My father’s red button
A story about supporting a person with dementia in the community “Hello, is this my father? This is your number one daughter speaking.” There is an emergency call from my father, the…
There is no place for old people
A smile lights up his face as I knock on the back door. “You are here,” he says, as he keeps wiping the sink. We don’t do hugs much, never…
Midsummer madness
We had snow last week, so my memories turned to summer, even though I know about the importance of living in the moment: my days are numbered, let’s enjoy all…
A deep-rooted sense of place
The green landscape of my childhood is in contrast to the generally drought stricken parts of Australia that I’ve lived in – until it floods in Oz, we don’t do…
The one world
Some mornings are so exquisite that words fail me. Today there was a unexpected moment, despite two pet rabbits nibbling on my frosted grass – accidental lawnmowers, I’m happy to…
The new garden
Surviving. Smiling. I wonder if anyone else has ever built a house with gritted teeth and a tight smile, as I did. I liked the old place you see, the…
Recovering from a bushfire
… Leonard Woolf, a middle-aged man of letters, donned two pairs of socks and pruned apples in Sussex’s frozen January. The garden was his personal struggle with a conflicted…