Born to slide

What double happiness as a parent in the snow! Pulling a bundle of joy behind, White slopes ahead, The air ringing with giggles. Watching the light reflected in young eyes that marvel at the world transformed. Sound muffled. Hands painfully alive. Hopes and prayers flung with wild abandon for a snow day and school closures. … More Born to slide

The Diving Pool

A place that forged me no longer exists. Stafford Leisure Centre was razed to the ground long ago, but I have such potent memories of it. Of the sparkly Blackcurrent drink that the vending machine spewed out for 35p. The inexplicable tannoy announcements of ‘211140 to Z2’, and the sillhouettes of folks walking to the … More The Diving Pool


Early morning Sun lit your strong hands as you cradled the roots. Brows knit in concentration, tenderly lowering the blooms. Patting the soil as softly as I used to dry your tiny, unfurling limbs, when this was your bath. Your deep, Brown eyes look at your handiwork, then duelling crows on our rooftop drew you … More Nurture

Oh Dear Me

I look at me three decades ago. Or you, rather. I’m unrecognisable now. Every cell thrice renewed. I wish I could take your head between my hands, Look in to your eyes and say ‘Your mind is wired strangely. Talk to people about it, in all its frenzied energy’. I would say ‘Swim every day. … More Oh Dear Me

Room of Requirement

    Now here’s a room of requirement: Loft space, bedroom, storeroom (in that order). Murals turned in to hieroglyphs. Bedding for all, from babies to the aged. The whole slowly moving family  museum as cluttered and muddled as my subconscious. Hermetically sealed, save for exploratory recce’s. As dusty yet expectant as Haversham’s gaff.   … More Room of Requirement


I love Brutalist Architecture. I love it. I love the size and the shape and the colours (or lack of colours) of it. I feel strongly about it. To me, it is anything but brutal. It is sublime and sculptural, and makes me feel immediately fascinated yet humbled whenever I see it. As an appreciator … More Brutalism


  It is not the unwrapping of trinkets. It is an unveiling of cherished times. Memories, crystalised in glass and glitter long dormant, now fresh With new discovery. Curve and colour released from winding cloths; Buried treasure rediscovered.   It is not a tree, but a pennant. Colours nailed to the mast, to glorify another year … More Unwrap