Whispers and Wanderings

Born into a working‑class family in the 1970s, I was raised in a time when boys were expected to become 'providers', to be independent, practical, and work‑ready. Daughters, however, were expected to balance work with housework and family life. By the time I left high school, these ideas were beginning to loosen, but in my immediate family, at least, the expectations around what a girl should become were still firmly in place. These ideas shaped everything. How we behaved, the books we read (my favourite was Every Girl’s Handbook), the subjects we were encouraged to study, the careers we were steered toward, even the chores we were given at home. Like many children then, my sisters and I were raised by our Mum whilst our Dad, an electrician by trade, was the breadwinner. As a result, our 'preparation for life' revolved around the kitchen sink and the ironing board. We were Girl Guides taught to “think of others before ourselves and do a good turn every day.” When Dad wa...

There's a butterfly on the door tonight. Its arrival was sudden, but its meaning is unmistakable. Its scarlet wings are vibrant and bright, yet also, somehow, ethereal against the stark wooden door.  Their shimmer defies the dim light of the corridor.  The eyespots on the tip of its wings are an iridescent blue edged in purple.  They are mesmerising and I get the sense that they are watching me.  I stand for a brief time meeting their gaze. I push open the door.  You are lying between fresh white sheets. You are still.  Silent and serene, surrounded by your nearest and dearest. I sit with them. I am one of them.  Gentle banter breaks out between us, your favourite tunes are the backdrop to our quiet conversations. The butterfly remains - silent - guarding the door against intrusion. The melancholic sound of a clarinet arrives too soon, haunting the air like a waiting phantom. A stranger stands on the shore.  It is you.  You are gazing out to ...

THE FORCE There's a shift in the force today,               brought on by a bad dream.                            I put on my armour.                                     I'm not going to scream.  Instead I will shower                 and welcome the day                                                  and wait for the moment                                         these thoughts go away. And if darkness finds me,                  I'll push it away.       ...

With my oldest child turning 40 this month, it’s perfectly possible that the reflections that follow, have emerged as a response to this milestone in both our lives.  I wonder if you can relate to my experience.  Are there times when you look at your face in a mirror, in a photograph, or when taking a selfie, and suddenly you catch a glimpse of your younger self?  A part of you that you thought had faded away. Do you see a face which is both yours and not yours. A face which is softened by the years that you didn’t feel passing. Do you ever find yourself studying the creases on your skin - the wrinkles which have appeared silently, slowly and without announcement? Do you ever catch a glimpse of the spark that once was, and somehow still is? In The Selfie I am trying to capture that moment - the one when you really look at yourself, when you simultaneously see who you were and who you are now. THE SELFIE My mobile’s at arm’s length, What do I see? Whose is that face...

It is eight years since I first wrote this piece after nervously dipping more than just a toe into the world of Aqua Aerobics. It still makes me smile to read it back. Since then, time has marched on, fashions in swimwear have come and gone, and I am very pleased to report that both my sense of humour and my wobbly bits remain very much intact. Re-reading it now, I am reminded that some things never really change: public changing rooms are still a trial, enthusiastic female pensioners are still the undisputed queens of the pool, and there is still something wonderfully liberating about flinging oneself about in chlorinated water in the company of strangers who could not care less what size costume you wear. So as I repost this in 2026, it is with the benefit of eight more years of life, laughter and aquatic misadventure behind me, here is my original account of that memorable splash into poolside fitness.  This post is dedicated with love to my Aunty, my partner in Aqua Aerobics fo...

This story was originally written in December 2018 at a time when the feelings behind it were very new and raw. "She Stayed Until She Vanished" came from a place I wasn’t ready to share then. It was too painful, too tangled up with my own life to share. So I left it unfinished, telling myself that one day I’d come back to it. This is that day! A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since this piece was first written, and the woman I was then sometimes feels like a memory, familiar but also far away. With that distance, I now see Emma’s Story for what it is: part fiction, part experience, written in a way that helped me make sense of the things I didn’t quite have the words for at the time. Some of what she feels, I felt. Some of what she lived, I lived. And some of it is the story I needed to tell to be able to understand myself better. Now, with a clearer perspective and some small amendments, this is Emma’s story. However it also carries pieces of me, and perhaps, piece...