A personal essay, first published by Headland in issue 16, November 2021: I edge closer, close enough to read the words in the thought bubble in the larger-than-life comic book painting. “I DON’T CARE! I’D RATHER SINK THAN CALL BRAD FOR HELP!"
Pink things are sneaking their way into my bathroom and my wardrobe. And I’m growing curiouser and curiouser about why.
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
"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.
Lists are not the bane of my life, far from it. Without lists, my life would be as bereft as a day without music, as soulless as a world with books, and as empty as a fridge without cheese.