Posts in ponder
Chapter Two

If January is the misplaced month, then February is the fickle one. It gives with one hand and snatches back with the other. We wait patiently for it to arrive throughout the inconspicuous days of January, hoping that when it comes, it will bring with it discernible signs of spring. And yet, more often than not, we find ourselves held hostage in the relentless grip of winter. But if we take the time to look, we will see that February is actually a plucky little month; one full of courage and determination. For underneath the silver-thatched grass and iron-clad earth, the cycle of the seasons is well underway.

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A Month of Januarys

January is a misplaced month because it falls at the wrong time of year for us to start afresh. For most of us, the new year heralds a much-longed for turning point. It is the moment at which we begin all over again but with a renewed vigour, an unwavering determination and with the knowledge gained from the year before. In an age when convenient living has determined our lifestyles, for most of us, the new year’s resolution will be health-based, whether that is to exercise more or to eat a better diet. But when it comes to making those fundamental changes, January is no friend, indeed in my experience, January is very much a foe.

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A Dresser of Tales

For me, the thought of living in a house without a dresser is akin to living without a beating heart. It is incongruous to the very reverence of home. To be without one would be like a bibliophile living in a house without a bookcase or a painter inhabiting a room with no light. It is simply incomprehensible to me. My entire life can be plotted and recorded through an array of kitchen dressers over the years, all different in style and date but all documenting the life I have lived so far. Because in essence that is what a dresser is. It is a tangible photo album, a tactile journal of the discoveries and dreams of its owner.

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Adjusting the Sails

A while ago, a calligrapher friend of mine gifted me the most beautiful card on which were written the words, ‘We cannot direct the wind but we can adjust the sails’. I taped this postcard to the green cupboard just above my kitchen sink and each time I went to open the door, the words would resonate in my head. As time went by, slowly and imperceptibly these words became my mantra. We all had to make changes to our lives last year. For some of us, those changes came easily and we learnt a lot about ourselves in the process. But for others, sailing in a new direction became perilous, especially as our boat turned away from the horizon and the endless dark and cavernous sea surrounded us.

I remember feeling quite daunted by how much time I had at my disposal. I would often wonder whether you could actually have too much time. Long days of little things sounded idyllic but in reality there were too many gaps in the day through which I could fall and become underwhelmed by nothingness.

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Our Daily Thread

So there we were, my mother and I, sitting on the floor of her bedroom, going through her wardrobe, taking out one item of clothing at a time and recollecting an occasion when we remembered her wearing it. What sticks in my memory now so many years after was how compact her wardrobe was. She didn’t have a lot of clothes, just the key pieces that every woman should have or would need. She owned a capsule wardrobe long before the term became fashionable. Of course we cried, but my word we laughed too. My grandmother was part of a literary set when she lived in Knightsbridge and had hats that would make a modern milner gasp. My mother insisted on putting them on and posing, it was bittersweet, but far more sweet than bitter. And then I spotted it. The coat. The Aquascutum Trench Coat. Together we tried to calculate how many years she’d had it. My mother remembered her buying it in Regent Street when she was a young woman. But what fascinated me the most was how immaculate it was. This was not a coat she saved for Sunday best, my grandmother didn’t really believe in Sunday best, no this was a coat she wore every year, from the start of every spring until the first falling leaves of every autumn.

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Beer and Skittles

Christmas. Undoubtedly my favourite time of year. From as early as September it starts to occupy my thoughts. It becomes my main focus for the following three months. As the days darkern, my excitement starts to build. I begin introducing aspects of it into my life and home; watching films and reading novels that help to bring the spirit of the season alive for me. But for the last few years I have noticed a change within me. Whilst I still love Christmas and embrace it as much as I can, I’ve realised that I’ve come to dread it in equal measure.

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A Knife and Fork in the Road

Stress. It arrives like an unwelcome houseguest, brazenly walking through the door without being invited in, dropping its bags overflowing with anxiety, tension and agitation at your feet. It pushes past you, takes root in your chair and throws its feet upon the nearest table. It looks at you with controlling eyes as if to say, ‘I’m here now and I’m going to call the shots’. You stand there, feeling as though your strings have been cut, feeling the full weight of your body from the vacuous air above.  You hope that if you ignore it, it’ll just shrivel away. But it doesn’t work like that. It’s like a petulant, needy child, constantly seeking attention and demanding your time. If you give it the silent treatment, it’ll just shout louder in your ear. 

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A Perfectly Portioned Autumn

It’s that time of year again, my favourite time when the smell of autumn lingers in the air and everything feels new and possible. Every year I have such high hopes for autumn. I promise myself that I shall be out revelling in it as much as possible. I imagine the long walks in my favourite knitwear, my ochre scarf wrapped around my neck as I kick up leaves in my walking boots. But for me, autumn always comes with a side serving of trepidation and fear. Because autumn is as much about food as it is about being outdoors. It’s the season of harvest and abundance, tempting me with big roast dinners, warming stews and wholesome soups. I love to plan walks where I know there's a cafe so I can sit and enjoy my cake and coffee as the light fades around me. For me, autumn gives with one hand and cruelly takes with another. 

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When the Skylark Sings

As my heart filled with the sights and sounds of the world awakening around me, I drove further. I ventured out to the north of Perthshire, following old bridle paths and nature trails. I took off my navy jumper, tied it around my shoulders, exposing the skin of my arms and and the gentle folds of my stomache through my colourful breton top. I was happy. I was fulfilled. I felt as though I was seeing the world for the first time with the eyes of someone who had lived as a silhouette for far too long. As I climbed over gates, and searched for paths, I felt the weight of my worries lift from me. It was springtime and I overwhelmingly pleased to see it.

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The Smallest of Things

Then there are the shafts of light that suddenly seem to appear around the house. You walk into a room and there they are. Beautiful vignettes, each breathing new life into a forgotten patch on the wall or a corner of the furniture. In a brief moment, it holds everything in its path in perfect clarity as the edges around it gradually fall into shade. And if by chance the ray catches a nodding, humble flowerhead in its path, the moment is elevated into something more than mere light and shade.  

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Notes from the Aga

I think about everything, from the trivial to the profound. I can spend an entire hour wandering whether we eat enough fish or whether our duvet has the right tog count for the time of year. But just lately one question has dominated my thoughts. I live a small but important life. I end most days with a feeling of satisfaction and fulfilment. But do I keep my life intimate because I like it this way or because I am fearful of trying something new? In the years to come, when I approach the late autumn and winter of my life, will I feel as though I have done enough? Have I grasped the opportunities presented to me and left a legacy on this world?

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