Tuesday, May 20

on returning to my room I'm met by a cloud of rosy bergamot - my morning cup of tea has filled the room

Tuesday, February 11

The squirrel draws a delicate wavy line across the lawn with its body and luxurious tail as it heads towards the bird feeder. The rain is soaking everything. Downstairs the hoover screams.

Monday, February 10

bubbles and pain and grief rise up, triggered by something that is nothing. i sit on the stairs and wait for them to pass.

Sunday, February 9


she sprays at the ice on her windscreen as if making a piece of art

Saturday, February 8


she tells us again the story of when she met her husband, the story of when the naughty teenagers ran through her garden, the story of the bats, the story of when he was called up during the war. most of the objects in her house are older than me.

Friday, February 7

sometimes all children (even the quiet ones) are too noisy

Thursday, February 6

my empty stomach speaks to me in a low voice. the radio sings and soothes.

Wednesday, February 5

Tuesday, February 4

translucent heart, light streaming through, a pink butterfly cyclamen just alighted

Monday, February 3

we are held up for an hour as the Albion football fans file out. there are rows of indian sweet shops and exquisite glittering saris and suits for princes. all these people and their lives.

Sunday, February 2

this morning's gift

two leaves on the front doormat - stalks looking suspiciously like tails

Saturday, February 1

Friday, January 31

these ruched velvety carnations, the colour of ripe plums

Thursday, January 30

curled up just outside the office in her usual favourite spot, I can hear her deep metronomic purrs from here

Wednesday, January 29

I buy a scone because they say 'vegan' and I don't see that word very often in cafes. I don't really have any room for the scone. I eat it and it is delicious. My too-full stomach panics and I continue eating.

Tuesday, January 28

I still haven't gone out into the garden to see those hellebores...

Monday, January 27

logging on, I'm dismayed to see that my last small stone was written five days ago...

Sunday, January 26

as we meditate
Fatty attacks
my service book
and puts his claws
right through

Saturday, January 25

from here I can see the hellebores have come out, white heads nodding. it's too cold to go out and look into their faces. or rather not too cold, but my spirit is unwilling.

Friday, January 24

two hours writing in a coffee-shop
the words spilling across the pages
loosening knots, the beginnings 
of seismic shifts

Wednesday, January 22

Tuesday, January 21

marketing day

drowning in tweets & status updates
I stop and sip tea until I find my way back to myself

Monday, January 20

a pigeon wandering about on next door's flat roof, which sparkles with thick frost and ice. another silhouetted on the street lamp down the road, all misty greys behind it. a third in the eucalyptus, the tree's bark hanging down like burnt shredded skin.

Sunday, January 19

old cat sits upright on my lap and puts a paw around my arms so he can be closer to me. the purring doesn't stop. I can feel the bones in his back.

Saturday, January 18

pulling crisp beige spears from the potted tree in my room. too much water or not enough?

Friday, January 17

strands of spider-silk join the tip of the fern's leaf to the plant pot. cleaning away webs always feels mean.

Thursday, January 16

Wednesday, January 15

Tuesday, January 14


leg muscles tremble, my palms deposit a slick of slippery sweat on the mat. my breath gets louder. I try to look up at the ceiling, praying I won't topple.

Monday, January 13


birdsong slides through the cracked-open window. the radiator accompaniment is the bass-drone of water pushed through pipes. a train crashes through, leaving a trail of stillness.