Portugal, for me, is sensory overload; whatever the time of year and after visiting for twenty-six years, it is time to make it my home.
I don't think my mother read any of my literary contributions since I had poetry published at eleven when she had high hopes that I would become Gloucestershire's answer to William Wordsworth. Oh, and helping my step-father piece together his aeronautical autobiography, of course.
I am someone who is a firm believer in drawing a line under things from the past, you can't go back and change them, so there is no point dwelling on them. But... I do dwell on one thing though and that is not finding out more about family members who either died before I was... Continue Reading →
She still tried to make an effort on the fashion front but, tottering around in ridiculously high heels every day, was beginning to take a toll on her ankles.