Whispers and Wanderings

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 ike a waiting phantom. A stranger stands on the shore.  It is you.  You are gazing out to s...

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...

This is an adaptation of a poem that I wrote over 30 years ago. I have made a few tweaks to it and added a final verse. The foodie frame was created by Microsoft Copilot but the poem itself is all my own work. Hope it makes you smile. 😀

I CAN FIND NO TEARS I can find no tears now that you have gone, Even though I know you have passed on. I cannot hear your voice or your demands, I cannot see your face or hold your hands. I can find no tears since saying goodbye, There are just not any there for me to cry. I cannot wish you back - your pain would stay, And I could not ask you live your life that way. I want to find the tears to communicate, This numb and empty feeling which I hate. I send a message to your silent phone, But never see the thumbs up, which says I'm not alone. Dad, you are gone and somewhere wait the tears. The memories of you, all my hopes and fears. So I listen to the music you enjoyed, Hoping that each beat will stitch this void. One day the tears may find their way to me, In the garden, breeze or rustle of a tree. Until that day, I’ll carry what I can - The love, the loss, the shadow of the man. Although my eyes stay dry, my heart still knows, The weight of every memory that it holds. A father...

image created by MS Copilot In our hotel room, the curtains hang, like two 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 a mix of the week that has passed and 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?" Beyond the door, the small enclosed balcony feels like a threshold; a no man's land, an inbetwee...

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...

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.                                                              

This is a story about the things we fear most when the night falls and the world goes quiet.  The Uninvited  is inspired by a series of weird dreams and a very real moment in my life. One that I will probably never forget.  I’d just come home from hospital after being taken ill from work and was meant to be taking things easy. It had been a lazy day and I wasn't sleepy, so I was sitting up in bed with only the light from my tablet keeping me company. It was 2am and I was about to settle down to sleep when I heard noises downstairs. At first I thought I was hearing things but it soon became apparent that I had an intruder!  At this point I have to confess that I had failed to lock my patio doors. I know that an unlocked door does not give anyone the right to come into my home without an invitation but I do feel more than a little foolish. Anyway, believe me when I say that I will now always but always check my doors before going to bed!  Happy reading! THE UNINVI...

This story is dedicated to Lesley O, and also to anybody who has ever hugged a tree. The idea first seeded itself during a Sunday morning walk through Astley Park, long before COVID. A passing conversation about what the aged trees must have witnessed during their long years sparked my imagination, and I remember saying, half jokingly, that one day I would write a story told by a tree. Lesley, probably won’t even remember that conversation - she was politely bemused by my ramblings at the time (and also in mild shock after a rogue swan chased us away from it's nest). With the environment being such a concern and the value of life, in any form, seeming so cheap, I wanted this piece to be "of its time" and to reflect the world as I see it today. So, with ideas from The Secret Lives of Trees, the quote which follows by Cristen Rodgers and the influences of countless magical trees from childhood, what follows is, in a small way, a completion of that conversation. "Listen...

This short story was my latest piece of “homework” for The Chorley Creative Writing Collective. I didn’t make it to the meeting to share it with the group, so I thought I’d share it with you instead. The brief given was to "write a story about your first experience of an illicit substance.” Mine began as a memory of my first puff on a cigarette, but as the words came, it grew into something else - a small coming-of-age tale, full of awkwardness, rebellion, and bad hair. As clichéd as the following narative may be, I hope that it makes you smile. Researching 1981 (the backdrop for this story) took me back to the days of MTV, my first CD player, the epic Texan soap opera that was Dallas and also, who can forget the wonder of shoulder pads and stone-washed jeans! I hope you enjoy my little story. Perhaps, you'll recognise something of yourself in it, or that it will raise a wry smile? If not, please feel free to join me in rolling your eyes at my 11-year-old self! BACKCOMBED HAIR...