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THE DOTAGE DIARIES – I’ve Finally Joined the Craft Club

So how come I can remember what my homework was when I was eleven and I can't remember which floor of the multi-story car park I left my car an hour earlier? Decreased blood flow to the brain, apparently, so I’m off to see if I can remember how to stand on my head to precipitate a rush of blood to my brains.

GOW on the Beach

Today I was on the same beach I frolicked on almost 30 years ago. Those heady, carefree days I spent topless, chasing a frisbee, unaware that my pert little orbs were flying free. My svelte, flawless, bronzed body, glided across the ochre coloured sands and dived effortlessly into the Atlantic rollers. Occasionally, I would lie... Continue Reading →

Happy Friday… peonies and all…

I was unceremoniously woken by a clap of thunder. When I looked out of my bedroom window, Storm Miguel was battering my peonies and the rest of the garden, which was shaping up to be our best horticultural endeavour ever.

THE PATH TO PORTLINESS: Don’t Let it Happen to You

How I wish I'd had a chat with my svelte younger self about eating healthily and told them to keep an eye on things.  All too soon, your pert breasts and your taut butt take off on their journey south without you realising.

LIFE: An Appreciation

I watched the sunrise yesterday, as I often do. My writing day starts at dawn. It’s the time of day my brain seems to creatively engage. I threw back the curtains to greet the dawn on the day that marked yet another year since my arrival on the planet.

LIFE AFTER LEAVE

With just 41 days and counting... nobody said leaving the EU was going to be easy, but nobody said it was going to be a complete musical hall farce either.

Getting to Grips with being…

After three and a half years of my life and 92,000 words, I'm not going to allow my novel to wallow in the slushy stigma of rejection and, whatever it takes, I'm going to make it grabbable.  

I've known about the Two Minute Grab Zone for quite some time and it's time I got to grips with it.

Living the Ex-Pat Dream

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.

Basic Organic Charm

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.

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