Take One. At Least One.

I happen to be the worst photographer I know, apart from my husband.

Together we have contrived to take next to no pictures of our offspring or any notable events in their lives.

Had it not been for family members taking photographs of our children, we may have had nothing to look back on.

How many times one of my kids has come home from school and requested a photo of themselves as a baby, I can’t count. Well, I know it’s at least seven.

With our first child we had hundreds of snaps courtesy of a (now) ex-sister-in-law who recorded every cute moment for posterity. As my eldest was the first neice/grandchild she had loads of photographic attention. And revelled in it. She’s still a bit of a poseur!

As family extended, the photo extravaganza diminished. And, since hubby and I don’t ‘do’ pictures, the stream of visual memory began to dry up.

There are, of course, some holiday snaps and some memorable Christmas pics but, essentially, my memories are mental rather than visual.

Thankfully, my older kids take a lot of pictures on their phones, so there is some evidence of growth and good times.

One blogger very kindly offered to write a story based on a photograph that I could submit.

I said, ‘Yes’. And I also asked him to be patient. I will have to hunt for something, anything, which is suitable.

On those few occasions, when one of our kids has asked for a baby photograph, and I have struggled to find one in the limited supply, my husband – God Bless him – suggested that we just submit one of Child One’s numerous pics.

No-one, he maintained, would know the difference. Our offspring were kind of like Russian dolls as babies.

I’m just wondering if I could pass off a Russian doll of myself. Maybe, some Hollywood B lister who’s seen better days. Maybe?


Faceless, Not Voiceless

A number of bloggers, including myself, remain faceless in their profiles.

We possibly do it for all sorts of different reasons.

For some, they may want to have the opportunity to speak on matters without anyone recognising who they are.

Others again, may choose to remain anonymous as they do not want to be judged on their profile picture but only on their words.

Others again, may shun the idea of public acknowledgement, shying away from any sort of visual public recognition.

I am a bit of all of the above and, quite possibly, so is everyone else who chooses to keep a low or non-visual profile.

I enjoy putting a face to bloggers I follow. I equally enjoy the anonymity of others, allowing me to guess at the face behind the words.

Either way, it is their words and not their picture that cause me to follow and visit again.



Whose Blog Is This, Anyway?

My blog is about ME and what I see. Not about crap my children want me to write.

Apparently, though, my desires must always take into consideration the wishes of others.

‘No fucking way,’ has been one response when I said I was prepared to consider their contribution. (We’ve all got one!)

‘Me, me, me,’ has been another. Yup, no surprise there.

So, anything I write about my children has to be run past them first for approval or – oops! – deletion, A.S.A.P.

A woman’s mind is not her own, it would seem.

Unless I don’t get caught. (Stroking evil beard with whaahaa laugh to accompany).

WordPress, We Have a Problem.


So, there should be – somewhere – on the WordPress Help pages – advice.

Or a health warning. For what to do if, or when, blogging or writing becomes habitual and addictive.

Maybe we could call it W.A., ‘My name’s ????? and I just can’t help blogging or writing. It’s having an impact on my family. I think I may have a problem.’

I’m somewhat concerned and somewhat elated.

All these years of writing, dating and filing have found an audience; a raison d’etre.

‘Hear me!’, I’m shouting to my Reader page. ‘Write me!’, my mind is crying out.

(A small part; a very small part, teensy, in fact, is saying, ‘Bin me’)

I’m blanking her.


Liberating, exhilarating, motivating.

If I had known, if I had just known. If someone, anyone, had told me that finding an avenue for creativity bred creativity, I would have done this so long ago.

WordPress, take note.

Cory Monteith

My daughter asked me to write something that matters to her.

As it happens, this also matters to me.

Another child lost from life.

Thirty-one years is a babe.

Too young.

Too little.

Too late.

A face known to me by my children,

A voice, a smile, a song,

Talented, tormented and toppled,

Searching for far too long.

‘I’ve got the rest of my life to be a grown-up

And, for now, it’s ok to be young’,

Choices, drugs and pressure.

A life where the song has been sung

The Yanks Are Coming

A long number of years ago, my gran’s brother (on my father’s side), set off with his beautiful wife, to create a new life in New Jersey.

Every few years, they would pay a visit and my dad would say,

‘The Yanks are coming.’

We loved it. These exotic relatives of ours with their American twang.

They would bring family as they grew and, sometimes, an amazing friend called Jean.

We had parties.

They visited family and toured Scotland, discovering the ‘old home’.

As kids, we listened in awe to tales from the USA.

We hugged and cried.

They left.

They died.

But, generations of family have grown from those two daring adventurers.

Scotland to the USA – lifetimes ago.