Slate

Damp moss grouts the bed Lonely slate overhead A snap of twigs underfoot Flowers wither where you lay Beating wings chime the day A sigh of grief for your loss Cold tears sign the cost

These Boots Were Made For Walking

Fear not, I don’t possess the derriere to squeeze into Daisey Dukes’ shorts and pay homage to Jessica Simpson’s remake of the old Willy Nelson song – plus it’d be a bit hypocritical to lather up someone else’s car when I can’t be bothered to wash my own.  If God wants it clean it’ll rain.... Continue Reading →

The Hand That Rocks The Cradle

Fear not, I’m not a disgraced medical professional’s widow on the warpath.  For one, the last time I went blonde I resembled a mangy rescued mongrel after having to cut out chunks of matted hair with the kitchen scissors, and secondly, my sanity can barely withstand over an hour at a soft play centre with... Continue Reading →

Mummy Guilt

I suppose the correct universal term is ‘parent guilt’ but stuff the PC brigade, I’m going to be gender specific and divulge my understanding of the blasted mummy guilt. I do concede it is an imposed assumption of wrongdoing that afflicts both parties once you take ownership of a mini-person. The truth is, my first... Continue Reading →

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