Whispers and Wanderings

Born 15th March 1947, had she not been taken from us in 2012, my Mum, Valerie Withnell, would have been 78 years of age today.  It seems like ages since I spoke her full name out loud and it feels so poignant to write it now. However, though she is gone, she is not forgotten. Whenever I meet with family, she is remembered, talked about, laughed about and yes, still cried about too.  Anyway I decided to republish a post I wrote in October 2018 on the 6th anniversary of her death, in commemoration of her. The poem which proceeds the blog was written, by me, for her funeral in 2012 and is titled "You are not here - are you? You are not here. Yet sometimes I hear your voice in the trees And feel your presence in the wind. You are not here. Yet sometimes I see my sister wear your smile Or your face in a crowd. You are not here and yet, when I wake, my first thoughts are of you And you stand by my side through the day. You are not here, but the words that you’ve said give me strengt...

First published - August 03, 2019 In a far off time in a nearby place, on a beach with their bare feet being lapped by the sea and hands clasped together, stand a man and a woman.  They are not old but neither are they young and, though their faces show the lines of life's tribulations, their eyes are still bright.   As I sit on the rock close by, I watch as they talk to each other in hushed tones, as they embrace and as he wipes away a stray tear which rolls down her cheek.  He gently cups her face between his two still strong hands and kisses her tenderly. As she turns her head, I can now see lines of pain etched on her face and, for the briefest moment, the brightness fades from her eyes. He sees it too and takes a sharp intake of breath as his heart seems to stop momentarily.  Still holding hands they turn and begin to walk slowly across the sand. She stumbles and he quickly adjusts his arms to take the weight of her failing body and he whispers words of com...

Originally posted - 12 May, 2019 Having decided, earlier this week, that it was way past time for my favourite cardigan to be consigned to the bin, I now find myself feeling bereft. That cardigan, though bobbled, plucked and a little bit holey, has seen me through good times and bad. It has covered my flabby bits, kept me warm on cold nights and it's long sleeves have, on occasion, been available to wipe away my tears. This empty feeling is in stark contrast to the relief and joy I felt when returning home from work on Thursday and disposing of a recently purchased pair of knickers. These knickers, whilst very pretty and modern - a lovely blue colour with a thin orange line on the waistband, a quirky little mexican cactus emblem on the left hand side and some tiny orange buttons up the front, were a form of self flagellation and I had very nearly whipped them off and gone commando by 10am! Every time I shifted in my seat they kept 'riding up' and it is no exaggeration to sa...

I have to confess an interest in the use of androids in film and literature, particularly where they are used to represent our hopes and fears, or to explore what it is to be human. Who amongst us is not aware of Isaac Azimov's Three Rules of Robotics or has not been moved by the "Tears in the Rain" monologue from Bladerunner? This short piece of writing, has been inspired by films such as Bicentennial Man, Bladerunner and the books "Machines like Me" by Ian McEwan and "Klara and the Sun" by Kasuo Izoguro. Oh yes, and let's not forget Star Trek, The Next Generation's own, Mr Data - founder of the feast.