Love is in the Air …

How the story ends…

A Busker’s Love Song


Pink-glazed clouds hoist frayed sails

over pilgrims, tourists, ghosts; they flock

around a busker as he folds his wings, frail

golden sheen and half the feathers lost

like his ragged repute.  Some idle thoughts

burst into mind and soul as he admires how

a lonesome painter’s brush slipped across

indigo canvass of the unsuspecting sky.


Half-torn  hat in his hand declares

whether to cry or commend this day.

White Lady struts through town and a fan

of yellowed papers saves the busker’s face.

A pirouette later she sweeps his dreams,

his breath, a kiss into drifts. His faith

in providence gives him daily strength

when his heart lies in the gutter.


He whistles when stifling day of May

and a bitter song cling by his side;

he follows starry signs and secretly prays

for the Underdog pub to show him the way

to ease this pain.  Behind a wall of noise

five jesters take shots of his rusty stubble.

A trumpet’s cry tears the air above all those

who gather around legend turned to rubble.


A pack of jolly gods cheer as White Lady turns

towards our hero; her dress, his leg, her feet

his chest explodes with thousand fireworks

as his and hers, his and hers lips meet.

Ladies and gentlemen look at them how

they sing of pinkish clouds and the lush

lapis lazulis of the unsuspecting sky

coloured by a painter’s shaky brush.


Prose for Thought

Love is in the Air – Part 3

Welcome back and if you would like to catch up with the previous installments click on Part 1 and Part 2.

A Busker’s Love Song – Part 3

He whistles as stifling day of May

And a bitter song cling by his side;

He follows starry signs and secretly prays

for the Underdog pub to show him the way

To ease this pain.  Behind a wall of noise

five jesters take shots of his rusty stubble.

A trumpet’s cry tears the air above all those

who gather around legend turned to rubble.

And there is more next week…

Prose for Thought

Crawling out of the Poetic Rut

Inspired by a recent article on the Brain Pickings website I decided to set myself a few writing challenges – mainly to re-gain focus and to write with intention to stretch my Muse a wee bit (yes, she has become a little bit too comfy where she is right now).

So I did some browsing and put together my own list of writing prompts that I will use for the next few months.

My first one was Paperclips and Trains and resulted in a poem about a call centre.  This is a first draft and very much work in progress but happy to hear your thoughts.

Call Centre

At first
explosion of noise in a row of phones, gongs
of ringtones, faceless voices in discord: bored,
chirpy, confused, irate, ‘Whatever you say sir’
‘It does not matter’, chattering fingers drum
keyboards, screens flare up with targets,
excel, always, think success even when you fail

to impress that new girl two desks away.

The lucky ones escape at lunch time, huddle outside,

 stare at blue smoke rings disperse to staccato of trains
going anywhere but here.  The railway peters out
into the silent hills. The employees shuffle back

 to their chairs, put their customer first and tighten

the cords round their turkey necks. Beam, do not dare

to leave them hanging in no resolution air.

Live and breathe customer care.

5.01pm – a light bulb hesitates, then goes out; distant
billboard swallows the last slice of the sun and a man
hides his head behind the fence of his hands. A chain
of paperclips sways on his outbreath. One last ring.
Then silence.

I am linking this post with Stephanie at The Beautiful Misbehaviour (a great website for creative women) – Writing Warriors is a great new linky where you can share your writing progress, exorcise your poetic demons or ask for feedback on your work.

Magic Guilty Pleasures

There comes a time in every mother’s life when she steals her child’s last biscuit and she does not feel any remorse. 

It is either the biscuit or her sanity.

Guilty as charged.

Just to Let You Know Dear Child

(After William Carlos Williams)

Mummy has eaten

the last biscuit

that was in

your tin box

and which

you wanted to eat

instead of fish & chips

for tea.

Sorry my child

it was yummy

so sweet

so crumbly.

P.S.If you enjoy my blog and poetry you may want to have a look at my latest collection of letters and poetry here.

I am linking up with the fabulous Magic Moments linky.

Prose for Thought

Blog Your Heart Out


The hilarious Cathy from the Wicked World of Lucas has recently surprised me with a fab nomination for a ‘Blog Your Heart Out’ Award.  If you have never read Cathy’s blog, you are missing out on a few giggles!

Blog Your Heart Out Award is about answering five questions (honestly!) and nominating five great bloggers.

Here are my answers:

1. What/Who encouraged you to start blogging?

I have always been an obsessive writer and reader but I have a very short attention span and used to lack discipline.

I have a theory that road to hell is paved with writers’ unfinished ‘projects’, especially mine… And so one day I had this idea, why not try blogging?  That way if I had any readers (even if it was just one) I would feel bad if I did not live up to their (my imaginary) expectations.

In the meantime, I gained a following of real readers, re-gained my confidence as a writer, had a poem published in a magazine, released my first ebook and I have discovered so many inspiring and talented bloggers.

The bloggy universe has no limits!

2. How did you choose what topics to blog about?
I get inspired by anything, from Peanut’s daily antics to something I have heard on the radio or read in the paper and as ‘chaotic’ as it may sound I do not have a strict plan for my blog.

Somehow it has evolved into a mix of poetry, parenting and odd cartoons and who knows what’s around the corner!

3. What is something most people don’t know about you?
When I was a teenager someone asked me to write a poem for them, they then submitted it to a big poetry competition run by a publishing house and my poem won!  Unfortunately, as a ghost-poet I never got any recognition. *sad face*

Also, I’m allergic to knitting and once upon a time I almost skied into Prince Charles but that’s a different story altogether…

4. What 3 words describe your style? 

Creative, eclectic and a bit of a dreamer…

5. What do you like to do when you are not blogging?

Play with my son. Do yoga and meditate. Watch films with and chat to BlueBeretDad.  Drink wine with my friends. Read.  Listen to Radio 4 podcasts.  Have chocolate cake for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  Not necessarily in that order.

And here I am with my dark secrets and all.

Now over to five remarkable bloggers:

  1. Time Waits for No Mum
  2. Beautiful Misbehaviour
  3. The Reading Residence
  4. Mum Turned Mom
  5. Pinkoddy

Letters to Peanut Free on Kindle Until Tomorrow

Dear Readers

A couple of weeks ago I announced that my wee e-book would be out soon and so here it is:


My pregnancy and motherhood diary written as letters and poems because there is nothing more beautiful than:

  • the art of writing letters.  Not emails or tweets or text messages but filling a plain sheet of paper with scribbles and doodles and whatever else you may want to put in a letter.
  • poetry– poems often stay with me for a very long time after I have read them and words and images haunt me like friendly ghosts.

In Letters to Peanut I wanted to catch the emotions that come with first discovering that you are going to become a parent in nine months and then with grappling with sleepless nights, leaking bras and the first twelve months of being a mother (as well as the occasional panicked feeling of ‘Is this for real? I’m actually allowed to be responsible for another human being?)

But it is not all panic! There are times of immense joy that I would love to share with you. The first scan, steps and that first time Peanut made it clear that a chip off the floor was a delicacy worth three Michelin stars unlike anything I cooked.

Here is one of my favourite haiku poems from the book.  I wrote it during long and sleepless nights when the whole world seemed to be fast asleep apart from me, Peanut and a curious fox:


together we learn

the night language of foxes

And for the book romantics out there – print copies will be available in a couple of weeks (formatting takes a bit longer).

This is my very special and magic moment – introducing Letters to Peanut to you and it is FREE for you to download until Saturday 9 November!

I will also be sharing my experience of self-publishing over the next few months so watch this space.




P.S. I would love to also thank everyone for the amazing support so far.  And a big hug to Helen Braid – a very talented and patient cover designer.

Post Comment Love

A Black Cat

black cat

A Black Cat
it’s never a black dog that brings me a stick
when I least expect it
instead a black cat leaps seamlessly
from the couch onto a chair and into my lap
 a soft paw against my dry palm
an invisible scratch – I swear in surprise
it’s the hand that feeds you your daily fish
and strokes your fur should you so wish
the cat rolls on its back and wags its tail
sometimes it extends its stay
spies on me
when I sip my tea and feed my baby Weetabix
sometimes the white tip of its snaky tail, and
 the familiar purr are gone for months
yet I know it hasn’t forgotten, where once
it played a hide-and-seek game
and I will let it build a nest in my hair
at night after
it has left dead mice galore on my kitchen floor
it takes me 34 years 3 months and 1 day
to cover up the cat flap
and hush the cat away
Prose for Thought

Candy Floss Part 3

This is the third and final part of Candy Floss that I am linking to the fabulous Summer of Words and Prose for Thought.   You can read the first part here then click on this link to read the second part of my story.



I woke up to the cry of a wounded elephant in our living room. I knew what it sounded like because I once watched an animal programme about Africa on TV and this rescue team found an elephant with a thorn stuck in its foot. I cried with the elephant but there was a doctor with the team. She pulled the thorn out, the grey giant wriggled its trunk and I could stop worrying.

I left Alice snoring in mum’s and dad’s bed and went to see how an elephant got into our house.

I could hear it break things so I decided to tell it off. I tiptoed downstairs. Silly animal, of course there isn’t enough space in our house. I will help you find a way out, just stay still. I wondered where mum and dad were. I wondered whether mum came back and got dad his surprise.

A shadow of a beast was raging. I could hear it wail, kick something and howl some more. My heart was racing. Wild animals can smell your fear. I had to be brave so I held my breath and opened the door.

‘Dad, what’s wrong?’ I sprung to the body curled up on the floor. He was rocking from side to side, next to him a broken bottle and a glass and a phone smashed to pieces. A strong smell in the air. My dad’s hand was dripping blood. He turned his red, snotty face towards me and at first I smiled. Silly dad, had a tantrum like Alice, maybe he and mum had another fight.

‘Mum?’ I said out loud. Dad squeezed my hand so hard he left marks on it. I looked at the blood dotted on my nightie and at my dad’s shiny face and I knew. My mum was not coming back.

Once upon a time baby girl hid in her mother’s tummy underneath nine duvets, each a different colour, that protected her from all the Evil and everything else for nine months. Any music that reached her was muffled by the layers upon layers while the girl floated catching the stars.

Then one day her mum got bored with carrying the baby in her tummy and decided that the girl was ready to face the big world. As if by magic, one duvet disappeared after another. The sounds got louder, the light sharper, and the girl shut her eyes, covered her ears, kicked and scratched the hands that pulled her out. The stars dispersed and there was blood everywhere. When the last protective layer, pink and fluffy, was gone, the girl opened her eyes, uncovered her ears and stopped yelling. She breathed in the smells of the hospital disinfectant and her mum’s perfume and whimpered for some milk. Her life on the other side began.

This was one of my favourite bedtime stories.

From the night I found out until mu mum’s funeral I stayed with the pink duvet over my head, with my knees tucked up. No tears could be uncried. No pain could be undone. I sobbed and sobbed and I wished I had never watched that stupid elephant programme.

My sweet Alice brought a bowl filled with corn flakes and a glass of milk three times a day. Sometimes a pair of shiny black shoes came near my bed, stopped for a few minutes and strode away.

On the day of my mum’s funeral the sky opened, the angels cried with me and I told them to stop. ‘You have my mum now. You should be glad.’ After the brief ceremony I took Alice by the hand and we went for a walk.

‘Look! Look! Kite.’ I followed Alice’s hand and there it was – a red kite swirling in the air like the one we saw at the beach that day. We waved at mum.

‘There you are girls. Hurry up.’ Miss Jones appeared behind us.

‘I will be back.’ I whispered and followed her to the car.

Days passed; they turned into weeks and school was over for the summer. Nice policemen came to our house a few times, then stopped. Phrases like accident and tragic circumstances followed us for a while, then new memories erased them.

Once or twice Dad took me and Alice to the zoo; we ate chocolate ice cream and we had fun. Then he went back to living in his office and Miss Jones took care of us.

‘Poor souls,’ was what she said every time she saw us. ‘I’m not a bloody glorified nanny.’

I liked her. She smelled of cigarettes and chocolate biscuits.

Miss Jones let us eat cake for breakfast. We did not have to wash our hands all the time. I never had to face broccoli again.

Alice stopped wetting her bed and I stopped dreaming about chasing the red kite with my arms stretched out, almost touching it but never close enough. The clouds stifled my screams.

Trees turned from lively greens to warm yellows and cheeky reds. That September afternoon Alice and I were rolling in the leaves in the garden when dad called us in. I checked the time. It was not lunch yet.

‘Sit down girls.’ Dad was clutching a magazine with a picture of a big building that made me think of a palace, with its perfect rows of trees stretching on both sides. Alice squealed.

‘Daddy, surprise, daddy.‘ She was spinning as she always did when she was very excited.

‘The thing is… I’ve a new job is in Singapore,’ his jaw clenched. I’d heard of Singapore in the geography class. It was far far away and dragons lived there. I wondered if the palace was in Singapore, our new home.

‘I’ve to leave very soon. Miss Jones will..,’ his voice trembled.


‘Alice, for god’s sake. Stop it,’ he banged the table. Alice stopped with a sigh, then he continued and with every word a bit of me disappeared. The palace in the photo was our new home, a boarding school in Switzerland where Alice and I would spend the next few years.

My lip quivered.

‘Don’t look at me like that Isabelle. You are a big girl and I expect you to take care of your sister. It’s an excellent school, very expensive so please be grateful. Enough with the drama, please. You will be back for Christmas and school holidays and if I can’t get away from work, you’ll stay with Uncle George and his family in Surrey.’

He let his hands fall open.

‘I hate you just like mum did, bloody Bloodsucker!’

I did not expect him to hit me. His palm and my shame burned on my cheek all night. I swore I would never say a word to him again.

Before we left for the airport I hid from everyone’s view in my parent’s bedroom. The sunshine poured in like honey and the dust swirled in the air. Something shiny was sticking out from underneath the bed. Mum’s favourite bottle of perfume. I put it in my pocket.

‘Alice. Isabelle. Time to go,’ the staccato of Miss Jones’ heels echoed in the hallway.

I sat in the car with my back straight, my fingers clutching the bottle and my teeth sunk into my lip. I found the physical pain soothing. Alice played with the big white buttons on her coat. Miss Jones was checking over and over our travel and school papers that she had stuffed in a big yellow envelope. She was tapping her foot while dad was shouting on the phone and firing people until we rolled into the parking lot.

‘Come on girls. Say goodbye to your dad.’

Dad’s face transformed into a grimacing mask and we crawled outside. It was refreshing to feel light rain on my face. Within seconds the sky opened and the mild drizzle turned into downpour.

The driver re-started the engine and I looked my dad in the eyes, the weeping glass between us. His lips moved but I could not hear him. I stuck my tongue out and he turned his back.

A plane roared above and the clouds turned into a funny shade of pink, just like candy floss.

The three of us ran inside.

‘Ready?’ Miss Jones straightened my skirt.


She threw the envelope into a bin.

Candy Floss Part 2


I’m taking part in The Summer of Words project and you can read the first part of this story here.  I have also linked up with Prose for Thought

More to follow soon!  Enjoy 🙂 


The first time Hector Fogg felt really ashamed was when his second daughter, Alice, was born.  He stared at her and there she was, lying at his wife’s Pauline’s breast, still covered in the typical yellow gloop, whimpering and trying to sniff out the nipple.  His last chance to have a son gone forever.

Pauline was very clear about not wanting to have any more children.

‘Not good for my figure,’ was her typical response.

His mother warned him about marrying a woman ‘only one step away from becoming a prostitute.’

He would have to live with the shame of not passing on his name and fortune to a male heir.  Hector, the Financial Director of an international investment bank, felt more pity towards his daughters than any other emotion because he knew that their lives would revolve around choosing the right length of a pearl necklace and keeping their husbands happy until the said spouses would turn their heads towards a younger model, a nanny or a PA.  Someone not from their own circles, to avoid unnecessary drama, and no amount expensive education that his daughters were going through would ever change that.  These were the ways in Hector’s world.

Hector had heard of feminism and the 21st century and all that but he had also experience of running a very successful business and growing up in a household where a wife was a silent beautiful trophy until she became a piece of antique furniture that was best to be admired from a distance and not to be touched after she had fulfilled her purpose.  A household where men discussed politics and women conversed about their next charity project.

During his career in the bank Hector had only ever worked with one female high profile manager.  She had short silver hair, always wore black suits and had a nickname ‘Les’, given to her by a herd of overweight and permanently half-drunk market analysts.  Hector avoided having too much to do with her.  ‘Scared of a woman who doesn’t embroider?’ Pauline wiggled her finger at him.

‘No class, all mouth,’ said his mother the first time he brought Pauline home, and that remark made him like that girl with a fiery ponytail even more.  Pauline with her jingly bangles, a bit too revealing top, a skirt verging on being called a belt and leopard peep toes sat on the beige designer couch and bit her nails under the silent scrutiny of his mother.  Ma, with a string of pearls strangling her neck and a black and white Chanel suit, growled a couple of times and sharpened her freshly manicured claws against the antique coffee table and this was when Hector decided to marry Pauline who went against everything his family represented.  He thought he would never get bored of her exotic personality and love for neon pink lipstick.

They met when he visited Fun Girls club on a night out with his business partners.  A topless singer stretched across a stage of broken dreams and smiled at him.  He took her back to his flat that night and she stayed for the rest of the week.

He spared his mother that detail and introduced Pauline as ‘an aspiring vocalist and interim waitress.’

‘Your mother hates me,’ soon became a handy excuse for Pauline to use whenever she wanted him to stop working on a Sunday, take her shopping to Harrods or visit her parents in their council house on the outskirts of Brighton.

Her parents never warmed up to Hector either.  Not after he had parked his Bentley on his future mother in law’s rose patch and refused to touch the Indian takeaway they got especially delivered for the occasion.  His worst crime in that class tug-of-war was to mumble something about Tory politics in his deep and long vowels only to later take their daughter away and return her occasionally.  All changed and most of the time drunk.

Hector’s and Pauline’s parents met only once, at the Wedding.  The gathering was not an agreeable affair and was never repeated.  His mother almost fainted from wrapping her pearl necklace too tightly when Pauline’s dad offered her a pint of lager.  Pauline’s mother claimed she couldn’t understand a word of what the members of the Fogg clan were saying.  Hector did not remember much from that night, courtesy of his best man and endless supplies of gin and tonic

Even after the girls were born the visits were carefully scheduled to avoid any unnecessary exchange of (un)pleasantries and over the years, as the parents were dying one by one, Hector felt a certain relief.  No more was there a nagging feeling of bridging the divides and dressing the wounds after yet another battle.  Hector’s general view was that the less the girls had to do with that side of the family the better.  Pauline’s exotic personality and neon pink lipstick became a drain on his patience and bank account.

Of course he never said it out loud to Pauline.  She would have scratched his eyes out.

‘Pauline, where the hell are you?’ He thought as he sat in his living room with his face in his hands.  The girls, Isabella and Alice, finally fell asleep, together in his marital bed.  They insisted and he was too tired to say no.

He thought about how angry he was with his wife and how lucky he was that it was his PA, Miss Jones, who recognised the girls when she went outside to have a cigarette, something that Hector didn’t approve of, but she was a very efficient and discreet secretary nevertheless.  He listened to the girls’ story about the beach and ice cream, a kite and missed school.  About a surprise their mother had prepared for him and about a mobile phone smashed to pieces on a motorway.

He prepared a speech for when they would get home.  A speech that he would end with ‘I want a divorce,’ and ‘You won’t get a penny.’

When he parked the car outside their house, the windows were dark, the curtains open and not a sign of life anywhere.  Upstairs in the bedroom, Pauline’s wardrobe with its door wide open swallowed his anger and replaced it with anxiety.  Her clothes were gone and so was a photo of her as a little girl riding a donkey on a beach in Blackpool.  It was always there on her bedside table.  ‘The best day of my life’, she often said.

Tonight the shame was even greater.  How would he ever admit that his wife left him and there was that important golf game tomorrow to prepare for or (God forbid) cancel.  And she abandoned him with two daughters that looked pretty in the pictures and with whom he occasionally spent an afternoon, more out of duty than pleasure, before he ran off to the peace and quiet of his office.

He cursed the day he agreed not to employ a nanny.

‘I don’t know them.’ He said quietly to himself and filled a tumbler with whisky reserved only for entertaining his sleazy Eton ‘chums’ as Pauline liked to call them.

He only managed one sip before the phone rang.