Here we are on the dawn of November, and the temperature is a persistently warm 16 degrees. I’m not complaining, but it is a little odd, particularly as I am writing this in my garden on Halloween when children in my neighbourhood and beyond are preparing costumes for an evening of trick-or-treating

My husband and I were recently reminiscing about bonfire nights when we were children and were so wrapped up against the cold in woollen jumpers and coats that we could barely move. I remember regularly shivering inside my coat as child whilst my brother and I oohed and ahhed at the fireworks my dad set off in our garden on 5th November. There were single rockets which sometimes soared and sometimes didn’t, and the Catherine wheels which always stopped spinning, as they stuck on the specially hammered-in nail on the washing line post. Then, there were the Roman candles which spluttered into life and emanated a series of silvery sparks before stopping abruptly. We wrote our names in the cold air with sparklers and then went inside for hot dogs and baked potatoes, so pleased to be back in the warmth.

For the last couple of evenings, we have walked home from nights out and barely needed a coat, and I am still gathering handfuls of dahlias from the garden.

Times they are a changing.

I hope October was a good month for you. It seemed to go in the blink of an eye for me. My husband switched careers to become a teacher a couple of years ago, and for the first time since we were students ourselves, our year has become governed by school holidays and term times. Although initially a little resistant to this restraint, I have gradually found there to be something quite helpful about this dividing up of the year. I’m not a fan of the constant countdown to the next holiday as it seems to make time whizz by too quickly, but I do like the focus it gives to get things done. This half term we took ourselves to Amsterdam for a long weekend.

I’m not sure if I have written here before about my love for the weekend mini break? (a phrase coined by Bridget Jones, and one I have never stopped using). If not, I should have. A couple of days away, that includes culture, walking, cafes and a new place to discover, is one of my favourite things. If it is a city break in Europe, then all the better.

This was my first visit to the Netherlands, despite its proximity to the UK, and Amsterdam has been on my wish list for some time. As a weekend break destination, it did not disappoint, as I knew it wouldn’t. This will come as no surprise to most people, but there is just so much to see. My dismal lack of organisation meant we didn’t get to see Ann Franks House, which I had hoped to get to. Tickets must be booked 6 weeks in advance, and I don’t think we had even booked our trip 6 weeks ago. However, we did get to some brilliant museums. We were largely guided by another online friend, . She wrote a fabulous post all about Amsterdam recently. We followed so many of her recommendations, and I know our trip was all the better for it. Without her insight, I’m not sure we would have discovered the brilliant Art Zoo. Housed in a canal museum, this is one of the most spectacular museums I have ever visited. If I said taxidermy, you may not be tempted, but this is taxidermy of the most beautiful and creative kind. Forget those faded animals that make up the collections at so many natural history museums. Art Zoo is filled with beauty and colour and animals that you feel might just come to life at any moment. It is also located in one of Amsterdam's most beautiful 17th-century canal houses. There is much more I could say about Amsterdam, but that is another post in itself.

I think I mentioned previously that I was going to listen to Audrey Niffenegger talk to Steven Moffat about her new book, Life Out Of Order, the much-awaited sequel to The Time Traveller’s Wife. It was a great evening. Steven was a funny and interesting interviewer, and as the creator of the HBO sci-fi romance mini-series of TTTW, he really knew his stuff, and he also knew Audrey! She was a generous interviewee, giving thoughtful answers to all the questions he posed. The audience was filled with TTTW devotees, so the questions from the audience were also insightful and well thought out.

In my last monthly letter, I forgot to mention that Helen Redfern interviewed me for her Substack, Stop Hiding Under The Desk. I have known and admired Helen online for a number of years, and she was instrumental in getting me started with my book. So it was great to be interviewed by her. In the interview, I talk about how my book All Those Hands Held came into being and some of the creative challenges I now face. You can read the interview below

Stop Hiding Under the Desk

Pull Up a Chair With Angela

Pull Up a Chair With… is a new series I’ve begun on Substack. The idea is to interview paid members of the Stop Hiding Under the Desk community to find out more about you and your creative pursuits. …

Read more

2 months ago · 20 likes · 11 comments · Helen Redfern

Some Recent Reading

As I am sure almost everyone who reads this knows, Marina Hyde has a Substack which coincides with the launch of her YouTube channel. I thought it was only a matter of time. It is tempting to sigh at the prospect of yet another already hugely successful writer, making it even harder for those of us here with tiny followings to be discovered. But I am a big admirer of her quick brain and ability to talk and write with authority about anything, so I’m happy to jump on her already very popular bandwagon. So far, I'm enjoying her offerings, and they are all free until December, which feels like a bonus.

Wreck by Catherine Newman

The follow-up to Sandwich, which I read earlier this year and adored. She writes so viscerally and understands the deep, heart-wrenching love and depth of emotion that most of us feel but can’t articulate so brilliantly. I love Rocky and her family and was very happy for another instalment. Rocky’s 92 year old father is probably the star this time, though and he certainly has some of the best lines.

Fresh Water For Flowers by Valérie Perrin

I have had this on my list for a while after hearing about it on one of the podcasts I regularly listen to. Violette Toussaint works as the caretaker of a cemetery in a small town in Burgandy. On the surface her life seems quiet, but she has experienced devastating loss. The themes of grief, resilience, hidden love, second chances, and finding beauty and community in everyday life are my favourite themes for a novel and this French bestseller was a delight to read.

Books I’m Looking Forward To

It is always exciting when writerly friends have books coming out, and I’m thrilled that two writers I met online some years ago both have books coming out in November.

Michelle Ciani is based in Rome, and she has a beautiful turn of phrase in all she writes. She notices the things most of us don’t and has a way of expressing herself in both her words and her beautiful photography, which makes her creative voice unique. Her book Spiral looks gorgeous, and I can’t wait for its release. You can read an extract on her very stylish website.

Melanie Leavey writes novels that have a sprinkling of magic and plenty of warmth, and I love them for it. Hedge Folk is the second in her series set in Winkle Village. I read the first soon after it was released and loved it. It was one of my favourite reads of 2024, and I have been so looking forward to the second instalment. I can’t wait to get my hands on it when it is released on 3rd November. The kindle edition is already available if that is your preference.

Tonight we are going to a local theatre to see a play, Agatha Christie’s The Hollow. I love all things Christie. I have read this mystery, and can't wait to see it brought to life on stage. It also feels like an appropriate way to spend Halloween.

I must finish here, as inspired by pastry week on this week’s Bake Off I’m in the middle of making a chicken and mushroom pie. The recipe is from one of my favouritely named cookery books, Tarts with Tops on by Tamsin Day Lewis !

Happy weekending,

It seems fitting that, just a week after I wrote about my little blue rabbit, I received a copy of Simple Things magazine from the publishers, featuring an article I wrote about another treasured possession. This time my Grandad’s wallet.

I wrote the piece almost 5 years ago, soon after leaving my NHS nursing job. I was working out what I would do next. I was trying lots of different writing avenues: developing my blog, writing articles for a healthcare publication that no longer exists, and tentatively sending occasional pitches to magazines I wanted to write for.

One of those magazines was Simple Things. A magazine I’ve loved for years and one I’ve always bought fairly regularly. Soon after I sent them my piece, I received a reply saying they loved it and wanted to use it in a future edition. I was thrilled, but the months ticked by and I heard nothing. Tumbleweed.

Those months turned into years, and I had almost forgotten about it. Until, completely out of the blue, I received an email saying they would love to use it in their November edition. I couldn’t have been more thrilled. I have written thousands of words since that piece, and independently published my first book. I think and hope my writing has improved in that time. I often receive lovely messages from people commenting on how they have been moved by something I have written, which I am always so grateful for. On recent occasions, I have even been brave enough to acknowledge that I am a writer, and yet that email and then seeing my small article in print in a real magazine has felt hugely validating.

It has made me think about how often I have sat at my desk pounding out words on my keyboard, agonising over phrasing and sentence structure, doubting myself and not really knowing where any of it would lead, but doing it anyway. In the scheme of things, this small piece of writing is a tiny achievement, but it is a reminder that it’s good to just keep on keeping on, because, as a friend commented, we never know what is around the corner.

Thank you as always for reading

I have been thinking a lot about objects recently. At the writing workshop I attended last weekend, we talked about why we hold onto certain things and the emotions they create within us. I often think about objects because of the way they make me feel. If you read my recent post on my desk, then you will understand how much I like having meaningful things around me. Things that make me feel good about my surroundings and inspire me or spark a memory.

Objects are powerful; through objects we time travel back to places in our memory or to people we love or loved. I have lots of objects in my home which I have inherited, and that to anyone else would be meaningless, but to me they mean so much. I have things I have bought myself which signify a particular moment or occasion, and things which have been given as gifts and have become treasured. There are so many stories to be found in the things we keep.

I know I have written here before about clearing out my Mum’s home after she died. The act of sorting through someone’s personal belongings can feel so intrusive and sad, but it can also unearth lovely long-forgotten memories. Some time ago I wrote about her wooden spoon, a spoonful of love in a single object. My Mum lived in the house she and my Dad built together for 56 years. It was a house filled with a lifetime of memories.

Anyway, all of this is a meandering way of telling you about how I rediscovered and remembered my much-loved little blue rabbit while we were clearing the loft.

The moment I pulled him from the plastic bag, his home for more years than I know, I was transported back to my childhood bedroom and a time when Blue Rabbit, who never had any other name, lived with me.

On nights when I couldn’t sleep, and childish imaginings filled my head, Blue Rabbit was always there. Me and rabbit in my single bed, secured by a mustard bedspread, tightly pulled blankets and soft pink flannel sheets. Together, we snuggled into the pillow, that I always thought with its pink roses, was too pretty to be hidden by a pillowcase.

My small hands, skin soft and golden from endless days of playing outside in summer, or creamy white in the winter months, clasped Blue Rabbit, reassurance found in his then plump body and blue fur. My nose tucked into his neck and index and middle fingers pushed firmly into my mouth, coddled by his comforting scent.

Together, Blue Rabbit and I counted sheep when I couldn’t sleep; he listened as I called out when I was feeling sick; and he travelled with me in my dreams to places that both scared and delighted me. And when I woke, he was still there.

Today he has barely any stuffing left in his once plump body; just a few remaining tufts in his tiny threadbare paws. His face is grey and worn, and he has lost an ear. There are holes under his little rabbit arms and legs, and evidence of attempts to repair him with stitches along his back and tummy where he has undergone some amateur major surgery.

There is a hole where his nose was, and his black eyes, once shiny, are now scratched and dull from being dragged around and cuddled, not over-cuddled, because how can something so loved be over-cuddled? He may look lifeless and sad, but to me Blue Rabbit is filled with life. He is filled with my life, of being little, wearing pink nylon nighties and unable to sleep without him.

I don’t remember when Blue Rabbit was no longer needed as a bedtime companion or when he was confined to a bag in the loft, but in that moment of rediscovery, holding him in my adult hands now etched with the signs of ageing, I was suddenly 5 years old, and feeling all the emotions of being a child again.

Now Blue Rabbit lives in my bedside cupboard, and although he no longer has a place in my bed, he will always have a special place in my heart.

I have gained quite an influx of subscribers in the last month, and you are all very welcome here. I posted this note about an encounter on the tube with a fellow reader, and it received 1.2k likes and lots of comments. I believe I may have gone viral, for a moment anyway! This was quite exciting in itself, but more exciting was how it highlighted that connection books give us.

I’m not particularly rebellious, but reading in public now feels like a quiet form of rebellion. Each time I board a tube or bus, I do a quick audit of how many people are reading books. Mostly, it is not that many. Screens are the entertainment of choice for most. Of course, some may be reading books on their phones or listening to audiobooks, and who am I to judge (which is of course exactly what I am doing) but the number of people reading physical books has diminished over the years. When I do see someone reading, I am always desperate to know what they are reading. Many years ago I was so obviously trying to see what the man opposite me on the tube was reading that without looking at me he just lifted his book up in front of his face so I could see the title and then put it down again. I was only slightly embarrassed.

September in London was beautiful, with pink skies and gentle warmth. A kindly introduction to Autumn, and the chillier days to come. I started a new job in September, which I am still settling into, but I am enjoying the new challenge and being part of an experienced and compassionate team of nurses. It has also been a genuine reason to buy new notebooks.

I celebrated the graduation of my goddaughter, who graduated with a first in creative writing. I am very proud of her for her achievement. She is a beautiful writer, and I am excited for what she will write in the future. Her course sounded brilliant and one I would have loved. It also made me reflect a little on my career choice. I have always had a small amount of regret that I didn’t work in publishing or with books. Nursing is not what I would have imagined for myself when I was growing up, but it is where I have spent over 30 years. I don’t regret it; it has brought me much joy, and I know it has been the right career for me, but I can’t help thinking a little bit about what else might have been. Perhaps not having a career working with books has enabled me to keep my passion for all things bookish strong. It also means I have carved out a way to read and write that has become a lovely addition to my working life.

Whilst we are on the subject of books, I have a flurry of literary events in London this month. Tonight I am going to listen to Tessa Hadley and Jeremy Lee in a conversation about Elizabeth David and post war eating through the lens of their own writing. This week I have read Tessa Hadley’s Free Love in preparation. I am going with my good friends and fellow Substackers Kate from The Cook’s Edit and Jude from Scrumptious Seasons. We are also going to a talk by Louisa Young in a couple of weeks where she will discuss her sequel to The Cazalet Chronicles. I am so excited about this one. I am also going to hear Audrey Niffenegger talk with Steven Moffat about her sequel to The Time Traveller’s Wife, one of my all-time favourite books.

This week I went to see Sense and Sensibility with a friend. I loved the 1995 version with Emma Thompson, Kate Winslet, Alan Rickman and Hugh Grant, and it was always going to be tough to top such a stellar cast. However, I very much enjoyed the latest version, not so much for the casting but for the way it was shot. Beautiful cinematography, gorgeous light and lots of subdued colours, giving it quite a different feel. It felt much more undone and tousled than previous incarnations, and I liked it for it. There were also some excellent dance scenes! Many have asked if we need yet another Jane Austen adaptation, but why not, I’m here for it.

Another period drama I adored recently was Pressure starring Andrew Scott. He plays a meteorologist on whom the fate of D-Day and indeed World War II depends. It is superb, as is Andrew Scott. His stillness on screen is mesmerising, and I think he could be my current favourite actor.

All Change

October is the month when I have a big wardrobe sort-out, packing away all the summer dresses and replacing them with clothes more suited to autumn and winter. I always feel a little wistful about this. I prefer my summer wardrobe to my winter one and hate the thought of not wearing it again for maybe 6 months. The exception to this preference is coats and jackets. I love a good coat or jacket and have quite a lot of both. These are what I am likely to spend my earnings on. A good coat can carry you far, or at least give you the confidence to believe you can go far. A recent sale purchase from Eleven Loves is a leopard print duster coat, which am very much looking forward to wearing. I bought it when we got back from Namibia in July, when animal print was obviously very much on my mind!

Writing

I have found a rhythm with my writing in the recent few weeks with a weekly Substack, which I thoroughly enjoy writing, and I hope you enjoy reading.

I started a series of creative writing workshops at a local bookshop in September, and the next one is this week. The workshops are led by Mariah Mannae. Mariah has an impressive biography. She is a writer, producer and director working across film, television and literature, with an international career spanning Australia, the UK and Europe. This could sound daunting, but I don’t think I have ever been to such a nurturing class. Mariah has a gentle approach which suits me perfectly, and the class is small and intimate.

Reading

I have talked a lot about The Cazalet Chronicles but a re-read of the series has given me so much joy. I completed volumes 4 and 5 in September and finished them feeling bereft. They are books I completely inhabit when reading them, and it is hard to let them go.

As a response to this, I have started reading Elizabeth Jane Howard’s memoir Slipstream. Fascinating so far. It may take me a while as I am reading it alongside some fiction, but it is quite nice to take my time with it. I have a tendency to charge through books sometimes

I also finally got around to reading The Elopement by Gill Hornby, which I enjoyed but not as much as Miss Austen. I also read it during my Cazalet Chronicles hangover, so that may account for me being a little underwhelmed.

The Old Man by the Sea by Domenico Starnone, not to be confused with the almost identical title by Hemingway, was an interesting novella about an 82-year-old writer who has taken himself to live by the sea in Italy. It is a reflection on his life and loves and getting old. A little melancholy but a good end-of-summer read

Another book about writers. This time, One Summer in Tuscany by Domenica De Rosa, who you may also know as Elly Griffiths. A disparate group of writers gather in Tuscany for a creative writing course. The sense of place and use of food and the heat to create tension all made this unputdownable for me.

London Things

In the spirit of the bookish turn this letter has taken, there is only one new exhibition I‘m going to mention this month, and it’s the Agatha Christie Exhibition opening at The British Library on 30th October. This is billed as being a major exhibition exploring the woman behind the books. I can’t wait!

If you are in London and enjoy fashion then you just about have time to catch the Schiaparelli: Fashion Becomes Art exhibition at the V&A. I have seen it twice and loved it

I have rambled on for longer than planned so I will finish here. I also realise I need to leave the house in about 20 minutes to go out, so must dash,

Have a lovely weekend, until next time,

PS: apologies for all typos which, as I finished this in haste, I haven’t had time to check

About this time last year, I wrote about my visit to Jane Austen’s home in Chawton. One of the things that has stayed with me more than almost anything else about that visit was seeing Jane’s writing desk. Positioned by a window to get the best of the light, this tiny round wooden table scoured with scratches from her writing is just about big enough for a quill, paper and a bottle of ink. Presumably when she wasn’t writing on it, it was used as a side table for books and other things. In any visit to a National Trust or stately home. I love rooms furnished with a desk, especially if the desk is left as if the owner has just wandered off. The paraphernalia on a desk, the framed photographs, scribbled notes and books; all of these give a little glimpse into the life of the person who sat and wrote there. A favourite is Margaret Greville’s desk at the Polesden Lacey estate. She was a collector of all sorts of objects and an enthusiastic entertainer of the great and the good, and her large desk is filled with evidence of this.

My dream desk is an old wooden table, a kitchen table covered in coffee cup rings and scratches and indentations from years of being lived on. This is not my desk. My desk is larger than Jane’s and more humble than Margaret’s, but I’m fond of it. It is an uncomplicated, cheap, and cheerful Ikea desk. A pale wooden top and white legs, with space to fit a small chest of drawers underneath. It doesn’t have the character of the kitchen table of my dreams, but it has become worn over the years, sustaining a few knocks and ink stains, and it suits me very well.

I may not have the old kitchen table, but I do sit on an old kitchen chair I painted a dusky pink / lavender colour. This is not a chair designed for sitting on for long periods of time, but it has served me well. I sit on a cushion and have a scarf draped over the back, partly because I love the colour and design but also for an extra layer of warmth when needed.

From my desk in the cabin in our garden, I am currently looking out onto an abundance of collapsing dahlias and unruly cosmos, and grass still struggling to recover from the heat and dry days of summer. Squirrels are frequent visitors to our garden, and I regularly see them acrobat their way along the fence which separates us from our neighbours. A wren often visits me too. His tiny, compact body, so perfectly formed and so easily missed as he darts in and out of our crab apple tree. Our house is barely 15 steps from where I sit, so I have a good view into our house. I particularly like this during the summer when the folding doors to our kitchen are always open, and I can see beyond the kitchen and into the dining room where bookcases line the wall.

The windows in front of my desk open fully, leaving a big open space, so when I stand up I look as if I’m serving ice creams from a kiosk. This thought makes me smile, particularly because when I was little I wanted to work in an ice cream van. I wrote to Jim’ll fix it asking if he could fix that for me. Thankfully he didn’t.

I also like the connection with the garden when the windows are flung open.

Just outside my window, I have a little orange bistro table and two chairs where I can sit and write whilst it is still shady. It’s also a good place to sit with a drink when taking a break or pausing to read for a little while.

My unremarkable desk is where I work when I am doing my job from home, and it is also the place I write. My book was written here, and numerous articles, posts and other pieces of writing have been formed and nurtured here. I often write in cafes, but it is at my desk where the deep work is done.

I don’t always like the crossover between my work life and my writing. Working from home too means I have to keep an ugly monitor on my desk. My preference is to separate my day-to-day work life from my writing and pack my job away into a drawer at the end of the day.

I’m not a fan of hot desking or clear desk policies, which are the norm in offices these days. I want my desk to be a place I enjoy and want to come to, so it is filled with things that make me smile or are useful.

I always keep poetry books stacked here as I often dip into them before I write or when I want a diversion. Currently, I have two anthologies I’m enjoying, but collections from Mary Oliver or Helen Dunmore often sit here too. I also keep a little Brambly Hedge book on my desk. I love the illustrations, and like the poetry collections, it is a welcome diversion from time to time. I keep a journal from Choosing Keeping here too. This is where I collect quotes and poetry that I like or might inspire my writing. I’m always adding to this.

I also have hand cream, tins of pencils and a ceramic jar which once contained a candle but is now filled with coloured pens. I always have a variety of candles which change with the season. I ritually light a candle before I start writing. It marks the beginning of a session, and depending on how much concentration is needed, I often play some piano music or something similarly non-distracting through YouTube or Spotify. I have a small ceramic dish I bought from Anthropologie a few years ago, and it’s always filled with washi tape. On the windowsill is a framed postcard from Soodle Street Studio of a London mews. I change this as the mood takes me. I always have flowers on my desk, and for much of the year they are from our garden.

My journal, my diary and a notebook where I keep lists of all the tasks I need to do each week are always beside me. A lipstick, eye drops for dry eyes and some cheap reading glasses I recently bought from Søstrene Grene are usually lurking somewhere too.

A friend bought me a beautiful copper bookmark which I love to have on my desk. It’s pleasingly cool and smooth to hold, and it reminds me of her. A recent addition is a beaded zebra. I bought him in Namibia, happy memories from one of the beautiful places we stayed.

Beside the desk is a trolley, another Ikea purchase and used as an extension of my desk. This trolley contains books about writing I might use for reference, along with old journals, which are always a good source of material. I also have a book of Haiku which I have been enjoying recently, and a box of postcards I collect from exhibitions and other places. I keep my recent reads in the trolley too, mainly because my other bookcases are full to overflowing. I also have my desk lamp here, which, as the days shorten, will soon be back in use.

Beside my desk is a notice board I bought from Etsy, although it is less of a notice board and more a collection of photographs, images and words which periodically get moved around and updated.

The way things look and feel are important to me. I am not minimalist. I like light and colours and pattern. These are things that stimulate and inspire me and I have tried to incorporate them all into the place where I write.

Virginia Woolf wrote about the importance of a room of one’s own. I think a desk of one’s own is just as important. Writing is never easy, but having a desk I am happy to spend time at helps enormously.

I have been wanting to write this post about Namibia almost ever since I returned from our trip towards the end of July. But the time just wasn’t right. Namibia had such a profound effect on me that I have needed time to let my thoughts and feelings percolate and settle.

Namibia is vast and beautiful and to even try and capture it in words feels beyond me. Before writing this, I read through the journal I kept whilst we were there and scrolled through the very many photographs I took. It seems that even when I was in the midst of it, I struggled to convey the impact it was having on me. I repeatedly used the same words to describe what I had seen.

There is a stillness to Namibia that is present in the changing light, the landscape and the animals that freely roam the endless empty plains. I was aware of that very soon after leaving the capital city Windhoek. Roads are long and empty and straight. The sky is deep blue and life moves more slowly. There is silence, not oppressive but calm and peaceful. Grasses in muted earthy tones cover the land, in contrast to the earth as deeply red as rust, rich with iron oxide and bone dry from a climate that sees barely rain.

Very early on I was aware, being there was a privilege. This country belongs to the animals and not the other way around. We were repeatedly struck by the reverence and respect held by Namibians towards the wildlife we encountered. Not just the large animals such as giraffes and elephants which command respect because of their size, or the lions because of their ferocity. We took drives with guides who were thrilled by the rare sighting of a small, shy aardwolf or a family of bat-eared foxes.

We were overwhelmed by the abundance of animals we saw. Giraffes swaying their hips elegantly as they made their way towards us. We saw them repeatedly whilst we were driving during the day, as well as in game reserves. Clearly curious animals, they watched us as we watched them.

We drove through the Kalahari, along endless gravel tracks where our bodies were shaken and buffeted until we felt we couldn't stand it any longer and then in the distance, we spied a herd of zebras, effortlessly stylish and always the best dressed; and any discomfort was forgotten. Springboks, nimble as ballerinas, regularly leapt across our path, and the ruffle of the Ostrich’s generous plume made us laugh each time we watched them making their way to somewhere in formation.

We had close encounters with Elephants protecting their young, another reminder of who is boss. From the safety of our car we saw them lumber across the plains, in search of food and water.

We stayed a night at Oberland Lodge on the edge of Etosha National Park with watering holes just meters away. Our front-row seats meant that when enormous grey bulks of rhinoceros fought with each other, we held our breath as the dust they kicked up settled on our skin.

A long dusty drive to Okonjima Nature Reserve and an unforgettable encounter with leopards, clearly the style icons of the Namibian animal kingdom. An early evening drive in the warm air, watching the bush turn from pale yellow to gold was already magical, and then we came across a beautiful leopard called Leila. She seemed oblivious to our presence, and yet there was no doubt she knew exactly where we were as she stalked past us so close we could have reached out and touched her. She stook time to pose for us, elongating her powerful body along the branch of a tree, supermodel style.

Sometimes we drove into the bush at the end of the day and drank pink gin, the colour of the sunset we watched. It seems appropriate to celebrate the setting of the sun on a land as beautiful as this one. We watched the grasses, a patchwork of subtle greens, and yellows, change colour as the light shifted from day to night.

When darkness falls on Namibia, it comes quickly. An inky black covering, punctuated by the nightly display of swathes of tiny white lights: the billions of stars that make up the Milky Way. To look up into the night sky stretching far beyond our comprehension is a reminder of our insignificance in the universe.

Previously, in other places, I have been overwhelmed by the vastness of untamed wilderness, feeling I might be swallowed up by it. In Namibia I did not feel that. I simply felt peaceful. Here was the natural world presented in a way I had not previously experienced. I was never in any doubt that I was a visitor, in a land that does not belong to man; it cannot be tamed, much like the animals that roam it.

We stayed in some beautiful places, but it is the landscape and the animals moving silently through it, and the harmony of it all that has stayed with me. I have thought about our time there almost every day since we have been back. Namibia moved me more than I could have imagined.

Summer is a great time to read. When the days are warm and the evenings are light, I would rather sit outside with a book, more than almost anything else. When working at home, I always eat my lunch in the company of a book, and as previous readers will know, I take my choice of holiday reading very seriously. I try to read seasonally, so mostly no books set in winter in summer and vice versa, and I try to read books relevant to the place I might be holidaying. I save books I really want to savour for holidays. Those books I want the time and freedom to deeply immerse myself in are often the ones found in my suitcase.

Over the last couple of months, there have been some goodies, as there always are, and these are 10 of the best

1. Hello Beautiful by Ann Napolitano

   Recommended by a fellow reader and writer. These are the best people to get book recommendations from. A beautiful story, with a family of four sisters at its heart. When William, who grew up in a loveless family, marries one of the sisters, it affects them all. The cast is strong, and their relationships are complex. Grief is at the heart of so much of the story. A moving family drama which I was totally invested in.

2. Island Calling by Frances Segal

The second book in this series is set on the fictional and very remote island of Tuga de Ora. I had eagerly awaited this after reading the first one earlier in the year on another holiday. Charlotte, a vet, has made her home on the island filled with exotic animals and colourful characters. When her mother arrives unexpectedly on the island, it is as if a tornado has blown in, and initially devastation is left in her wake as she attempts to take Charlotte back to London with her. Their relationship develops amidst the storms, and a myriad of other delightful characters are also given their turn in the limelight as the story develops. This is an easy, sink-yourself-into-it kind of book. I was very happy to be transported back to this island in the sun and look forward to the third instalment.

3. To The Land of Long Lost Friends and How to Raise and Elephant both by Alexander McCall Smith

I’m cheating because this is two books, but they are part of the lovely Ladies’ Detective Agency Series which I have been reading through forever. I always read two in a row, as I can never resist the temptation to remain in this world a little bit longer. Set in Botswana, Mma Ramotswe and her team go about their usual sleuthing, accompanied by gallons of red bush tea. I read these whilst on holiday in Namibia. Botswana is one of Namibia’s neighbouring countries, and the descriptions of the landscape and the big skies filled with stars were so relatable. Mma Ramotswe is such a wise and generous detective, and I am always happy to be in her company. I also really want to visit Botswana one day.

4. Out of Africa by Karen Blixen

This was read immediately after returning from Namibia. Obviously it is set in Kenya rather than Namibia, but I wanted to read something that would capture the light and landscape of Africa.

Blixen is a Danish woman who lives on a coffee plantation in the Ngong Hills. She has taken over the running of the plantation from her wayward husband. She lives alongside local people and develops deep relationships with them. She also appears to be a refuge for many visiting friends and dignitaries.

Some of the language feels difficult and outdated today, and her accounts of game hunting and killing lions did not sit well with me. But the writing has real heart, and there is a love and respect for the country and its people, which clearly comes through. I must now watch the film.

5. The Country of Pointed Firs by Sarah Orne Jewett

I saw this recommended a few times on Instagram or maybe here? I ordered it from my local bookshop and was a little disappointed when the copy they got in for me was a small Penguin Classic edition rather than the one with the beautiful cover from the Smith & Taylor Classics series. As I have said before, I do judge a book by its cover.

However, I wasn’t disappointed by this sweet story. Written in the late 1800s, it is the story of a community living in a small remote village on the coast of Maine. A young writer moved there for the summer to finish her novel, but she becomes captivated by the characters that inhabit the island and begins to write about them instead.

This is a gentle story with community, female relationships, and the landscape at its heart. It shows women’s resilience and strength in an understated but poignant way. The women in the story are all people that I would love to know better and chat with over tea and cake.

A really lovely short read.

6. Slanting Towards the Sea by Lidija Hilje

This was recommended ages ago by Lucy Pearson from The Literary Edit. She has excellent taste in books, so I had high hopes for this one. Although not completely set in summer, a book with a cover like this one could not be read in any other season. Set in Croatia, it is the story of three people whose lives are meshed together by a complicated love for one another. It is a coming-of-age story set at a time when Croatia itself is coming of age. This is a journey through adolescent love and into the fierce and complicated love of adulthood. The setting of the beautiful sea and coastline and the olive groves, all bathed in the heat of the golden Croatian sunshine, is an important part of the story, and lends itself to the heartbreak and emotional depth of the book.

7. Correspondent by Virginia Evans

This is the book that won The Women’s Prize for Fiction 2026, and it has rightly been everywhere this summer. It is also a book that I saved for a time when I could give it my full and undivided attention.

The life story of Sybil, a woman in her seventies. She is a divorcee, a mother, a sister, a retired lawyer, and a friend to many. She is also a profuse letter writer. She writes daily to friends, family, authors whose books she reads, and the president of a university. Through these letters, her life story is revealed as she tries to make sense of the loss of her son.

This beautiful book is filled with humanity and feeling, and I ended it in tears which lasted for quite some time.

8. The Horse Dancer by Jo Jo Moyes

This wasn’t my choice; it came to be via a postal book club I am in, but everyone needs some Jo Jo Moyes in their reading life, so I was happy to dive in.

Fourteen-year-old Sarah is given a horse by her grandfather in the hope she will follow him into an elite French riding school. She trains in the parks and deserted streets of London. But when he dies, she is left to care for the horse whilst visting him in hospital and going to shcool.

It all becomes too much, and she is taken in by Natasha and her ex-husband. There are things they don’t know about Sarah, and relationships are challenged and stretched as they become part of her world

There is a lot of horse detail here, and I was a bit unsure to begin with, but Jo Jo writes in such an interesting way that I was drawn into her world very quickly.

9. The Other Side of the Bridge by Mary Crowe

I discovered Mary Crowe a year or so ago whilst sorting through my Mum’s bookshelves and intended to read more of her since my first foray back then. Set in 1940s Ontario, Canada, brothers Arthur and Jake live on a farm. A They have difficult relationships with their parents and with each other, which impact their decision-making in later life. rthur is serious about taking on the farm and his role as a farmer; Jake is reckless. When Laura arrives in their neighbourhood, life becomes further complicated as their rivalry is tested. Ian is born a generation later, the son of the local Doctor. Their families become linked by tragedy that none of them could have seen coming.

There is a lot of tension, and so much of what is left unsaid and in the gaps shapes this novel. I think Mary Lawson is an exceptional writer,

10. The Unselected Journals of Emma M Lion, Vol 1 by Beth Brower

This one was recommended by Jennie Godfrey, author of The List of Suspicious Things, I think, on her Substack. I love Jennie’s writing so much that, frankly, I will read anything she recommends. So when I saw this in my local Waterstones, it almost fell into my bag. Of course I paid for it, and as I did so, the bookseller gleefully told me how many more volumes I have to look forward to. She obviously sniffed out my complete lack of self-control when it comes to book buying.

Emma is optimistic and always looks on the bright side, even in the circumstances she now finds herself in: living in the garret of her family home because of an obscure inheritance request by her father. Her journal charts her day-to-day life and battles with dreadful cousin Archibald with humour and wit. Some of the characters have an unmistakable Jeeves and Wooster feel about them. Such fun!

September has got off to an excellent start too, and I have already read a couple of crackers which I may share at the end of the month

I love book recommendations, so do feel free to suggest anything you love in the comments.

Thanks for reading

Here we are again at the end of my favourite time of year, and the season I find hardest to let go. As I said in this post, the summer of 2026 has felt as close to my childhood summers as I can remember. I was fortunate that my job was flexible enough throughout July and August to take a little more time off than usual and to immerse myself in the long days of sunshine.

Although I am reluctantly saying goodbye to the endless light, and sunshine-filled days, I cannot deny there is a newness that comes with September that even I, a fully paid up summeraphile, can’t help but feel excited about. One of the many joys of living in England is the seasons. I appreciate warm days so much when they arrive because I know they are temporary. There is a distinctiveness to Winter, Spring, Summer and Autumn in the UK that I value.

September is the month of new beginnings. It is the month of new school shoes, and new notebooks. Pencils are sharpened, and lists are made as we begin the inevitable run-up to the festive season and the end of the year. I am sure I have written before of the change in creative energy I feel at this time of year. In summer my brain is as languid as the rest of my body. In September I feel sharper; I want to start new projects. I have more ideas and feel excited about the creative possibilities. Of course I will still be found outside and in the garden at every opportunity. September can be pleasingly mild, and I’m not about to pack away the flip-flops just yet. But I am ready to embrace new plans and opportunities whilst wearing them.

Dahlia Days

Before I share some of my August highlights, can I just pause a moment here to show you some pictures of our dahlias? This year, despite the lack of rain, they are magnificent, and the joy of dahlias is that they will remain magnificent for at least another month or two. We have had dahlias in the garden up until November in previous years.

August Shenanigans

So August was fun. We celebrated our 31st wedding anniversary with a day trip to Margate and also dinner at Petersham Nurseries. I had romantic notions about Margate. I had only been once before, when I was a child. We visited on a family holiday and my brother and I both remember being allowed to visit Dreamland (or Benbom brothers) as we called it and riding all the fairground rides on our own! It is one of those childhood memories that remain fixed in my mind. Anyway, I digress. This time we visited the Turner Contemporary art gallery, ate lunch in the sunshine here, ate the best New Zealand ice cream here and wandered Margate’s cluster of lovely independent shops.

Petersham Nurseries in Richmond is one of my favourite places to eat. It is a definite treat place as it’s spendy, but the food is delicious. On a summer evening sitting amongst the plants and flowers, all lit by candlelight, I think it is hard to beat.

We camped in a boiling hot Yorkshire where we swam and kayaked in and on the river and watched the partial eclipse under a cloudless sky. Our kind campsite neighbours lent us their eclipse glasses to look through, which transformed the whole experience from one of underwhelm to one filled with gasps of excitement!

London Things

September brings a slew of new cultural delights in London

I love the Museum of the Home, and their September offerings look excellent, with a focus on textiles in the home in conjunction with Selvedge magazine. They also have an excellent museum shop

Painting The French Riviera at The Royal Academy looks like an absolute dream with works from artists such as Picasso, Matisse, Cezanne and Renoir. It doesn’t open until early October but what a way to brighten up the darker months. I’m putting it in the diary now.

The highlight of September for me is always Chiswick Book Festival. I think I have been going every year since it began and I always ensure it is in my diary as soon as the dates are announced.

Reading

I am going to do a separate post next week on the books I read over the summer, so I won’t list those here.

These are some of the Substack posts I’ve enjoyed recently

• This one about Habit Stacking by Melissa Makarewicz

• A superb guide to The Canal Museums and Hidden Gems of Amsterdam by Cultural Wednesday (we are visiting in October, so I have a vested interest!)

• Beth Kempton writes beautifully on incorporating poetry into your life

• Where’s My Money is new to me, but I’m enjoying the fashion posts with clothes and styles which feel achievable without spending lots of money

• Books to Make Life by Sweeter by Lucy Fuggle is delightful as always

Writing

My unplanned break from writing over the summer seems to have been hugely beneficial because I have come back to my desk full of vim and vigour.

I always enjoy Beth Kempton’s Winter Writing Sanctuary, and I recently took part in her Summer Writing Sanctuary. It was a lovely way of writing creatively again, and it felt like the gentle push I needed to find my way back to the words.

I also took part in Corinne Cunningham’s Summer Writing workshop at the end of June, which was so helpful. Corinne has a gentle and intuitive way of guiding, and I’m signed up for her Autumn workshop too.

I’m also starting a short creative writing class at a local bookshop in a week or so, which I’m very much looking forward to.

I think that is more than enough to be going on with, but I will be back next week with some of my summer reads

Have a wonderful weekend,

If you are able to give this a little, 🩵 it seems to go some way to helping others discover my writing. Thank you.

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This is the second time this year I have found myself teary at the death of a celebrity. First it was David (Hockney) and now it is Dolly.

After the recent announcement of Dolly Parton’s death, like many reading this, I have found myself pouring over articles about her in the media and listening to her music on repeat on Spotify. The sadness I felt at her death and the way it has affected me has taken me by surprise. There is no doubt that she was genuinely fabulous, in everything she did, from her vast catalogue of music to the brilliant Imagination Library she created. But I did not know her, nor was I her biggest fan, despite happily singing along to 9-5 whenever it was played.

Dolly represented a particular time in my life.

There is a chapter in my book, All Those Hands Held, called Roast Lamb and Radiograms. My Dad was a country and western fan, and in my book I write about country and western music as the ever-present soundtrack to my Sundays growing up.

After Dad died, Mum remained for the rest of her life in the house they had shared, our family home. When we cleared their home after Mum’s death, we brought home with us the boxes containing my parents’ record collection. They were immediately transferred to our garage where they remained untouched, and unthought-about until this week. On a whim, I decided to open them, convinced I would find a copy of a Dolly Parton LP.

Boxes of records are heavy, and these were on a high shelf covered in dust. Balancing precariously on a stool, I managed to lug the boxes close enough to the edge of the shelves to enable me to open them and begin looking through them. It wasn’t long until I discovered Dolly, tucked between Johnny Cash and Andy Williams LP’s, just where she had always been, waiting to be found again.

One look at the garish cover, with Dolly’s name in shocking pink, her heavily made-up face, peroxide hair and rhinestone dress, and I am 10 years old again, at home in our little village in Norfolk waiting for our lunch to be served.

Dolly Parton is the smell of lamb roasting in the oven. She is my Mum, red-faced and busy in the kitchen, frustrated at my Dad’s lateness. She is my Dad, in his Sunday shirt, waltzing in from the pub laughing, his breath warm and beery. She is me and my brother, children in a house where we were loved and cherished. She is our living room with its swirly 1970’s carpet and fireplace made from stones

When I see this long forgotten LP, I feel all of this deeply. I can hear the crackle of the record spinning on the turntable before the music kicked in, and I can hear Dolly Parton, her voice as clear as cut glass, singing the opening lines to Love is Like a Butterfly.

Tears are tumbling but I let them fall.

I sent my brother the picture at the top of the page, and he replied saying, “Dad loved country music, especially on a Sunday morning”. Although not seeking validation, I felt validated; his memories were my memories. So much is lost after the death of a parent and especially after the death of both parents. When parents are no longer here, it can feel as if whole swathes of your life are lost, and you ache for the shared memories.

I realise the sadness I feel at Dolly’s death is a part of the ongoing sadness I will always feel about the losses in my own life. Dolly’s death reminded me of my parents and growing up and being a child.

So thank you, Dolly, for the memories, the music, and the joy.

One of the most moving things I heard this week was the Band of the Coldstream Guards performing a special rendition of her classic hit "9 to 5" outside Buckingham Palace. If you haven’t heard it, it's below and it’s utterly joyous.

I have thought about writing a lot this summer. I have composed titles of posts and written half-formed posts in my head. I've imagined myself at my desk early in the morning, tipp-tapping away at my laptop, creating writing to send out into the world. I’ve imagined the feeling of satisfaction I would get from this. And yet, and yet, and yet, I have barely opened my lap top to write anything very much in weeks. Any writing I have done has been confined to my day job, travel journals and my own journal (although if I’m honest the journalling has been a little stop start.

It dawned on me that I haven’t been writing because I have been too busy doing. Doing all the things I usually write about. I dived headfirst and deeply into summer in early June, and that is where I have remained; fully submerged in this glorious endless summer where it seems the sun hasn’t stopped shining and the sky has remained an intense shade of blue.

This summer has felt like the summers I remember from my childhood, long days outside, camping, and staying out until the last drop of light has sunk into a soft velvet night sky. Of course we all know that our childhood memories are often rose-tinted, and I didn’t go to work when I was 8 years old, but I am sure this is how it was.

My idea of bliss is waking up to sunshine every day, wearing shorts and eating every meal outside. Peaches and nectarines and strawberries; sweet-fleshed melons, salads of every kind, ice cream in the afternoon and sitting in the garden with a book after work and into the evening as the light fades.

I love feeling the heat of the sun on my sunscreen-scented skin. I know it is not fashionable to be sun-tanned, but I love golden limbs. I feel happier in my skin when it’s kissed by the sun. I like living life outside rather than behind closed windows and doors, and I like using my garden as if it is another room.

At the beginning of the summer, I had a summer wish list of sorts. It included kayaking and swimming in rivers, camping and eating outside, picking flowers from the garden and wearing all my summer dresses. As one glorious sun-drenched day has drifted into another, I have done them all.

This means the posts haven’t been written, but many books have been read, notes have been scribbled and thoughts have been had. Summer 2026 has excelled itself, and I have been here (just not exactly here) for all of it.

I know the other side of all of this is that we are in a drought. In London we have had barely any rain for months. Our grass is brown and as dry as straw. Trees struggle to hold their heads up, succumbing to the impact of endless days of over 30 degrees. Crisp brown leaves line the streets and park, shrivelled from the heat. We need the rain. But on dark November and February days, I know I will look back on this summer with as much fondness as I do on those summers when I was 8.

Thanks for staying with me

Normal service will slowly return

PS **Last week I started Beth Kempton’s summer sanctuary writing course which is a delight. So since starting this post some time ago, a bit more writing has taken place

The middle of June and the Summer solstice is past and here we are, on the 1st of July and summer proper. July is (in my head) long lazy days, reading outside, living on salads and ice cream, trips away and picking cosmos and sweet peas from my garden.

The second half of June was fiercely hot as we in the UK, like much of the rest of Europe coped with a heatwave and burning temperatures. I was out one day and overheard someone describe the heat as aggressive. I hadn’t thought to describe it like that before, and yet it seemed exactly right. That very morning I had stopped less than 5 mins from my house to apply more sunscreen as I felt the sun searing my bare arms. As you will know if you have read this for longer than a minute, I adore the sunshine, but last week, when temperatures were tipping into the 36C (98F) range daily and moving was impossible without instantly becoming a sticky mess, it was a challenge. London radiates heat when it is hot. It rises from the tarmac and the buildings and envelops us. Public transport can’t cope, and we all become sleep-deprived as most of us don’t have air conditioning in our homes.

The UK has been mocked for it’s weather forever. I always want to leap to defend our little nation, pointing out that we are a small island in Northern Europe, pounded on all sides by the Atlantic Ocean, the Irish Sea, the North Sea and the English Channel. Of course, the weather is changeable! However, these changes in summer temperatures are something else altogether. We have already had 2 heatwaves before the end of June, and another is fast approaching. Our climate is undeniably changing.

My greatest purchase in June was without doubt this handheld fan from John Lewis. I bought the neon pink version (which is now out of stock) on a day when the temperature was almost 30C by 10 am, and John Lewis was a temporary sanctuary between tube rides. It has been my constant companion ever since. The best £12 I ever spent and I suspect one of JL’s best sellers last week, if the number of people I see using them on the tube is anything to go by.

June was also filled with the scent of Jasmine and roses, lingering on the breeze when it could be found; early morning runs before the heat of the day and iced coffees. Wild flowers bloom in so many London parks where areas have been left unmown and seeds scattered. To see these urban areas humming with bees and butterflies is an absolute treat.

A Celebratory Moment

We celebrated my parent in law’s Diamond Wedding anniversary during the heatwave. 60 years married is a long time! My mother-in-law was 19, and my father-in-law was barely into his twenties when they were married, which wasn’t unusual in those days, especially when living together wasn’t an option! A huge achievement, and it was lovely to celebrate their many seasons of married life with them.

Cultural Moments

I had a solo trip to Cambridge earlier in the month with the sole intention of seeing and exhibition at Kettles Yard called Handpicked: Painting Flowers from 1900 to Today. I enjoyed it very much but I had hoped for more Winifred Nicholson, who is one of my favourite artists. Only one of her paintings was on display in the exhibition which was a little disappointing, although there are more in the house at Kettle’s Yard. An excellent reason to visit Cambridge if you are looking for one. An art book I keep in my kitchen and turn to regularly for some floral joy is this one. I love Nicholson’s gentle paintings of Cornwall.

I also popped along to Fortnum and Mason for a tour of their artwork by the store’s archivist. It was a fabulous hour where we were shown and taught about the works of art that are hung all around the store. I have been to F&M many times, but shamefully have never noticed the art before - I will now! The event was free and part of the excellent Classic Art London Series.

Reading

Reading updates have been in short supply recently, so these are a few of my recent and most enjoyable reads

My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell

I loved the BBC series The Durrells but until now had not read the books it is based on. What a joy to come to My Family and Other Animals in the summer months. Blue Corfu skies, an eccentric family and deliciously funny and detailed stories of the humans and animals that Gerry spends his time with. My admiration for Louisa Durrell, who as a bereaved mother of 4, leaves England with barely any money but a longing to start a new life in Greece, knows no bounds.

The Things We Never Say by Elizabeth Strout

I had been anticipating sinking into this from the moment it was published. I adore Elizabeth Strout and regard her characters as friends. I bought it and saved it until a weekend when my husband was away, and I could dive into it without disturbance or interruption. It did not disappoint. I was anxious about the lack of Olive Kitteridge, but Artie more than made up for it. A brilliant teacher who has no idea how good he is as he grapples with US politics, relationships and working out his place in it all. Strout writes the kind of sentences that I find myself reading over and over again for the sheer enjoyment of their perfection. The book jacket and end papers are also stunning. This book will remain in easy reach for further enjoyment rather than instantly joining its companions on my shelves.

Sweet Sickness by Patricia Highsmith

I have only read a couple of other books by Highsmith, one of which was The Talented Mr Ripley, and I was left unsettled by both. This is no different. The suspense as David’s obsession with Anabelle escalates and leads to extreme behaviour is more than unsettling. Creepy, twisted and typically Highsmith. I couldn’t put it down.

As an aside if you haven’t seen Ripley starring Andrew Scott, I highly recommend it. Stylish, beautifully shot, and Scott plays the role of Ripley to perfection.

The Socialites by Caroline Lamond

I met Caroline Lamond at the Ealing Book Festival. She was one of the other local authors and was pitching this book. She pitched it brilliantly and I instantly knew I wanted to read it.

This is a hugely enjoyable account of the lives of three women who all happened to go to the same strict convent in the London suburbs as young girls

The actresses Vivien Leigh and Maureen O’Sullivan and Sonia a writer and the wife of George Orwell. The story follows their lives through the golden age of Hollywood to London and Paris. It spans four decades of stardom, tumultuous marriages and relationships. It is also an excellent examination of the struggles women in the public eye faced as they got older. Their worth decreased as their age increased. The storytelling and detail are superb. I am sure this is down to endless research on Caroline’s part.

The Paris Wife by Paula McLain

I am fascinated by the 1920’s literary and art scene and was drawn to this book for that very reason. Hadley Richardson is Ernest Hemingway’s wife. They move to Paris so he can pursue his writing, and their life becomes a whirlwind of parties, alcohol and gossip. She is fascinated by him, and their relationship is filled with passion and ferocious love. Eventually, of course family life with a wife and a son becomes too claustrophobic for Ernest and his head is turned by the attention he is beginning to receive as he becomes known as a writer.

This like The Socialites is filled with fascinating detail and brilliantly mixes fact with fiction.

There have been other books, but I will finish here before this becomes a book in itself. However, before I go, I must recommend my writing friend Amy’s Substack, The Neurodivergent Author. She recently published a series of articles on her solo trip to Oxford, which, as a fellow solo adventurer, I loved.

I will finish here as I need to go and work out how to pack for a trip where temperatures will be in the mid to late 20’s during the day and fall to below freezing at night.

My memoir All Those Hands Held was published on 11th April 2025. Just a week or two after this momentous (for me) event I was at a local authors event at Ealing book festival. I watched and cheered with everyone else as a number of local authors shared their books with the audience. It was all great fun and hugely supportive. Caught up in the excitement, I said out loud to my husband, I’m going to take part in this next year.

The thing with saying things out loud to other people is that you have to follow them through. Jump forward to March 2026, with just a couple of days left until the closing date for applications to be part of this year’s local authors event, and I was scrabbling to fill in an application form. Trying to come up with reasons why I should be chosen, but also secretly hoping I wouldn’t, so I could still say, well, at least I tried.

A week or so after submitting my application I received a congratulatory email telling me I had been chosen and would be one of around 20 local authors taking part. The brief was to write a 2-minute pitch showcasing my book, to deliver to the audience on the night. Terrifying!

As with all things that are a bit frightening and require focus, I stuck my head in the sand for a couple of weeks and pretended it wasn’t happening.

Other than here on Substack or with supportive family, friends and work colleagues, I haven’t really spoken very much about my book. Opening a conversation with ‘by the way, I’ve written a book’ is not something I would want or know how to do. I guess part of being self-published, is that the publicity and marketing along with every other bit of writing and creating your book, is down to you. Like most creatives of any kind, self-promotion isn’t something I enjoy or even really know how to do.

Despite all my instincts to hide my light under a bushel, I knew this was an opportunity to let it shine. I had to be brave. With the encouragement of Natalie, an early morning writing buddy I wrote the 450 words which, with much honing and editing, were to become the pitch I shared in front of the 200-strong audience on a gloriously warm evening in April.

I felt sick with fear for most of the day of the event, and it was a huge relief when at last I could leave home to get there. I walked to the university where the event was to take place, breathing in the scent of spring in an attempt to still my churning stomach and pounding heart.

Meeting up with the other authors before the event was both fabulous and frightening. So many talented writers, many of whom had written several traditionally published books. Others were first-time self-published authors like myself. There was a mix of memoir, non-fiction and fiction writers, an author of a fabulous Korean cookery book, and a couple of very talented poets too. We were all united by our love of writing and desire to share our stories no matter how scary that felt. It was hugely uplifting to realise how much writing was going on in the homes and streets all around me.

Talking about a book I poured so much of myself into in front an audience was thrilling. I had practiced my pitch so much that by the time I came to take up my position on the stage, I was reasonably calm. I knew what I was going to say and I believed in it. I was also number 17 out of 20, so I had already watched most people go before me. I was ready to go.

The 2-minute kalxon sounded just as I was finishing the last words of my last line, and I think the photo above is me squeezing those words into the last few seconds

The inevitable rush of adrenaline and relief followed, and it was brilliant to sell a few copies of my book and even sign it for people. So many wanted to share with me their own stories and experiences of caring for someone who is dying, and others just wanted to tell me how important it is to have conversations about dying.

Afterwards, I went with my husband and friends to a local pub to share a celebratory drink. Sitting outside in the warm evening, now feeling much more relaxed, I saw a lady walk past with a copy of my book in her hand. It was quite a moment!

It was brilliant to be part of an event celebrating local authors. I had never been bold enough to consider calling myself an author before this, and although I’m not about to change my occupation on my passport or shout it from the roof tops, I am now a little braver in saying that I have written a book, should anyone ask, of course!

The last line of my pitch was this “My wish is that my book will help us all be a bit braver about how we die, but in the meantime, be joyful in celebrating living”.

My evening as a local author was definitely an occasion where I was brave enough to talk about dying and, as a consequence, enjoy the privilege of celebrating living.

All Those Hands Held is available to order from all Waterstones, independent bookshops, Amazon or wherever you buy your books.

You can also listen to me read a couple of extracts here and here

“That is one good thing about this world–there are always sure to be more springs.” — L.M. Montgomery

There is a lightness of spirit which lands with the arrival of May. Finally, we can shed our winter coats, and embrace those days of spring when the light lingers long into the night and quickly reappears, seeping through curtains and blinds in the early morning.

We all walk a little bit taller, as we step and skip our way into the prettiest of months. There is a sense of promises being fulfilled as the trees and flowers which have been hibernating in the darker months, unfurl their beauty. I would consider myself an early bird. I have always liked to be up early; even as a teenager, I didn’t particularly linger in bed. My Dad was always ‘up with the lark’ and I think both myself and my brother have inherited this gene. During the week, I am always up soon after 6am. In the winter months, this is hard, even for an early riser, but now with light streaming in the window, I’m usually awake before my alarm clock and if I can get up and immediately step outside, even better.

I realise that so much of what I hold dear from my childhood is related to nature and the changing of the seasons. Cowslips and primroses remind me of my grandad who took me to see them in a lane which led to the ruins of a church in the village where we lived. He had barely left the county of Norfolk and loved the countryside. He had a knowledge of wild flowers and bird calls that was common to those of his generation who lived in the countryside.

The first sighting of the froth of cow parsley in my local park and I remember wandering the tiny roads where we lived where the banks were stacked high with it. I can never resist gathering bunches to take home and put in jars. The throaty cooing call of a wood pigeon and I am transported back to waking up early in my childhood bedroom and days filled with being outside and sunshine.

The scent of roses that wafts past me on the breeze in my garden now, and I remember those jars filled with rose petals and water that as children we tried to make into perfume. Terracotta pots filled with pink geraniums and I am on holiday in the Dorgogne or Tuscany.

In London, the seasons may not feel quite as clearly demarcated as they do in rural areas, and perhaps they are marked in different ways, but they remain an important marker of my year. Like many, I feel my mood shift with the seasons. Today as I write this in the shade of my garden, with doors and windows flung open, it feels like summer is almost here. The warm temperatures certainly suggest that. When the weather takes this turn and summer is within touching distance, I have a dear friend I think of. On these warm flip flop days we message each other, acknowledging that these are our days.

Lately…

It has been a good spring. I often write about the pleasure I gain from solitary pursuits. This is true, but time spent with good friends is always time well spent and there has been lots of that recently.

We had our first campervan weekend away of 2026 in April. A weekend near Cambridge with our favourite campervanning friends. The weather was kind and we could sit outside most of the time. We ate alfresco and blew away the cobwebs of the long wintery months.

I attended an author event recently with my friends The Cooks Edit and Scrumptious Seasons who also have substacks and have both featured here previously. We went along to the always excellent Honey & Co in London to hear Helen Graham talk about her new cookery book Centre Piece. This was such a fun event. Helen was lively and interesting, and it was all hugely entertaining. We sampled food that had been prepared from the book and all left with a cinnamon, pistachio and dark chocolate cookie. I bought the book, and it has been a kitchen staple ever since.

I met some old (as in we go back long way) nursing friends in a pub by the river and we talked for hours. I have met other friends for coffee, family have stayed and we have stayed with family and there has been lots of catching up caught up with.

Culture has featured too and I went to see the spectacular David Hockney exhibition at The Serpentine, on my birthday. It was superb. We were fortunate, there were very few people when we visited and we could linger and look in depth at his fabulous paintings that follow the seasons at his home in France. Later that day we went to see Shadowlands which we loved. Beautifully performed and an excellent telling of part of C S Lewis's life story.

A surprise birthday gift was a puppy yoga class!. I know, who knew? It was adorable. 20 minutes of yoga and 40 minutes of puppy love.

I could go on, but I realise that a complete retelling of my life in the style of ‘what I did on my holidays’ has limited appeal. However, before I finish, I must mention the Jane Hammond: Angel’s Trumpet, Adder’s Tongue exhibition that I went to see with another friend at The Garden Museum. Partly because it gives me an excuse to share some pictures from it, but also because it was so inspiring and joyful. My friend is a talented mixed media collage artist and teacher, and having her company and guidance as we looked at the pieces enhanced the experience so much. It finishes in two days, so I realise that unless you are in London and at a complete loose end over the weekend, it’s completely unhelpful of me to wax lyrical about it.

And finally, finally, I took part in a local authors event at my local book festival. It was terrifying and joyful in equal measure. Another occasion shared with friends. I may write more about that soon.

It is now a bank holiday weekend in the UK, they come thick and fast at this time of year, and the sun is promised to continue for the foreseeable.

However your weekend is looking, I hope it is a happy one.

Until next time,

Yesterday was International Nurses Day. I’m not sure this is hugely significant for anyone outside the profession and probably not even that significant for those of us in it. It is the same day every year, 12th May, the birthday of super nurse Florence Nightingale. I had not realised it was yesterday, until I was reminded at a team meeting at the beginning of my working day.

Something about this reminder made me dig out an old picture from when I first qualified. It is the picture on my security / name badge from St Georges’s Hospital in Tooting, London, and I am guessing it must have been taken on my first day. Looking at this picture of my younger self moved me more than I would have imagined.

I was 25, although I think I look younger. My hair is shiny, my teeth are white and my skin is clear and unblemished. I had been married for just 2 weeks, and I glow with pride, happiness and optimism.

What the image doesn’t show is the fear I was feeling. I had trained in Nottingham, got married a couple of weeks after I qualified. A honeymoon and a move to London followed, and I immediately started my first job as a staff nurse on a manically busy medical ward in a huge hospital. I didn’t know anyone, I had never been inside the hospital I was about to start work in, and I felt woefully underprepared. On my first day, I remember a cardiac arrest happening when a female patient collapsed while walking back from the bathroom. The crash team arrived, the other staff on the ward leapt into action, and I stood back, terrified, with no idea of what I should be doing. I don’t remember if she survived, but it was a sobering first day.

On hospital wards, just like anywhere else, there is a hierarchy, and as a newly qualified nurse in 1995, I was at the very bottom of it. I was still in awe of the navy blue uniforms worn by the nursing sisters. I barely spoke to any of the doctors apart from the most junior ones, who looked as much like a cat caught in the headlights as I did in the early days.

I don’t think I have ever learned more than I did in that first year. I worked with nurses who scared me with their brazen disregard for listening to what the patient wanted. I met nurses nearing retirement who were jaded and wrung out could think and talk of nothing but reaching that milestone, and I met nurses who I admired, who taught me so much about what it meant to care. Nurses who supported me and encouraged me. Nurses who made a difference every day and nurses who went the extra mile regularly, and despite everything did the best that they could for the patients in their care.

In that year, I transformed from being a meek and nervous nurse to one who knew that she could care for people who were vulnerable, lonely, afraid, confused and unable to care for themselves. And, I could do it happily. I learned to embrace the craziness of working in a hospital. I became confident with patients and began to recognise those who were ‘frequent fliers’ to our ward. Essentially, I developed a sense of humour that is unique to healthcare and is often the only thing which sustains you during long shifts. I learned to make myself scarce when a particularly mean consultant came onto the ward. In those days, he was labelled eccentric; today, he would be called a bully. I watched other highly knowledgeable nurses show the utmost compassion and kindness to those they cared for, and I wanted to be like them.

Since that first day, I have worked in various wards in various hospitals. I have worked in a hospice and in health centres in the community and for charities. I have been a staff nurse, a nursing sister, a district nurse, a palliative care clinical nurse specialist, and a cancer nurse specialist.

In 2021, I decided I was done. I wanted to pursue other things. The culmination of a year of working through a pandemic with increased pressures, changes in my role and the inability to do my job in the way I wanted, sealed the deal, and I left my nursing job in the NHS. 26 years felt like a good stint, and it felt right to walk away. At that moment, I really thought that was it for me and nursing.

Reader, it wasn’t.

Just 3 months later, I got a job as a cancer nurse for a breast cancer charity. It seemed I couldn’t just walk away. Nursing is too deeply ingrained in who I am. It has become part of my identity. Not my whole identity, but a part of me I can’t just ignore. At 56, I am much nearer the end of my career than the beginning, but that sense of privilege I felt as a newly qualified staff nurse has not left me. Caring for those who are at their most vulnerable, having them put their trust in you and being able to offer support and care when someone needs it most is precious. Patients stories, and the imprint they have left on me, remain. I can conjure up the names and faces of those I cared for on that first ward all those years ago just as easily as I can recall the faces of colleagues I saw yesterday. As a nurse, you give a lot of yourself; it drains and depletes you, but it also uplifts and enriches you, allowing you to receive so much in return.

Would 25-year-old me have imagined that 31 years later, she would still be nursing? I don’t know, but I think (hope) she would have been pleased.

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There is something different about holiday reading. I always take it seriously, considering it as carefully as I consider the clothes I will take. I don’t have a kindle, even though I know that would be sensible with the heft of books that weigh me down. I borrowed one once when on a trek to Everest base camp, and the weight limit was tiny. Our bags were carried by yaks, and the kit we needed to manage the weather conditions was probably more essential than a stack of books. This served me well then and reading from it huddled into a sleeping bag at the end of an exhausting day was a welcome escape from the cold and basic conditions. Otherwise, it is always real books which weigh me down. I tend to stick to paperbacks if we are flying, allowing hardbacks for road trips or camper vanning when I don’t have to lug heavy bags.

I often buy books in advance that I set aside as my holiday books. These are the books I know I will love, books that have been on my wish list for some time and ones I know I don’t want to read until I can give them my full attention. The joy of holiday reading is a time to read without distraction, or needing to be anywhere else or do anything else. Reading in bed before breakfast, or sprawled on a sun lounger during the day or on a campsite in the early evening, is blissful. When I am at work, this is what I dream of!

We recently took a holiday which involved nothing more taxing than moving between sunlounger and pool, or beach and sea. We applied sunscreen, ate and drank, and read lots of books. Each book I read had been carefully chosen, and I adored finishing one and moving straight onto the next, fully confident I would love it.

The List of Suspicious Things by Jennie Godfrey

I was given this for Christmas and had been saving it for some lengthy reading time.

Set in the 1970’s when Margaret Thatcher is in power, best friends Miv and Sharon decide to try and discover who the Yorkshire Ripper is. They make a list of all the suspicious people they can think of in their street and begin investigating. As they do so, they discover all sorts of secrets they were not quite ready for.

This book explores so much: friendship, community, connection, loss, race and living with secrets. It is beautifully told, and transported me back to my own childhood of long summer holidays, friendships you think will last forever and the things that both puzzle and excite as you begin to realise that adults don’t have all the answers.

I loved all the characters, I was constantly rooting for Miv, and the ending is perfect.

“I turned to the one thing I could always count on. I had never found comfort in dolls or stuffed toys, so instead reached for a well-thumbed Enid Blyton Mum had got me at a jumble sale. It was lying at the top of a pile by the side of the bed, its cover curled with age and the pages loose at the spine. It was one of the Famous Five Stories. I was too old for them in public but in private, they were old friends”

Sandwich by Catherine Newman

Sandwich is Catherine Newman’s second novel. It is set in Cape Cod during one week in summer, which is the perfect setting for any novel.

Rocky and her family have been coming here for a week every summer, and she adores it. As a wife, mother and daughter, she is coping with the brutal physical and emotional impact of menopause and middle age. She feels she is teetering on a ledge somewhere between her loving husband, her adored children and her ageing parents. She loves wildly and expansively, soaking up every moment she has with her family, despite the shifting sands beneath her. Newman captures the sting of the sea's salt, the summer breeze, and the passing of time perfectly. She understands human emotion and conveys it in a way that is pin-sharp and insightful. I wanted to underline so many sentences in this book.

“Picture this: a shorelined peninsula jutting into the Atlantic Ocean. Zoom in a little closer. It’s a Cape Cod beach town. It’s midsummer. The narrow highway is thick with lobster dinners and mini-golf windmills and inflatable bagel pool floats. But turn off the main drag in either direction and find yourself quickly at the sea: sandy cliffs and windswept grasses; tumbling pink roses and vast blue skies and a tideline hemmed with stones and mussels and bright green ruffles of seaweed”

Read that and tell me you don’t want to go to a beach house in Cape Cod too!

Welcome to Glorious Tuga by Francesca Segal

I bought this as a gift for a friend last year and have been planning to read it myself ever since. Reading a book about an island whilst holidaying on an island was the obvious place to read it.

Zoologist and vet Charlotte travels from her home in central London to the remote island of Tuga to study the conservation of the rare coin tortoises and maybe find out where she is really from.

Here she negotiates the wildlife, the isolation and the extremes of weather as she gets to know the community that has taken her in. There is a large cast of characters, but they all have their place and a good assortment of back stories which come to the fore as Charlotte discovers more about herself and the other islanders.

The descriptions of island life are vivid and bathed in sunshine. An excellent holiday read, and I have pre-ordered the next in the series.

“The winding dirt track was vertiginous, shaded by banana palms from which hung deep purple flowers, huge and pendulous, as well as startling bunches of actual bananas, twenty at a time, massive green hands of ripening fruit”

When the Cranes Fly South by Liza Ridzén

This is completely glorious. I read it from start to finish in just one day, and adored every word.

Bo is an elderly man who lives alone with his beloved dog Sixten. His wife has dementia, is in a care home and no longer recognises him. His son visits, but their relationship is strained, and he talks to his best friend Ture on the phone each week. His days are punctuated by visits from his care team, who do their best to help him remain at home.

It is about relationships and the complexities of families. It explores beautifully what it means to age, the indignity of a failing body, and the surrendering of pride as the need for care increases. I adored Bo and Sixten and hope that if a time comes when I need to be cared for, then I have carers as kind and compassionate as Bo’s. This is a book I would recommend to everyone. It is a topic which is rarely written about in fiction, but will resonate in some way with us all

I completed this one in tears. Beautifully written.

“I inhale deeply through the fabric. Close my eyes and let my eyelids trap the burning sensation. No one has ever told me that it’s normal for a person’s eyes to well up so easily as they age, for the tears to find a foothold in virtually every memory”

Maurice and Maralyn by Sophie Elmhurst

All the sea vibes are going on here. This was a book I bought for my husband for his birthday, knowing that I wanted to read it too. We both read it whilst we were away, which was excellent because we could then chat about it. We don’t read many of the same books, but I love it when we do. Written by journalist Sophie Elmhurst, this is the true story of a couple who in the 1970’s sell their house, build a boat and set off to sail to New Zealand. All is going well until halfway there, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean their boat is struck by a whale. They manage to bail out and into a life raft, gathering some essential provisions for survival with them, just before their beloved boat sinks beneath the waves. They went on to survive 118 days at sea before being rescued by a Korean ship. By the time they are rescued, they are both in a poor state, and Maurice particularly is failing fast. They survived on the fish and turtles they caught and ate raw, rainwater they were able to catch (although it rained infrequently) and sheer determination to survive.

Their ingenuity, will to survive, courage, and the depth and strength of their relationship are phenomenal. All of this makes for an up-put- downable read.

“It was rare for him, this kind of clarity. But here was a way to evaluate existence. Measure its success by the extent to which you have loved and been loved. On that count, his life had been a triumph”

Each of these books took me on a journey, which is what holidays are all about.

Until next time

Dear Friends,

This week, I completed a journal, writing my way to the very end of the last page.

I finished it with this sentence ‘Thank you for holding my words’.

It felt significant. An ending of sorts.

I have numerous journals, each of them filled with endless thoughts and feelings. Wishes and observations all caught up in thousands of words, held tenderly between the pages. Words written when seeking solace or inspiration. Words written in haste and words written with deeper contemplation. Words seeking and finding clarity simply from putting pen to paper and allowing them time to flow.

I recently came across this quote by Sylvain Tessan from his book ‘Consolations of the Forest’.

It resonated. I wrote it on the first page of my new journal. Revelling in the scent of the bookish smell of fresh pages, blank and stretching ahead, enjoying the feel of my fountain pen glide across the creamy paper.

This appointment with the blank page is my way of processing, of thinking more clearly and seeing more intensely. Thoughts I cannot speak or ideas which I cannot fully form or articulate make more sense on the page. There is a flow that happens when I journal. Words tumble easily from my brain, coursing through my arm, into my hand and through my pen until they find their home settled on the page.

Beside my desk sit my last five journals. I have stacks more. Each of them documents the undulating nature of life, the losses, the grief, the joy, the adventure; all of it gathered together. The rhythm of my life tucked between the covers.

As I began writing in my new journal this week, I looked back at what I was doing on these same days in the last few years. In 2023 I was sitting exactly where I am now, writing. I had written about the flow of ink calming me, settling my breathing and realigning my thoughts. I wrote of the wind whipping around my little writing room, just as it is today, and I wrote of music and candles and feeling thankful. In 2024 I was contemplating leaving a job I had stopped enjoying. I was feeling sad and anxious about selling my Mum’s house, and I was looking forward to a trip to Japan. I wrote all this whilst part of a writing session with my writing group. In 2025, I was at another writing session. I was recovering from a bout of cystitis and I wrote of the challenges I was having formatting my book. I also wrote of feeling sad. I was still processing the grief of losing my Mum just over a year earlier, and I was dreading the root canal treatment I was to have the following day!

When I look back, writing is always there. Whatever else is happening, mundane or life-changing, it is the writing which is the constant. I have found this reminder in my journals hugely reassuring at a time when I do not feel at my most writerly. I have not started the novel, which hovers at the edges of my brain, still just out of my grasp. I have not maintained a weekly consistency with my Substack posts, and I have an unfinished short story that I have struggled to complete.

And yet, despite this, despite everything, the words are still there. They have not gone away. Writing is a part of me. Simply sitting down with the words today looking at what has been, with the promise of the blank page and what is to come has assured me of that. I will always come back to the writing

Written with Love,

Angie xx

I have always been at ease in my own company. Solitary walks as a teenager growing up in a small rural village were the norm. Time alone reading has always been a pleasure. Sitting in cafés on my own. All of this suits me well. Perhaps this comes from moving to London and working shifts as a nurse. My days off rarely coincided with others, and when they did, newly married and new to London, I wanted to be with my husband. When I wasn’t with him, I explored on my own. I suspect not having children is part of this, too. Children (I think), play dates, and school gates provide a ready-made group of friends if you want them.

I enjoy people, I love spending time with my friends, and I am sociable, but I do not crave company; I am quietly content with my own.

I can remember the first time I did something ‘cultural’ on my own. It was 1998, and amongst other things, it was the year the movie Titanic was released. I adored this film. The first time I saw it was with a friend. We were both completely blown away by the tragedy (spoiler alert), sobbing in disbelief that Jack and Rose were never going to get their happy ending. The second time, I went with my husband, desperate for him to love it as much as I did. The third time I went alone. An afternoon in the middle of the week, in an almost empty cinema. I sat alone in the dark, watching the now familiar film in total absorption.

During those 3 hours when it was just me, Jack and Rose, and a handful of strangers, I felt liberated and brave. I understood that I was someone who could do things alone. A world of delicious possibilities had opened up to me.

Since then, I have been to see many films on my own, I have been to the theatre unaccompanied, and I have become a serial solo gallery goer. In London, I suspect this is easier to do than it might be living in a smaller town or rural area where you are a little more conspicuous. London is full of people doing things on their own. The city lends itself to anonymity.

Recently, I made a last-minute trip to the theatre. It was a play I wanted to see that was soon ending, and on the spur of the moment, during a slow afternoon at work, I decided I would go that evening. It wasn’t something my husband would have wanted to see; it felt too late to ask anyone else, and I didn’t want to miss it. It was a lovely evening. I had a good seat, a glass of wine and a great view. As I looked around at a theatre that wasn’t full on a very wet Tuesday night in February, I could see lots of other women also sitting on their own. A tribe, all apparently at ease and confident in their own company.

In a previous job, I delivered training courses to help those in caring professions think about how they care for themselves. One of the things I would ask them is ‘what would you do for yourself if you had a whole day with no obligations or commitments?’ I was always surprised by how many of them described days that didn’t involve other people. Many described days that involved solitary walks, cafés, or time doing crafts and making things. Few chose to spend their imaginary day with other people. This may have been because most of the people on the courses were busy health care professionals whose working days were filled with supporting and caring for others. Time alone was rare and precious. But it highlighted the need we all have for some time alone.

Another recent solo trip was to see an exhibition of neo-impressionist paintings by artists including Seurat, Van Gogh, Signa and Pissaro. This was a joyful exhibition. The colours, shapes and light were totally uplifting. Wandering amongst so many glorious paintings was a beautiful way to spend an hour before starting work later in the day. Moving at my own pace, starting where I wanted to, lingering over those pieces which inspired me most, going back and forth to those I loved the most and no pressure to rush or move on to something else

Galleries are the ideal places to go if you are seeking quiet or moments of reflection. Sitting before a piece of art and becoming completely drawn into it is difficult to do when you are with someone else. Alone, you can completely succumb, allowing all the senses to be involved.

When I worked close to Tate Britain, I regularly called in at lunch time to look at just one painting. After a testing morning at work, I would go and gaze at Azalea Garden by Patrick Heron. Those moments of contemplation, breathing in the colours and losing myself in the determined brushstrokes, restored a sense of calm.

I often visit galleries to seek inspiration for my writing. I see others who sit with sketch books. I have a notebook. Galleries lend themselves to those seeking something which will spark a moment of personal creativity. Without the distraction of companions demanding your time or attention, it is possible to sit and observe without distraction.

When I am alone, wherever it is, I can give myself over completely to my people-watching pastime. As a writer, capturing snatches of others’ comments and chatter as they wander past, and scribbling down snatches of conversations or taking a few minutes to describe my surroundings, is an endlessly free well of future material.

Visiting galleries with a friend or partner can be a joyous shared experience. Wandering around together, commenting on particular works of art, sharing those moments are precious times and I would not forsake them. Seeing films with my husband is one of my favourite things and sharing theatre experiences with others is fun and a thoroughly uplifting way to spend an evening. However, each time I see an exhibition or a play or a film alone, I leave feeling nourished and empowered by a different kind of experience.

A collection of my current true loves

1. Dig it Podcast

I love both Jo Whiley and Zoe Ball, who present this podcast. I look forward to the twice-weekly episodes filled with their honest chatter, friendship, love of gardens and cultural recommendations.

2. Daffodils

For £1 a bunch, these are the cheapest and easiest way to inject some joy into February

3. Ben and Jerry’s Peanut Butter Cup Ice Cream

My current favourite flavour is a regular Friday night at home treat

4. Lemur Candle Holder from Dunelm

We recently decorated our downstairs loo and this is a welcome addition.

5. On The Calculation of Volume by Solvej Balle

This book is utterly fabulous. The writing is so good, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. I have just bought volume II

6. Olivia Dean

Her music is so classy, and her album The Art of Loving has become the soundtrack to all my bus and tube journeys around London recently.

7. Flow Magazine

My recent foray into collage led me to this magazine, and it’s perfect for paper lovers

8. Lick Peel and Stick Paint Stickers

I have a hankering to zhuzh our hallway at the moment and have been playing with these stick on paint samples from Lick to find the right colour. Much less messy than tester pots

9. Suspect: The Shooting of Jean Charles De Menezes

We watched this because my husband was an extra in it. As it happens his imporant role as part of the crowd on a tube platform was lost somewhere on the cutting room floor. Despite this it was an excellent watch. If you were in London during this scary time this is such an insight into the absolute disaster that caused Jean Charles De Menezes to needlessly lose his life.

10. This on Children’s Books with illustrations you’ll want to live in

This is the most delightful post. As warm as hot chocolate and a crackling fire.

11. Brilliant Concealer by Elf

I love Elf, the products are excellent value and mostly do what you want them to. I’m devoted to the Halo Glow Contour and now love this glam satin concealer. It goes on like a dream and doesn’t cake into my under-eye creases, and it’s only £5

12. Needle felt hearts Tutorial

I love a bit of needle felting and have a collection of Christmas puddings and lopsided robins which I have made to adorn our Christmas tree. This easy-peasy way of needle felting hearts from Corinne has been a little craft I have enjoyed this week.

13. This Book Cover

I do judge a book by the cover, and although I enjoy Tessa Hadley’s writing, it was the cover of this beautiful wintery volume that made me pick it up.

14. Another Valentine by Wendy Cope

Wendy Cope always has the right words and this is my favourite Valentine's poem and the one I come back to every year.

Whether you celebrate the festival of love or not, have a beautiful weekend

Many sing the praises of February as it finally means we have have made it to the end of January, the looonnngggest month of the year. I’m not a fan. February teases us more than any other month. She gifts us with a day of mild temperatures and brave snowdrops, daffodil buds and lengthening light, tempting us to believe spring is just around the corner, only to plunge us into endless rain and grey skies the following day. A clear reminder that winter still has us firmly us in it’s icy grip. Or at least that is how it has been in London so far.

I know that there is something beautiful to be found in all the months, it is just that in February, I have to look a bit harder to find the glimmers, moments which bring a smile or lighten the day and lift the mood.

From my desk where I write I overlook our garden. This week a tiny wren has taken to visiting. His compact, round, brown body, small enough to fit neatly in the palm of my hand, is almost invisible against the soggy brown earth, as he bows to the ground in search of food—a glimmer.

Our neighbours have a new kitten, twice I have seen him sitting at the window ias I have closed my front door. Inquisitive eyes watching me as I watch him. Another glimmer.

My favourite local coffee shop, which for so long has been a place to retreat and write or to grab a takeaway before work, is temporarily closed, and I miss it dreadfully. However, they have been doing home deliveries of their delicious ground coffee and beans. The moment I open the bag and get the delicious aroma of fresh coffee is a daily glimmer.

As I write with the rain falling in stair rods outside my window, I am reminding myself that as much as I long for warmer days and for spring to come, there are always glimmers to be found. Of course, I have so much to be thankful for. I am warm, I have a comfortable home, I have work I enjoy, and I’m paid to do. I have a husband, family and friends who I love and love me and I live in what I consider to be the most wonderful city in the world. I have immense privilege, and even a cursory glance at world news is an important reminder of this. Onwards and upwards.

Cultural Highlights in Recent Weeks

Theatre: Ballet Shoes at The National Theatre

Each year, I tell myself I’m going to go to the theatre more, and each year the eyewateringly expensive London theatre tickets mean I often don’t! Just this week, though, I did go to see Ballet Shoes at The National Theatre. It is coming to the end of its winter run, and I was determined to see it before it ended. It was pure delight and exuberance, joyful performances, fabulous characters and a lovely interpretation of Noel Streatfeild’s beloved book.

Cinema: Hamnet

Like so many, I adored Maggie O’Farrell’s book Hamnet and could not wait for the film. I went a couple of weeks ago with some fear and trepidation as I had heard so much about uncontrolled sobbing, and people openly weeping into their popcorn due to the film’s desperate sadness. I am someone who cries at films, sometimes in messy gulps, and I was anxious about being distraught during this one. Thankfully, that wasn’t the case. There were tears, but not as many as I had feared! There is so much hype surrounding this film, which can often skew expectation and enjoyment. I think it is the same with books. However, I loved this. Jessie Buckley, as everyone says, is magnificent. Her stillness and intensity are mesmerising, and she deserves all the accolades.

Gallery: Radical Harmony: Helene Kröller-Müller’s Neo-Impressionists

This was such a treat on a gloomy day. Neo-Impressionist paintings from artists such as Seurat, Van Gogh, Signac and Pissarro collected together by Helene Kröller-Müller, one of the first great women art patrons of the 20th century. Swathes of colour made up of tiny dots, creating the most beautiful light-filled and often luminous paintings. There are some beautiful interiors paintings of domestic scenes and a number which show women reading or creating, which I adored. This was a favourite.

London

As always, there is much to lift the gloom in London this month

Space by Luxmuralis at St Martin’s in the Fields

St Martin’s in the Fields is the perfect venue for this sound and light experience. I went in 2023 and it was fabulous. Have a look at this video on YouTube for a preview of what to expect.

Orchids at Kew

The annual orchid festival this year is inspired by China. A glorious saturation of colour and beauty.

Hawaiʻi: a kingdom crossing oceans at The British Museum

I was privileged to visit Hawaii a few years ago and I think this looks fascinating.

I think I will save my reading and writing updates for later in the month as this already feels quite long….and I now need to get to work on the job I’m paid to do!

Have a lovely weekend, whatever you are doing. We are going for an early fixed price dinner at Langans Brasserie (a February treat), and we’re going to watch H is for Hawk at Riverside Studios in Hammersmith. I haven’t read the book, but I love Claire Foy, who stars in this, and the trailers look great.

As I put the finishing touches to this, I notice the sky has lightened and the rain has stopped. Hurrah.

Thank you for reading my mumblings.

Until next week,

I have begun January filled with energy and intention. My head is constantly filled with ideas about all the creative things I want to do this month and this year: Substack posts, books and stories I want to write; things I want to make and create; books I want to read, book lists I want to compile; projects around my home, decorating, tidying, generally rejigging; trips I want to take, places I want to visit, exhibitions, films and plays and people I want to see. It’s a lot.

There is so much, and I want to do it all.

I’ll see a post on social media suggesting a daily art challenge, I’m in. Someone else suggests reading through a series of novels. I’ll do it. Cooking from a different cookery book each day. Why not. A daily cupboard sort out. Yes please. Count me in. I’m there for it all.

Ideas pop in and out of my head when I’m walking or running or on the tube or doing my day job. Often, fleeting, they buzz in and buzz out again before I can even capture them or commit them to the page. And yet despite all this fizzing energy, I have felt slightly paralysed. Not quite able to commit to anything properly and consistently. Besides exercise, reading and journaling, these are my daily constants.

I sit at my desk today with a list beside me of things I want to achieve, some of them already have big green ticks, others have been carried over from yesterday and the day before and last week.

Where is the completion? Why is it I find myself flitting from task to task? I can be writing one thing and then, in the middle of it, making notes about something else I’m excited about? My scattergun approach means I have lots of things on the go, albeit many of them barely begun. It’s not even that I don’t have the time. I really do, well, mostly anyway. I work, and my job can be emotionally and mentally challenging, but it’s not full-time, and I don’t have children or lots of demanding family or caring commitments.

Chatting with a couple of friends recently, it seems I’m not alone in this struggle with finding some creative stability this year. Maybe it’s a January thing, maybe it’s a new year thing. Maybe it’s just the pressure we put ourselves under as women to do all the things. Or maybe it’s the craziness of the world we are living in that also feels a little out of control and scary right now.

I know many people decide to take January slowly and hunker down, and I am all for that. Books, a fire, mugs of tea, thoughtful planning, nights in, hygge. Yes to all of it, but I also want to harness the creative energy and direct it so that I can get stuff done. I want to reach the end of January with less cloud and more clarity.

All ideas and suggestions on a postcard please!

Thank you as always, for reading

Until next time