At least I think it’s a spatula. It might be a fish slice, or possibly a palette knife. One of those big kitchen utensils that isn’t a wooden spoon. It’s the thing that in our house is known as the flapjack scraper. Continue reading
Almost exactly a year since I wrote this about my BFF Charlotte. She deserves another shout out.
Charlotte was my best mate while I was growing up. I found her when I was about nine or ten, and I knew instantly that she was my kindred spirit. We were both plain, gawky, too-clever-to-be-cool girls, painfully shy and full of ideas we were desperate to express. I’d never known anyone like her, and I adored her from the first.
View original post 680 more words
This is a bit of a lazy post, but I recently did that thing on Facebook where you post a new black & white photo every day for seven days. The idea was to take a photo each day of some different aspects of your life, without people or explanation. And because this blog is mainly about words, and I hardly ever share photos on here, I thought I’d bring them all together and give some of my WordPress friends an insight into my world.
Keeping her promise broke her spirit
She won’t stop playing. Same slow waltz, over and over. It’s the only time she looks happy, when she’s playing that tune. No family ever visit – she was widowed young you see – so we can’t ask them. I wish she could tell us her story, but she hasn’t said a word in years.
I couldn’t have been introduced to the poems of Thomas Hardy at a worse time. Starting my English A’Level aged sixteen, with a massive schoolgirl crush on heroic rebel poets Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon, I was not impressed with Hardy’s gentle country bumpkin reflections on the harshness of rural Dorset life. My poor English teacher was faced with a task equivalent to my parents trying to persuade me to see the merits of the Dubliners compared to the Stone Roses. I was literally about 30 years too young to get it. Continue reading