In the spirit of openness and honesty, for all the people who accidently landed here courtesy of Google, let me just state that at no point in this blog post am I going to be talking about anything that involves my boobs. This isn't that kind of confession. Nor have I found god. Sorry Catholics.
A few days ago, feeling rather like a child bunking school, I did the rare thing of going into town – you know, where the shops are, and where lots of people who make time for wandering around shops go. I didn't even have a real purpose for heading in that direction, I was just
At the risk of being pelted with chocolate Hobnobs, I'm going to break my own cardinal rule of militant Christmas denial until the calendar has been officially flipped over and I have to come face to face with the month of December. Normally, when out among the human race, intermittently freezing and sweltering as I
I've been away for a bit. Quite a bit actually. So excuse me if I tentatively dip my toe into chocolatey water for a while rather than just leaping in the air, grabbing my knees and crying "Geronimoooooo" as I dive back in. When you are out of the habit of nonchalantly displaying your life
I am the proud mother of a disabled child. But I am also the proud mother of two able-bodied children (or whatever generally accepted pc definition you wish to categorise them as). One is serious and smart and capable of an extraordinary ability to love and an even more extraordinary ability to survive on very little sleep. The other skips and pirouettes through life managing to juggle frivolity with a deep and sensitive understanding of other people’s emotional complexities, and just happens to have the fartiest bottom of anyone I have ever met. These two are the unsung heroes, the forgotten siblings in the special needs world.