Walking The Dog

Life moves on a pace, don't it? In just a few days, I have written down more words in more places than I have done in weeks, fulfilled the role of removal man, taught Littlest how to make cassoulet, eaten more mother's day chocolate than I care to admit, scoured lists of literary agents, reduced the list of agents, resolved to shrink it more, stopped procrastinating (although, arguably, this blog is procrastination - but writing while enjoying a coffee is better than staring blankly into space while enjoying a coffee) and watched the lives of those around me evolve, as they embark upon the changes that will define their next few years. An undoubted pleasure of growing older is observing the exciting and changing lives of our younger loved ones. I feel that their lives move faster than mine did at their age. They are bombarded with instant information. Instant answers. Instant maps. Instant suggestions about where to eat, which friend is nearby, what movie is showing right n...

Those end of the day, sun setting on the horizon, heat turned up in the car because shivering would use up too much energy, sleepy drives home from school are so often punctuated with sudden 'Oh, she's not asleep then' questions that are impossible for a tired, I've had a long day at work parent to answer. Recently, I've jousted with - Do boys pick their noses in front of girls on purpose? If you have food allergies does that mean you can't have babies? Why is it okay to shave under your arms - when you have hair to shave under your arms - but not okay to shave any 'southern' hairs? ... Yep! Southern is an exact quote. I couldn't have made that one up. Actually, in case you were wondering, I didn't make the others up either. Do you believe in heaven? The believing in heaven one was today's - we started with the usual what was good, what was bad about your day questions which usually elicit an answer where the long-ago-disca...

I love this time of year. All apart from the low lying sun that makes driving an eye-watering nightmare. The days are getting longer. The sun blissfully higher. And the garden is waking from its winter slumbers. Some shrubs are busily, early flowering, like this osmanthus, covered in tiny white trumpets - It's a season full of promise - the daffodils will soon burst yellow, their dancing heads heralding spring. And, annually, reminding me of my Scottish 'Gran' who - bucket in one hand, scissors in the other - would decapitate all the spent, crisply-browning blooms. She was small and bent and dainty in her sensible shoes. This was her job. Even when slow and frail. And she did it every spring to ensure healthy blooms the following year. In a few weeks, I'll persuade Littlest (bribe her, probably) that it's a job perfect for her. I'll give her an old pair of gardening scissors and tell her about my Gran, whom she never met. Apart from the daffodils, t...