Larry was making the most of his freedom. After three hours cooped up and airborne, he relished the opportunity to stand on his own two tottering feet. My husband queued at the hire car counter; Larry wandered wherever he fancied. We took turns, his siblings and I, being
A glasses-wearing, grey-haired gent in a brown peaked hat sits next to a wiry, teenaged lad with dark, close-cut curly hair. Mismatched twins, each is clad in a heavy navy coat and trainers. I search their faces for bloodline traces, but discern no physical resemblance. A gorgeous, smooth-skinned,
Whilst at camp, my daughter, along with a few friends, built a den in the woods. They wove sticks into walls, tied a tarp to a tree, laid a groundsheet beneath it and built a fire. Their chosen site was a level spot midway up a sloping hill.
There was a sense of quiet industry around the harbourside today. A gentle hum of life ticking over. I’d taken advantage of the spring warmth and gone for a walk with my son. I’d had half a mind to take him somewhere other than his usual playground. Much
Two years, 51 weeks. Four years, nine months. Three years, 51 days and counting. In the past twelve years, there have been approximately 17 lactating-free months. I don’t say this to brag. In truth, I am somewhat bemused that my breastfeeding career is still a work in progress.
“Does he always breathe this fast?” asked the GP, on a home visit. “He’s only twelve hours old”, I said. “Maybe he’s just getting used to being here”. Our second child was born exactly one month after we’d uprooted from London and replanted ourselves in Bristol. We had
I could’ve cried when I got to the back of the plane. My husband had checked us in online, only to discover that our family of five would be separated during the flight back from Madeira. We’d tentatively worked out the logistics of boarding (whilst carrying a toddler
Madeira is a tall island draped in lush green landscapes worthy of Shaolin monks and hobbits. As my husband drives up and down roads with vertigo-inducing drops, my belly flops. I look at my hands—balled up, white-knuckled. My foot presses an imaginary brake. Sometimes I close my eyes.