Whispers and Wanderings

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...

As the title below reminds me -  24 December 2018: The Night Before Christmas  - this piece first appeared 7 years ago on my old “Just Stuff” blog. My marriage had ended the year before, and I was still quietly rebuilding my life, learning how to live alone and also how to make something new out of what remained. Life has taken several surprising turns since then, and with Christmas approaching once again, it feels like a good moment to revisit old words and let them meet the life I have today. In the spirit of A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens and with a nod to the ghosts who wander through the pages of this great story, here is my own little Ghost of Christmas Past. 24 DECEMBER 2018 - IT IS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS.  It is the night before Christmas  and all through the flat not a creature is stirring - well, apart from a middle-aged woman who would be stark naked were it not for the fluffy pink socks on her feet, as she frantically rummages through a pile of...

Now 4.30am, I have been awake for the last couple of hours just writing and listening to the sounds of the night. The Met office website quotes windspeeds of around 25mph, so its a breezy night outside my bedroom window and there has been plenty to hear and to write about. So if, unlike me, you managed the recommended 8 hours sleep, this is what you have missed. NO SLEEP TONIGHT     No sleep tonight. The weather has claimed the hours of darkness as its own. An angry wind roars outside my bedroom window. An invisible energy twisting and turning through the dark. Tiles dance on the  rooftop, lifting and falling like piano keys being played by an invisible hand. Rafters sway - a solitary slow dance above my head, as fat drops of rain beat steady rhythms on the window. It is a symphony, born from a storm, playing only for those for whom the night refuses rest. Curled up snug and small on the bottom of my bed, the dog lies half asleep, half awake, listening to a worl...

When I am feeling down in the dumps and stuck in a rut, I try to remember that even in the worst moments, small sparks of love, resilience and gratitude can emerge. These reminders help me to see that life, with all its highs and lows, can still hold unexpected beauty and hope. This short poem is my comment on those times. A TENDER TRUTH  That life is ironic is strange yet true, It takes a storm to see skies of blue. Sadness must touch the heart so deep. Before we cherish  the joy that we keep. The noise must rise, so silence speaks, Absence lingers, love it seeks. But in the end, we come to see, Life’s greatest gifts shine endlessly.