell divine even if I do say so myself. I pick up my mobile phone and begin to type. The light from my screen and from the six candles placed at the foot of the bath are all that illuminate the bathroom. An Indie Christmas playlist drifts in from the speaker in the kitchen, as the hushed voice of Ellie Rowsell meanders up the stairs beseeching Santa to “put a sable under the tree.” There is something oddly comforting about this moment. The warmth of the water, the quiet hum of the house, and the knowledge that everything that needs to be done today has already been done. Well, almost everything! What an unexpected day it has been! Time spent with Nichola, Jane, and Lily. A visit to Dad’s brought that familiar comfort of my childho...