Feed on

Thank you isn’t a very difficult word to say.
It rolls off the tongue quite easily.
Thh-ang-k. yoo.

And it doesn’t cost a thing.
Not a dollar, not a penny.

Yet when it is absent,
it is most keenly felt. Continue Reading »

the rest of my time

I’ve spent a good part of the last year wishing for more time.

More time to clean that cluttered draw that bothers me.
More time to cook. Properly. Not quickie meals – but the good stuff.
More time to have coffees with friends.
More time to blog.
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the correction

I haven’t written in a long time.

Actually, that’s not exactly true.
I write nearly every day. For a living.

Let me try this again.

I haven’t written a post in a long time.

That’s better.

Where was I?

holding hands

I remember the exact place I was standing when my son reached up to hold my hand for the very first time. It was outside in the front garden, right on the path between the front door and the mail box, near the pink camellia bush.
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A writer’s greatest fear is being clichéd.
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tuesday communities

On Tuesday on Twitter someone tweets that they are having a shit day.
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i’m getting smaller

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chicken soup

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By the time you’re eighty years old you’ve learned everything. You only have to remember it. – George Burns.

My girl walks proudly on to the stage clutching her trumpet. She beams when she sees me in the audience and does one of those little low wagging of her fingers, a wave just for me. She takes her position up the back, which is disappointing because it’s difficult to see her; she’s a shorty … just like her mum. But I’ll know I’ll hear her—loud and clear. And I know what she is going to play, because I’ve heard her toot it over and over the past few weeks in preparation for the recital.

“Nonno says practice makes perfect,” my girl tells her dad and I one evening after we’d commented about a particularly long and particularly loud session of tooting. As she walks from the room her ponytail swishes, flicking up at us.

We joke about it later, when she is in bed, “Of course he wouldn’t mind all that tooting …” I say. I don’t need to continue, my husband is already laughing, knowing full well how deaf his father has become in recent years.
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