I woke up this morning to the devastating news of a terror attack just a few miles away from where myself and my family had been sleeping soundly. A large-scale attack on innocent people with extremely grave consequences: 22 fatalities and scores of wounded, a third of whom are children. And that is so far.
I woke up this morning to the terrifying reality that is the world into which I am bringing my children. I needed to explain to them over their Cheerios and Weetabix that today had brought some very sad news in town, about one baddie versus a lot of goodies, about many people going to heaven together and about why and how such evil can possibly exist. I woke up this morning not well versed to have this conversation, unsure of myself and unprepared.
But as I spoke the words, in a language I hoped they would understand, I wasn’t really present. I was already consumed with how and when I would have to broach Part Two of the terrible story that was unfolding before their very innocent eyes. The part where it was revealed that this was not an isolated incident and where they might see and hear of such depraved, wicked actions and real-life evil monsters and terrifying scenes playing out over and over again in their precious lifetimes. The part where it would all sadly become the norm.
But then I woke up this morning. I woke up to the fact that this is not normal and this can never be normal. I read of homeless men cradling the dying, of the emergency services “falling as if from heaven”, of wounded women ushering other people’s children to safety. I read of queues to give blood, of hotels giving shelter, of cafes offering food, of taxi drivers turning their meters off. I read of countless more acts of selflessness, kindness, unity and love. And I realised that our city and our nation will never allow this to become normal. We will never allow ourselves to be dulled into submission, defeated by cowardly acts of terror.
This is not normal and never will be.
I woke up this morning and for that, I am truly thankful.
My thoughts and prayers go out to all those who have been affected by last night’s atrocity.
When your Mother buys you a book with 248 pages solely dedicated to transforming “your home into a permanently tidy, clutter-free space,” and with the precursor, “You’re probably not going to like this Dear,” you know you’re in trouble. Last year and crucially, last year, my Mother gifted Marie Kondo’s “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying” to me. And since last year, have I even picked it up? No way. For when my Mother, in an pre-meditated act of pseudo-kindness, bought me a Zen-shmen, Japanese sensation of a book, containing “simple and effective ways to banish clutter forever”, I had no choice but to interpret this as a tactless and underhand move, an insult plain and simple. Continue reading “The Magic of Space”
It’s Mental Health Awareness week. So let’s talk about mental health.
The truth of the matter is that 1 in 6 adults experience mental health problems in the UK. So if you’re not feeling it, then the likelihood is that someone close to you is. Continue reading “Let’s talk about Mental Health”
Roll on the Great British Bank Holiday. A delightful long weekend in which important, tired and hard-working people get to rest their weary heads, and less important but equally as tired and hard-working FTM’s get to, quite frankly, carry on regardless. A joyful time in which the Great British Public love to either a) inebriate themselves over three consecutive days, whilst manning a succession of dwindling tinfoil BBQs in the pissing rain, wearing T-shirt and shorts, b) spend quality time with husbands, wives, partners and children, engaging in cohesive and incredibly fun activities, such as Twister, Jenga and Junior Trivial Pursuit or c) a bit of both, more commonly known as boozed-up childcare in the rain. Whichever way you choose to spend your Bank Holiday though, one thing is for sure: The Great British Bank Holiday simply wouldn’t be the same without a Great British Queue.
Continue reading “The Great British Bank Holiday”
The GR has resurrected herself. Bang on cue. Just in time for Easter. It’s Day 1 of the “holidays” and her timing is impeccable once again. Her little-black-cloak has been dry-cleaned, in honour of the numerous jollifications planned and her scythe has been sharpened, ready to strike anyone or anything that, quite frankly, has the audacity to Gd’dam breathe. Approach at your own risk.
Continue reading “The Resurrection”
I had procrastinated long enough. Summer, winter. Ready, not ready. It didn’t matter. There was never going to be a good time. Hickory dickory dock. The tick tock of the clock was beginning to rattle my cage. I had avoided the issue long enough. Now there were only 39 days until B day and the number 3 was on my mind. But what could be so fearsome as to warrant the complex web of excuses [forward-slash, “delay tactics”], that I’d spun myself? I’d been there and done it all before, so what was the big drama? Well, apparently everyone else around me had also been there and done it all before me. And as if that wasn’t enough, even my own social media sites were on board, prodding me with unnervingly omniscient pop-ups peddling subliminal messages, such as: “Start potty training for the most stubborn child in 3 days flat”.
There was nothing subliminal about that. Continue reading “Knicker-Bocker Glory”
Decision making is not one of my talents. Big ones, small ones – you name it, resolute decisions are just not my bag. And when it comes to having to actually make them, I can usually be found perched on the fence, dithering between the varying shades of green on either side. Decisive I am not. Continue reading “Trust me, I’m your Instinct”