From the category archives:
I really like mums. I didn’t always particularly though. When my friends and I were unruly teenagers skulking in parks after dark and knocking back gutrot that bore so little resemblance to actual vodka that it was labelled “vodka flavoured beverage” in basements, parents – our own and and others – were to be strictly avoided lest they… Actually I’m not sure exactly what, it was just the implied threat of having to have a conversation or something I guess.
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In case you haven’t noticed, my photos don’t seem to have said goodbye to my old kitchen yet. I’m sure a therapist could have a field day with that (and probably with me in general if I’m honest) but I insist it’s only because I still have pictures of stuff I cooked there to post.
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You know how people say “If you were going to die in a year, what would you do?” to gauge what it is you should be doing in life? It doesn’t work on me. At all. I get even more confused. I’ve always had the sneaking suspicion that my horror of committing to one kind of work for the rest of my life was an embarrassing character flaw. On good days I put it down to being a Renaissance (wo)man and on the bad I despair and feel envious of more focussed souls. It’s not that I’m disorganised or lazy – I work hard at whatever I happen to be doing – I just can’t imagine working in the same field, or country, forever and ever amen.
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