Whispers and Wanderings

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...