Who am I? They often tell me I stepped from my cell’s confinement Calmly, cheerfully, firmly, Like a squire from his country-house. Who am I? They often tell me I used to speak to my warders Freely and friendly and clearly, As though it were mine to command. Who am I? They also tell me I bore the days of misfortune Equally, smilingly, proudly, Like one accustomed to win. This is the first part of a poem written by Dietrich Bonheoffer while in a German prison towards the end o

It has been a rough week. I always knew it wasn’t going to be easy but I was lulled into a false sense of ease when I seemed to get off quite lightly with the side effects from chemotherapy. But then my hair fell out and with it went all sense of well-being. Up until then, the ship of life was sailing with the wind but then I hit rocks. It is not that I place too much value or identity in how I look, but I had always liked my hair. Some people perhaps suit a bald head but I’m

The poetry book that iis taking me through Lent is focussing on pilgrimage thiis week. Here is a short story I wrote for a university unit assessment after a research project on pilgrimage. I began the day thinking the man was an idiot. I ended the day believing he might just be Jesus. Father Tobias was the new priest allocated to St Mary’s. He was young, young enough to sport a ponytail. It was a tightly bound ponytail, hidden under a hat, which if the rumours were to be be

There has been just the one time in my life when I came close to having all of my hair cut off. I was eight or nine, spending the summer in Nazareth House in Northampton. It was an orphanage run by Roman Catholic nuns. It was not long after my father died. My mother was ill and no relatives stepped forward to take on six children. We had two spells there. The first time we were lauded as a wonderful collection of siblings because we looked out for one another. This was no

‘You’re in my seat.’ It may not be something we say out loud, but we think it and almost right away we tell ourselves off and remind ourselves there are no ‘my seats’ Having said that, where do I think ‘my seats’ are? There is a bus seat that I prefer to sit in. It is just before the steps to the higher seats. It has leg room and a stop button easy to reach. It is also next to the emergency door. Yes, I tinker in my head with the notion of accidents and the need to esca

There is a statistic out there somewhere of how many families are effected by cancer. It is a scary one. My own family has now been hit three times. A family of eight and three cancer victims. More than our fair share I would say. My dad was the first casualty. A swift and vicious kind of cancer tore him away from a young family. He fought to stay well but lost the battle within a few short months. My brother, Michael, was the next to fall foul. It was really a repeat o

We used to travel over to Aberdeen every month for IVF treatment. It was at the drop of a hat. Downing work tools. Heading off in the car. One of those days was an 11 th November and we pulled into a layby and sat silently for two minutes while the ‘Last Post’ sounded over the radio. It was in the days before mobile phones and sat-navs. No pictures of fields of poppies to look at. Many years later, when poetry became my passion, I wrote these words- Homeward Bound I

I have not trawled the BBC and other websites for suitable content for RE classes since I retired. I was always on the lookout then, but...

I would have won the jackpot on ‘Pointless’ the other day. The questions were about fantasy or graphic novels. One of the options was to...

I thought when I enrolled to do a creative writing degree with UHI it would be creative writing – what it says on the tin. I did not know...

I have been reading Natalie Goldberg’s ‘Writing Down the Bones’. I picked up the book in a secondhand bookshop and have dipped into it...

How reliable are our memories? I have absolutely no trouble believing that most of us would pass a polygraph test when it comes to...

There was a need to go into town yesterday although |I didn’t really want to. There was a lemon to buy and a bag of self-raising flour....

We both write letters, Niall and I Mine are to my sister, mostly, His are to the seabed. I use proper envelopes, the ones that are...

My husband and I are just back from a London theatre trip to see Les Miserables. We don’t really do spontaneous, but this came close....

It has been a year since I began my subscription with Pot-Gang, a grow your own vegetables in pots project. Each month I receive a box...

There are new neighbours who have moved into the house at the end of the terrace. I say moved in but I don’t think they have moved in as...

I’m not sure I want to walk down this path for a second time this day, but I was asked to by a friend. There was a line in a song we sang...

The second Saturday of the month sees us down at the Bike Shed with the creative writing workshop. I had given over the leading to two of...

February. The second week in and Valentine’s Day draws near. Who wouldn’t want to write something about love? Creative writing at the...