Less at war

Watching vulnerability is never more poignant than in a hospital, people being judged only by their condition and not by their status, or their anything in the world.

I sometimes look at my face and truly don’t recognise myself.

Nothing gives as much freedom as cycling.

I have never written about the multicoloured roots of my life.

To trust you is a measure far beyond what you think it is.

By no surprise, I find myself on holiday in a part of France at war, with fire.

Music and writing, my greatest healers, although, never at the same time, I cannot write and listen to anything other than (as now) the birds chirping a merry tune in my South London garden.

I remember sitting at their kitchen table, I was eighteen, perhaps nineteen.

It ended, its been ended for a long time but we are still here.

Navigating adult children can be quite something.