Food For Thought.

A dish that warmed my heart was my Nanna’s chicken casserole, it wasn’t haute cuisine, and in fact consisted of little more than chicken, tinned chicken soup and tinned mushroom soup, but to me it was amazing.

I think it was perhaps to do with what it meant, rather than what it was. It meant being spoilt, Sun driven adventures with cousins and brothers, days out at special places, hugs and kisses and tea dipped biscuits. It meant everything that home didn’t.

Not that home was horrible, my upbringing was amazing, but it was my holidays and weekends spent with my grandparents that will be my fondest memories, and also the reason that Cat Stevens will forever hold a place in my heart, but that is another story.


The Red Sweater.

A man and a woman walk through the park together, holding hands. They pass an old woman sitting on a bench. The old woman is knitting a small, red sweater. The man begins to cry. Write this scene.

*      *     *     *     *     *     *

Gripping Maria’s hand tighter, he allowed his tears to slip him into the memory.

The anger and sadness rose up to engulf him. The new world he had worked so hard to create faded around him, green leaves browning into charred, earthen walls destroyed by the anger and pessimism of men and women with too much power, those who were too selfish to see what their sense of righteousness did to those weaker than them.

The loud voices of children playing became desperate shouts of his comrades searching the piles of rubble for survivors.

The sounds of ball against bat and ground, became the ever echoing sounds that mimicked in his memory, that tormented him in his sleep. The loud and unrelenting pounding of bombs and artillery fire.

He saw the rubble, and the faces of the family flash before him. The desperate screams of the mother, her tears streaking through the dust that covered her once beautiful features. Fear emanated from her expression, her posture and the desperation of her words. A small child clung to her hand sobbing, unsure, knowing that something was wrong. Screaming for her brother.

Suddenly, his commander shouted that he had found someone, but one look at that little red sweater told him all he needed to know, and his heart broke…for the child who owned the sweater, for his big sister who would never know the joy of a younger brother and his mother, who having turned at his commanders shout, had collapsed over the child, grief renching out sobs. the sound of a broken heart that would never be repaired.

*     *     *     *     *     *

Maria, having felt Ted’s grip tighten, only perceived her joy. The secret that she harnessed. The warmth of the knowledge that in just a few hours she would be able to tell Ted of the beautiful creature she was growing.

A hand instinctively went to her stomach. She had waited 6 weeks before she decided to tell him. Every night she watched him toss and turn, and scream in his sleep, waking in a cold sweat. She watched, wishing she could smooth away the obvious terror and grief, wishing she new what tormented him so.

She hoped that this beautiful secret she carried would help to heal. Tears slid down her cheeks as she watched the expressions cross Ted’s face. Why did such an innocent little red sweater bring so much fear and grief?

*     *     *     *     *     *

I know I am knitting for a reason, but I can’t remember if I am knitting for someone. That is how it is sometimes since my brain left me behind. I do things I know because they comfort me, and sometimes I can do things for a reason, but I don’t often know why I am doing them.

I think I must have  a child to knit for, maybe my daughter? She is such a beautiful child. But I look at the hands doing my work, and I don’t recognise them. The wrinkles, scars and hardened skin that tells of a life that I don’t remember. I don’t even remember where I am. I came out for a walk this morning, thinking that it would be nice to knit I the sunshine. I found my way to this beautiful park.

I know my husband will be looking for me, he worries now that I have these moments. I call them my forget-me-nots. I look up and see this beautiful young couple watching me and what I am doing. Both have tears in their eyes. Do I know them? I think maybe not, they show no recognition of me, just of the sweater. It has sparked something in each of them.

My name is being called.


A man is striding rapidly towards me, worry on his face. I think he should be familiar, but he isn’t. He is old. He looks a lot like my Charlie, but older. I look down at my hands again, and think, maybe he is my Charlie. I don’t think I am young anymore. My head and heart think I am, but my hands tell a different story.

I get up slowly, and walk into his embrace, and recognise him instantly. I let him take my knitting off me, and guide me home. I feel safe in the knowledge that some things stay the same.

The Conversation.

“We need to talk.”
“Yeah, I know I have been neglectful, I have been meaning to talk to you about that..”
“No, not about that, I don’t know how to say this, I am pregnant.”

“I never wanted anymore kids.”
“It is up to you, I won’t force you either way, but I won’t abort.”
“I can’t believe you are doing this.”
“What the hell do you expect me to do?!”
“I need time to think.”

A chair scraped as she got up to leave, tears running down her cheeks, she walked away trying to maintain what little dignity she had left. Forcing herself not to look back. She knew only two things with utter certainty, that she would have this baby no matter what, and that this was the last time she would ever see him.

Person of interest or interest of person?

The most interesting person I have met this year is my son. He is two. You might wonder how this is, surely I already know him? But how can you truly know someone who is ever developing?

He is a treasure, from his big blue eyes framed by long dark lashes, to his cheeky and arrogant, dimple clad smile. It is like he already knows that this combined with his straight but unruly blonde hair and effervescent personality is a lady killer.

He has it all down pat already, one coy smile and a shuffle behind Mummy’s legs, combined with a momentary flash of his boisterous and charismatic personality, and he has them hook line and sinker. I just wish I had his skill!!!

His latest trick is pulling a chair up to the kitchen bench to reach whatever it is he has asked for and been denied. Nothing gets in this child’s way! At 13 months he was already climbing walls, and now walking is just too slow! If he could get somewhere faster than just by running he would, but for now that will have to do.

I love that every day I see a new part of him, a learn about a new part of his persona and personality. I love watching him grow, and my heart expands with pride whenever he asks if he can help a random stranger on the street and tells I am beautiful, and all with such sincerity. I wonder how I could ever meet someone more interesting…..

Dilbert the Diligent Dinosaur.


Dilbert was a dinosaur of magnificent proportions, and he is incredibly proud of this. He loved being a dinosaur, and was ever so diligent about doing it right.  After all, if you are going to do something, you should do it properly.

The problem was that because he was so diligent he had no friends! Poor Dilbert was lonely. He was so diligent about doing things properly that he ended up criticising the other dinosaurs because there was Always something they were not doing right.

Dorbert swished his tail too high.

Fredryk roared too quietly.

Sampson roared too loudly, and

Ernie, well, he just didn’t do ANYTHING.

Dilbert sighed, he just wanted them to do things right.

One day Dilbert’s mum noticed how sad and lonely he was. She took him on her knee and said

“Dilbert, I know you are diligent, and like things to be done properly, but darling, everyone is different, and we are only dinosaurs after all, and so we can’t be perfect. Maybe if you just let everyone be themselves they would like you and let you play more.”

Dilbert thought long and hard about what she had said, and in the end decided that his Mum was right. So he stopped criticising, and before long the others let him play dinoball.

Soon, everyone wanted him on their team. After all, he was very diligent, and so played everything so well, and Dilbert was never lonely again.

The Letter.

Heart thundering, tears eroding the faith that I had held. The stark black and white of the print denied that it was anything but the truth. The irreconcilable truth. These few, brief, haunting words changed my life forever. The world stopped and plunged into darkness. A stark reminder that what we have is fragile.

Memories lost and found.

My Nanna was one of those people who was forever positive. nothing could daunt her, but she also looked at the world through rose tinted spectacles. I was in awe of her and adored the holidays when I would go and stay with them for the summer. It was my time away from my brothers and time I got to spend with just her and my grandad.

She encouraged me to use my imagination in so many ways. She would often give me a title and tell me to write something from it, be it a poem or prose. I guess it is her I have to thank for my desire to write, and keep writing. I remember one of her favourite things to do was to visit stately homes (she lived din the UK) and on every such visit we would pretend we lived in that period. We would come up with these wild fantasies about what life would have been like living there.

She was also a deeply religious lady, and loved to visit churches, and just sit and take in the atmosphere. I am not religious, it is not something she managed to instil in me, but through her I developed a deep reverence for the meaning and significance of these buildings; and even today feel a deep sense of peace as I walk into a church.

My memories of her span decades, and like many of my memories are both good and bad, the worst however, is something I can take credit for, but that is another story…….

Why change what you know?

You may have noticed a change in title and tag line, and be wondering why? Well, why not? I guess I just felt that I need to mirror the purpose of this blog a little more than I had previously.

I love words, I love being able to express what I think or feel, and I love ever expanding my ability to do this. I love reaching out to people, large or small, and truly believe that if I can reach just one person, then that is one more person who enjoys what I do or say.

I don’t intend to shatter the earth or change the world as a whole. I intend to change my world. I intend to learn how to express myself and share. It is that simple.

Hence my title “Trust in Words.” I feel that at times that is where all my trust lies.

My tag line? Well, I guess it just made sense to me. Enjoy. 🙂

Anywhere in the world but here.

If I could be anywhere, where would I be? I don’t remember ever having a favourite place, a place I felt safer, and more at home than anywhere else. I have always relished change and new experiences, loved my eyes being opened wider and my heart being expanded to envelop more people and places than before.

There is no perfect place for me. I want to be where my family are, where I can grow develop and believe in myself and those around me. I don’t know if that is on a white beach with crystal blue waters lapping at it’s shore, or on a mountain peak surrounding by whispy, white clouds with cold air biting refreshingly at my skin.

People say home is where you hang your hat. For me home is where those I love are. Every place I have been can be remembered for both good and bad experiences, by warmth and trust, by safety and challenges. So, why should I want to be anywhere else than where I am right now?


Twittering voices and virulent alarms.

Echoing rings and scratching pens.

Missed lunch breaks and new heart aches.

Soft sobbing and angry angst.

Tasks truncated and needs diminished.

Short discussion and shift is finished.