Earlier this week I celebrated a birthday with a round of French 75s, a hot bath and an eye mask. I know, hardly rock &
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So all my presents are bought, wrapped and ready to go. Cards have been written. Homemade mince pies are stashed in the freezer.
Poor Prof. Kelly, trying to keep a straight face during a live TV interview about South Korean politics, knowing that behind him his children have crashed the party.
Normally, I write a weekly post for this blog fairly late at night. But given that I’ve now got an extra half hour in the mornings I never knew I had, I thought I’d write this one early.
24 years ago today, at 6.05pm, I met a boy in the fields behind our respective houses. We walked to a nearby lake, where he smoked a Turkish cigarette and I tried not to appear too keen.
There is a dance routine that I have perfected over the years. It is set to Queen’s ‘Fat Bottomed Girls’ and is performed in the kitchen at times of extreme stress or emotion to my favourite audience: my three children.
