Whispers and Wanderings

The idea for The Door first came to me after a work's night out just before Christmas 2012. I can't lie, a glass or two of festive cheer had been consumed by all concerned, and this was probably the catalyst for the deep, late-night chat that followed between myself and my two besties.  Little did I know at the time that what my friends were going through would, some years later, become part of my story too. The Door is a short poem about the internal battle faced by those who have been hurt by past relationship failures. It's about the moment when part of you wants to explore the possibility of a new relationship but fear stops you from doing so. More than a decade later, I've dusted off the poem, given it a few tweaks, and here it is. Dedicated to those two special friends, with love and thanks for their support and continued friendship. You know who you are! THE DOOR  Leave love waiting too long at the door, and longing learns a different shape. What was once a dre...

Thoughts on Grief, Hope, and the Seasons We Carry The sun crosses the equator at 1:05 am on 23 September 2026, bringing a fleeting moment of balance between day and night. (thanks Google).  For those of us living north of that invisible line, astronomical autumn will arrive, encouraging us to get out our jumpers and fluffy socks and whispering in our ear “Right then, snuggle up, let’s get comfy.” The Autumn Equinox is often a moment which passes me by unnoticed, but this time it seems determined to bring the year into perspective.  I usually save this kind of reflection for New Year’s Eve, when I’m armed with a glass of the red stuff and a list of unrealistic resolutions - usually to do with weight loss and doing more exercise. But, just lately, I’ve been living in my own private equinox.  My own inner seasons have been shifting and I find that I am looking back at everything that has passed while trying to imagine what the next chapter might hold for me. As many of you w...

I wheel out my mower beneath the sky, As small puffy clouds glide gently by. My lawn is small, not much to do, Just a few grassy lengths to push through. The motor hums; the world disappears, And I forget my night-time fears. The cut green grass breathes out its scent, And somehow all my cares are spent. Then comes the breeze, with naught to say, It kisses my skin, takes my worries away. Brushing my arms, and through my hair, A cool, clean current everywhere. It lifts the weariness from me, And leaves me lighter, glad and free. For just a moment, in that breeze, I feel much better; more at ease. The leaves whisper softly overhead, Reminding me of words unsaid. I guide the mower, turn once more, The same small patch I’ve mown before. At last I switch the engine off, And with one final whirring cough. The lawn lies neat, the air is clear, And all my cares just disappear.  It’s only grass, and summer air, Yet somehow peace has found me there. I wind the cable, put the mower away, Then...

This poem was inspired by a brief getaway to Flaxton with my sister and brother-in-law. It was a longer journey than anticipated, the motorway was busy with holiday makers, roadworks and heavy goods vehicles, so on arrival we just sat relaxing outside the caravan observing the comings and goings on site. Glass of wine in hand, Helen and I talked as Phil dozed in the heat of the afternoon. As I watched the clouds sailing slowly through the sky, I spotted one that looked exactly like a single, perfect snow white feather.  As I pointed it out to Helen, my mind drifted back to childhood. To Mum telling us that some people believe a white feather to be message sent from heaven or a message of comfort and of hope. Readers of my writing will know that Mum died a number of years ago, but with Dad having just left us, the sight of that feather felt less like a coincidence and more like a reminder of them both - perhaps a message that we are never truly alone. We sat beneath the Yorkshire sk...

Benidorm was never on my wish list of places to visit. But after Dad’s passing this year, everything changed. When Helen and Phil decided to join Dawn and Chris on their annual holiday, they invited me to tag along. Somehow, I knew I needed to be a part of it. The generation above us has disappeared. With no one left to call Mum or Dad, the three of us have suddenly become the older generation. It’s a profound realisation - one that makes you look at your family and realise how easily you can drift apart if you don't make the effort to stay close. So this holiday became our way of doing exactly that.  It wasn't a pilgrimage. It wasn't especially sentimental. It was just five people who have known one another for decades deciding to spend a week together. To laugh, to remember and to make new memories. I arrived as the only single traveller, dubious of our destination and determined not to get in the way of my sisters' enjoyment by being the gooseberry. I needn't hav...

MIRAGE Hair and Beauty   There's a little shop in Euxton, Just on Runshaw Lane. I visit at the weekend, And I'm always glad I came. There's Sarah, Brooke and Hannah, And Charlotte, bright as day. With smiling faces, caring hands, They always find a way. There's music, laughter, friendly chat, Fresh coffee, biscuits too. A place where you feel welcome, The moment you walk through. With colours, cuts and styling, Bleach, waxing, nails with care, A little touch of pampering, And kindness everywhere. You leave feeling refreshed, renewed, With confidence unfurled. A brighter heart, a lighter step, Ready to face the world. I love my little visits, Each one a special treat. You leave with brighter hair, perhaps, But lighter on your feet.

Recently, my son Martin picked me up so we could go for a coffee and to catch up on the weeks events. As I settled into my seat, I noticed that we had another passenger. Sitting behind him was an old brown teddy bear, which he immediately gave me to hold. During our journey, Martin spoke animatedly about his latest acquisition, referring to it as a "Blitz Bear." I had never heard this phrase before but Martin went on to explain its provenance.  The bear had been reconditioned, it had no identifying label, but judging by his shape, coarse coat, and fixed limbs and head, it is thought to be 90 - 100 years old. What seemed like a simple toy immediately became much more interesting as Martin shared the story behind it. Martin has a keen interest in aviation and wartime history. Through his popular Instagram page, " flying_with_martin ", he regularly shares photographs, research, and stories from the world of historic aviation with a large and enthusiastic following. Our...

" When the sun slips behind the clouds all the heather turns purple and then, just for a moment, when the sun drops behind the hill, the whole moor turns into a sea of gold.... they call it pauper's gold, because no rich man could ever own such beauty. "   This quote is taken from the 1996 BBC1 adaptation of The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Brontë.  "Pauper's Gold" seemed to me to be such a beautiful and evocative phrase. To represent those treasures that cannot be bought or stolen - the fleeting beauty of a sunrise or sunset perhaps, or freedom, nature, love...  I have tried to encapsulate some of my thoughts in this short poem. I hope you enjoy it.  PAUPER'S GOLD You drift in sunset over hills,  too soft to call your own. A shift of colour in the air,  a hush the wind has blown. No hand can hold the way you move,  no hedge can mark your place. But something lingers in your eyes,  A trace no wealth could chase. The light is different wher...

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...

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. 😀