Seven Aprils ago, my first son was born. I went into hospital at the end of a long, heavy winter, and came out into a spring so bright and clear that we barely dressed those first few weeks, my transition into milk machine aided by the lack of London's usual required layers of…
There’s a moment as you cross the Strand, waiting in the scrum of tourists and city workers as buses, taxis and bikes flow by, where, if you look up…
Last night, while my sons lay safe and warm against me, listening to their bedtime story, children their age in Mariupol listened, frozen and terrified…
It’s the beginning of March, and London is a dozen shades of grey fading into a sodden sky. The tubes are on strike, the trains are overcrowded, and the…
February is the cruellest month - the new year is long gone, taking resolution and enthusiasm with it. The cosy darkness of early January, inviting…
There's no place like home, but there's no place like a motel either. Home is a cocoon weaved from love and memories, but a motel is a blank canvas, a…
I love my bed and spend most of the day fantasising about collapsing into it, but sometimes when I wake I’m disappointed to find myself still in it and…
Sometimes, winter feels like a film shot on pale, desaturated stock. There's no sunrise at dawn, just an almost imperceptible lightening of the leaden…
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Love Letters to Life