Not all Clara's experiences are mine – she's more than happy to borrow from friends if it makes for a good story. And she absolutely acknowledges being heavily – she's more than happy to embroider or borrow from friends if it makes for a good story. Clara is a big fan of Cecily – her influence may be evident.
For most of the seventh form, my best friend Eva and I spent every French class in the common room playing 500 with whoever was around, bidding, winning and losing tricks. None of the other seventh formers commented. Perhaps they didn’t notice.
Pink things are sneaking their way into my bathroom and my wardrobe. And I’m growing curiouser and curiouser about why.
My mother reads out the list she’s made of her aches and ailments for the psycho-geriatrician to fix: the discomforts and infirmities of old age are not okay. She wants to be back playing golf, playing bowls and cards, physically able and mentally agile; not nearly ninety, frail and failing.
Beneath the self-congratulations and thankfulness that we can hug family and friends and relax these summer holidays without the worry of catching Covid, anxiety rocks and tumbles in my mind like the towels in my front-loading dryer.
It’s been a long time since I really cried. I used to be in tears regularly, every three-and-a half weeks like clockwork, but not since my monthly cycles stopped, not since my husband started taking antidepressants. If someone close to me dies or I’m at a funeral there’ll be tears. And if, God forbid, something … Continue reading No more tears
The poppies that grew in my grandfather’s quarter-acre garden were bedraggled specimens. Each individual plant sat apart, marooned in its own patch of dull brown soil. Similarly the lemon trees dotted around the grassy lawn were like respectable neighbours who preferred to keep at arm's length. The lemon trees had the attraction of glossy leaves … Continue reading Of poppies and passionfruit
If you think you've come across seen this before in my blog, you're pretty much correct; it revisits the same territory as my earlier piece called 'To Dubrovnik and Beyond' but I hope in a more engaging style.
"Everywhere you go, there you are." (Attributed to Confucius)
I'd intended to write a daily journal of an ordinary life through this uncharted time but it hasn't happened. Instead, two weeks into lockdown, the prevailing impression is of the quiet.