Love Letters to Life

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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…
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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…
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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…
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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…
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February is the cruellest month - the new year is long gone, taking resolution and enthusiasm with it. The cosy darkness of early January, inviting…
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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…
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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…
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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

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