Is it really a Happy New Year?
I’m back, bitches.
And yes, I just swore. If you didn’t like it please move on. This is the new me. Not necessarily a swearier new me but a new me that takes more action and overthinks less.
I haven’t written on Medium for some months but I’m back with avengance (let’s see how long it lasts, eh?). Last Spring, in the few months I wrote consistently, I earned about £400 a month. It was hard work but I enjoyed the personal therapy of writing about whatever I wanted rather than being tied…
For as long as I can remember I’ve been hustling.
As a kid I would spend hours making gift wrap labels, greetings card and painting ceramics then persuade my mum to get me a stall at the local Christmas fairs.
I did chores for pocket money.
I wrote poems and puzzles for the kids’ section of my local town newspaper. They paid me £3 a week in WHSmiths vouchers.
When I was old enough to get a job, I always had several. I waitressed, bartended, worked in call centre, worked in a clothes store.
For as long as I can…
Those of you that read my stories will know that a few weeks ago I was alerted to my daughter’s sexy photographs.
It was a stressful situation but we got past it and everything settled down.
Now it’s all blown up again. My weary heart sinks.
It’s unfortunate for her because I think the things we’ve discovered now actually date from the same time period as the sexy pictures incident, possibly even from before that time.
But because we’ve just discovered this now we’re having to deal with it now.
This is what happened…
Just like the last time my…
‘Check yourself after you’ve been running around in the fields,’ I shout to my kids every time we go off for a family walk. ‘You can get a tick in the countryside! They give you Lyme disease!’
We’ve lived in the English countryside for three years now and with rambling fields and woodlands at the back of our house, we go for lovely long walks most weeks.
We’re even getting a dog to help us get our backsides out there every day because we love it so much but don’t walk as much as we should.
But beyond hollering at…
Please know that this isn’t a moan. It’s an observation and an acknowledgement. I suspect that lots of you are also dealing with this too.
I am incredibly lucky and absolutely appreciative of my life.
Albeit I am currently a bit cheesed off that my husband is out playing golf while I try to juggle the insanity that is my average day.
Recently a friend and work colleague emailed me to apologise for being late in submitting some work to me. …
For about three years I’ve been preparing for a big project. A once in a lifetime project. There have been hours of discussions and meetings, then finally this year the right time came for things to start moving. More hours were spent creating samples, presentations and proposals.
I’m a freelance consultant and the company I’m working with paid me for for my samples and proposal. This meant that should the project be declined at board level, I would at least have been paid something for my time and effort.
At first the project was part-accepted, part-declined. My contact at the…
I don’t remember when I first noticed them. Maybe a couple of years ago now. Maybe not quite that long.
After a long day at the computer, my wrists were aching, and as I rolled them around and rubbed each with the opposite hand I noticed distinct lumps on the top of them.
Both of my wrists look like this when I bend them in this position:
Sherlock Holmes poured a cup of coffee and looked at his visitor. ‘How can I help you today, Dr Mortimer?’ he asked.
Dr Mortimer looked at Holmes. ‘As you know, I work as a family doctor in a remote part of Dartmoor, near Baskerville Hall. I would like to tell you an ancient legend from that place.’
Dr Mortimer began his story. ‘The legend is from the time of Charles I, over two hundred and fifty years ago. The Baskerville estate was owned by Sir Hugo Baskerville. One stormy night, Sir Hugo kidnapped the daughter of a local farmer. She…
It was a rainy afternoon when I went to visit my detective friend, Sherlock Holmes. The walk was quite short, and I was soon at Baker Street.
As I walked through the door, I saw that Holmes had a visitor. The visitor was a large older man with hair as red as fire.
‘You are just in time Watson,’ said Holmes. ‘This is Mr Wilson. He has been telling me about some unusual events. His story is very interesting.’
Holmes turned back to his visitor, ‘Please Mr Wilson, do start again and tell my friend Watson your story.’
Roberta (whom everyone called ‘Bobbie’), Peter and Phyllis lived near London, with their father and mother, in a red brick house with a big green front door. Their mother read them stories and helped with their homework. Their father was kind and always ready for fun. They were all perfectly happy until one day a dreadful change came into their lives.
Late one evening two men called to see their father. Then father left with them. Their mother looked upset and was as white as a sheet. She asked the children just to be good and not to ask questions.
Writer. Creator. Mother. Wife.