There was a fair bit of denial over the course of last evening. Denial and swears. And chocolate. With some wine to take the sting off. I blame the polls for getting my hopes up. And my own stupid self for not floating outside my leftie, social consciencey, feminist, anti-phobe, social-media bubble and having a look around at what the other folk were talking about.
A puppy turned up at our place on Saturday. A pudgy, floppy-earred, jumpy-licky, short-wheel-based pup with no sense of boundaries or outliving its welcome.
But because my brain is undeniably a right prick at times, I can’t get her question out of my head. Why can’t that poor little hedgehog talk? Seriously, what is the criteria for making it into the talking animal stakes in Peppa Pig?
Generally speaking, I am one of those people who needs to be feeling like death before I go anywhere near a doctor. Even then, if I think it’s death by virus, standard practice is paracetamol and a healthy dose of avoidance. Partly it’s a hallmark of being a teacher; the preparation of relief work while feverish is just about as…
We have a chequered history, Mother’s Day and I. My first and second were right shitters, if we’re being honest.
Most of us, if we’re lucky, had at least one friend during our young life whose house became a home away from home, whose parents became surrogates, whose siblings were just as infuriating as our own.
In this age of individuality, where subjectivity is King and anyone’s opinion and perspective is as valid and correct as anyone else’s, it seems like we’ve lost sight of the fact that there are, indeed, facts. Things that cannot really be contested, no matter who you are and what your experience may be.
Activewear enthusiasts, I have judged you harshly. And I was wrong.
You’re sitting through one of those excruciating meetings that should have been an email. Its topic is something that you care little about, and that matters in the grand scheme of things not at all.
Last week I made a life changing decision.
No exaggeration. Life. Changing.
Something that has struck me, simple and yet profound, is the fact that even though my nightly route doesn’t change, I almost always notice some new detail or variation or fragment of beauty as I walk along.
So, I’ve always been ‘the capable one’. Could read before I hit school, glowing reports once I got there, selected for school councils, award for diligence at the end of the third form, two scholarships at the end of seventh. You know, THAT kid. Capable.