I’m a city boy. Well, technically I am, bar a brief interlude during my time in Glasgow, a suburban townie. I don’t do the country. Not for want of trying; not for want of being asked to try. I don’t do walking shoes, or rucksacks. I definitely do not do ruddy faced happiness in the
I have a dream. It really is a simple dream. One where I walk in to a restaurant in Italy; where the staff great me as a returning friend – one of the family, even. I opened a window on to that dream tonight. Where a friend, mio amico, took us to a restaurant in
Yesterday was my birthday. This now means I am 37 years old, and one day. Very few people registered that it was my birthday. Very few were actually informed. It passed a lot of friends by. Not a single person at work knew the “importance” of the date. I just don’t do birthdays. Other people’s
How old is too old to make new friends? Amy thinks that question sounds suspiciously like the opening to a “Sex in the city” episode. So whilst I dust myself off and try to recover some dignity, how about considering another question: Are you ever too old to make new friends? I’m 36. I joined
The rain was getting harder. Nix was sure Chris was behind her when she walked out of the bar; but now he was nowhere to be seen. She tried to call out to him, but couldn’t make herself heard over the sound of car horns and revellers spilling out of the bars on First Avenue.
I see her now. She is dancing between the pedestrians on the side walk – disappearing and reappearing from behind the plumes of steam that rise from the road. I watch her as she punches the air – no doubt listening to something upbeat on her iPod. She is oblivious to the people around her.
I’m sat in a busy kitchen with families running around me – including sections of my own – and I am closed away in my own thoughts; planning this latest post. But then I am on holiday. I am supposed to be enjoying myself. Writing is one of the few ways by which I have
I swear. I swear a lot. I can never remember if it is like a docker, a trooper, a fox or a pig. Either way, it is something I do on a regular basis. Or at least I once did. Have a baby and everyone with or without a kid will instantly tell you that
Yesterday we sat around a table eating food with people we call friends. It was the second Sunday in succession that we’ve had reason to do that. Some of those friends we get to see on a weekly or at least monthly basis. Others, we haven’t seen – or may not see for years. Yet
You find me writing from that familiar place once more. I’m sat at my desk, staring aimlessly out of the window – as the sun illuminates the weeping willow in the courtyard outside. Although I’d rather not be at work on such a glorious day, the thing with this familiar place is that it is