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Silken Stuff She buys a scarf, a memory of  the places that they used to go She ties it all around her head And every time she wears it now The little slip of silken stuff Reminds her that  She was enough He brings a scarf from faraway  A little slip of silken thread He tucks it in his leather bag Between his business shirts and stuff Amidst the sights and fantasies And all the places that he’s been She knows that even faraway She’s been remembered on that day And that she is enough So many times he goes away Till every country is the same Hotels Dinners Meals And deals Shaking hands  Exchanging names Playing endless corporate games Before he boards the last flight out His trusty PA must sneak out And thrust into his attaché A packaged slip of silken stuff A “memory” of his time away To let her know he thought of her And that she is enough Soon she has so many scarves So many memories  His, not hers And all reminders of the times She’s been alone  With noth...

Many dream of flying Many fly Some take off and soar Some take off and fly for a short while Only to fall again But some get up  And run again Again And again And again Wings outstretched Waiting for that one breeze Tilting their wings Trimming their feathers And running Like madmen To catch the next upward breeze Until the wind lifts them up And then For the briefest moment in time They are soaring Maybe not even that high But they’re flying They are flying Flying Soaring There are those For whom the take off is just too hard and the safety of the ground is easier to contemplate Than the pain of the fall They point their fingers at the crazies with their wings outstretched They shake their heads And they walk by Because They will never experience the rush under their wings  And that  one  brief  incredible  moment  of  soaring

A little boy was playing one day In a cobbled street in the village O When along came a troupe of dashing young men With their shiny swords and medals O With their shiny swords and medals O Where are you going? The little one asked As they marched by so proudly O “We’re off to battle in a far away land To fight for our King and country O To fight for our King and country O He ran up the hill to his cottage home  To tell what he saw to his mother O But standing at the gate she was weeping on the shoulder  Of his Daddy with his shiny sword and his medals O Of his Daddy with his shiny sword and his medals O “Where are you going with your swords and medals?” Where are you going dear Daddy O “I’m going to battle in a far away land And to fight for our King and country O And to fight for our King and country O “Can I go with you?” The little one begged “To the faraway land of fighting O” “I need you here my big brave boy To look after your mother and our baby O To look after your mo...

Kicking against The Upgrade You know when you just don’t get it. That thing that everyone else seems to get and you seem to be the only one just not getting it? Like you’re somehow virtually stuck inside the story of the Emperor’s New Clothes and you’re the little guy yelling: “The Emperor’s not wearing any clothes!”  I feel like that a lot! I mean A LOT!  I landed in Sydney this past weekend essentially on a visit to see my children whom I haven’t seen since the world went mad. I have to say, flying over 10 000 kms via Singapore, (which to my mind is one of the most sanitised countries on the planet, and this was BEFORE the dreaded lurgie,) gives one a lot of time to think and up there in the actual clouds as opposed to the virtual cloud, which it seems is where most people spend most of their time in this new world, potentially gives one a great perspective.  Flying over Madagascar above the clouds one is able to make out the western coastline on the approach from the I...

Mommy has Omi Mommy has Omi And she’s locked herself away I think it must be serious 'Cos its nearly half a day  And Dad has burnt the toast and it smells like really bad This is like the worst day I've ever had Mommy has Omi And I think she must be ill Cos she’s been sleeping since this morning And even took a pill For the headache and she says She’s like aching really bad This is like the worst day I've ever had Mommy has Omi I don’t think she thought this through ‘Cos the Cocopops are finished I like don’t know what to do ‘Cos like three of us need breakfast Oh, it’s like actually me and Dad This is like the worst day I've ever had Mommy has Omi I'm already late for school ‘Cos Dad’s in a flat spin And this is so not cool OMG he just told me we would have to isolate I just realised this day could  Turn out like REALLY GREAT!

I’ve always been fascinated by mosaics. The idea of creating patterns or pictures using cut pieces of tile and glass which are then grouted together appeals to the part of me which loves fixing and repurposing broken stuff. Patchwork quilts hold a similar fascination for me as my mother used to cut and piece together little squares of fabric cut from the leftovers of garments she had made for herself and my sister and I.  In my early twenties I took a few patchwork courses learning the technicalities of piecing together accurately measured and pre-cut fabrics which were bought for the specific purpose of being coordinated, cut and then sewn back together to adorn the beds of my new home. I was so proud of this newly acquired skill. My mother was rather puzzled by the process of buying fabric for the purpose of cutting it up into little pieces and tried in vain to explain to me that this seemed to defeat the object of using leftovers that would otherwise become discarded and wasted....

 I’m not sure if this will resound with anyone but being a bit of a music and lyrics junkie/tragic I often find inspiration from songs so I thought I would share some of them with my friends. Scroll on by if it doesn’t. Here’s the first from “In the Living Years” Every generation Blames the one before And all of their frustrations Come beating on your door… … So don't yield to the fortunes You sometimes see as fate It may have a new perspective On a different day And if you don't give up, and don't give in You may just be okay…  You know how the rest goes …  I’ve been doing a lot of beating on that door this week. I’ve been doing my fair share of blaming: Oh my goodness! I have been angry at the world; at Presidents and Prime Ministers and corrupt politicians and aaaaalllll the people I don’t even know who’ve played a part in my feelingstuckwithoutanycontrolandjustmadashellness, and I’ve even been mad as hell at Brené Brown even though I carry her book in my bag and liste...