I hope you’ve all been well, enjoying books, walks, Spring weather, writing, family time, whatever it is you get up to. Feel free to reply and/or comment to let me know. I’d love to know what my readers are up to, who you are. What matters to you?

I haven’t done much writing on my Golden Retriever novel over the last four months, but I’m back to it now. Thanks to my new writer friend’s, , character motivations grid, I’ve reestablished my character goals, and now I will re-outline the novel, ready for rewrites. I’ll first map out what each chapter contains (in case I can salvage some bits) and then re-plan what I want to say in each chapter to move the story forward. I’m intimidated and excited about this step.

When I was rewriting The Broken Engagement Club all those times, it was fresh in my mind as it was only a few months removed from writing, but I wrote this novel around this time last year.

I’m pleasantly surprised by some of it, some of what I’ve written, but it needs work, and my characters have been ‘talking to me’ again and telling me more of their journey. Maybe I’m the only woo-woo person whose imagination does this to them?

In the current iteration of the novel, I spent a lot of time on their backstories, and I need to bring their current love story to the fore (according to ’s very sound advice), but no time spent writing and learning my character is wasted.

It seems to be a bad writerly habit I have (or beginner, rather) that I love delving so deeply into the past and what brought the characters to their current state of heartbreak. Maybe it’s a holdover from my Substack as that’s how I’m writing about my life, too. Anyone else do this? (The backstory bit, not processing the past heartbreaks bit.)

Anyway, as I said, no writing is wasted as I know my characters better, but it always baffles me that I’m stuck in this loop as I am a planner not a panster and I need to get better at staying in the now, especially when I plan my next few novel ideas (one set in Georgia, another about a cat saving a marriage, and a start to a cosy mystery series – maybe even a fictionalised exaggerated version of my Substack for a fourth idea). Maybe one day all of these ideas will sit on bookshelves for lovely readers to enjoy (I hope).

In other news…

Grammy moved house (September 2025) and turned 90 (March 2026)

I wrote so much about this before, but new readers won’t know that my Grammy (maternal grandmother) moved house at the grand age of 89. Finally! It took about 2 years from first searches to moving, and I have no idea why the UK housing market takes months to complete.

Still, at 90, she is compos mentis and lives independently, thankfully. She misses her previous house in Kirkstall, Leeds, which was larger with an absolutely incredible garden that she’d cultivated herself (and with the help of her gardener) over the years, which included lots of hydrangeas, roses, and peonies – and blackberries (of which I have many fond memories of picking as a child).

I fully understand it’s difficult to move away from the home she loves, but now, instead of a 1.5-hour drive away each way from my cousins and I, she’s about 20 minutes away from us, which will help as she ages.

Grammy has also managed to get even fitter. She lives right on the flat in the middle of a little village so she can walk to shops, cafes, her ladies’ coffee meetings, and – most importantly to her – her church. She’s become very involved in her two churches and that has provided wonderful friendship and community. Plus, only five minutes down the road lives a family friend, Steve, and his wife, Liz. is a childhood friend of my Uncle Dave (Grammy’s second son). Steve has been such a tremendous help to us over these many months and we couldn’t be more grateful.

Grammy also turned 90 on 16th March (born in 1936), and we all had a wonderful time at her party! My Mum, baby sis, Hannah, and wonderful stepfather, Lamar, travelled over from Florida to attend, and we had a whirlwind week. It was lovely to see my Mama again after seeing her last October. We never get to see each other so soon after a previous visit.

Harry’s and Oliver’s milestone birthdays

Just this week, my cousin’s son Harry turned 10 on the 27th April, and my nephew turned 13 on the 29th April. I moved to England two months after Harry was born and have been thankfully involved in his life over the years. He’s such a sweetheart of a boy.

(Naturally, it has taken me the longest to source pictures because I have so many photos, and despite taking hundreds with each child over the years, I can never find photos when I want them. I should start making albums. Here are a few I found.)

Oliver, my husband’s sister’s son, I’ve known since he was 3 years old. As someone who isn’t quite sure if she’ll have children or not (or even fully wants the responsibility, which I’ll write more about in future), it’s so important to me to be close to my niece and nephews and my cousin’s children who call me ‘Aunty’ as well.

I have always adored children. I love their curious, precocious, and sweet natures. I love how they see the world, make sense of it (and its illogicalities), the funny things they say, their energy, and joy. I suppose I’m describing children who have the good fortune to have safe, secure, and happy childhoods, though, and I know not all children are that fortunate.

Java’s workshop

I have meant to write about this for months, but haven’t; however, I’ve attended two workshops with this wonderful artist named . What a cool name, right? She has her very own Substack and a significant Instagram and YouTube following.

I discovered Java because she interviewed Rozie Kelly on a podcast. Rozie was recently shortlisted for the 2026 Women’s Prize for Fiction for her novel, Kingfisher. I attended her book launch on the invitation of a friend, Ruth, who knows her. Java and Rozie are also friends. I guess we live in a relatively small community, and artist types congregate together, especially those who live in Hebden Bridge.

I subscribed to Java’s Substack, and she advertised this ‘Table Styling Workshop’ maybe back last September, which was running in November 2025 in her studio in Hebden Bridge. I had never been to anything like it and didn’t know what to expect, but attending the workshop felt like being invited into a magical, beautiful grotto where you got to play and create physically in a way I haven’t done for years.

Plus, I met so many beautiful and interesting ladies, a couple of whom I’ve seen outside of the workshop. Most of the friends I’ve made in England have been via work or through my older sister, Jae (her friend group adopting me), so it has been nice to make some new friends, too.

I suppose with as busy as my day job, writing, family, and existing friends keep me, I didn’t particularly need more friends time-wise, but still! Who can turn down friendship opportunities with interesting women? So I’m now friends with fashionista El. I have mentioned her briefly and a Californian artist, Emma, who very kindly arranged a meeting with her elder sister who is an author. Emma went to art school in London where she met her partner and I attended her gallery opening at In A Land in Hebden.

In February this year, Java hosted a ‘Kitchen Table Creativity Workshop’ for adults and their young people. As I say, I’m lucky to be surrounded by young people, so I took my niece, Caroline.

Java, just as in the first workshop, served yummy vegan baked goods and drinks. I love to take my niece to things that serve vegan goods as – I’m not vegan by any stretch – but she is a lactose-intolerant vegetarian, so it’s nice when she can freely enjoy eating things without having to ask the host about it.

This workshop invited us to paint and draw using various techniques, and the results were surprising. I loved seeing how ‘unlocked’ creatively all the children were at the table, especially the younger ones. It’s sad we lose that as we age. My niece enjoyed some bonding time, too.

Lyndsay-Maxwell and Morgan families (Dad’s side)

My Dad’s family did a couple of reunions in the past that I attended, but haven’t done one that I remember knowing about since I’ve lived back in England, so I was pleasantly surprised when my Aunty Sheena (my late father’s sister) and their cousin Allison arranged a family get-together.

On 19 April, we all made our way to the De Vere Cranage Estate and enjoyed a meal and drinks together in actual sunshine! The 19th April happens to be my sister Jae and brother-in-law Rob’s anniversary, and it was also the day Grammy married my Grandad in 1958!

I’m thankful that over my last decade in England, I’ve cultivated a closer relationship with my aunties on my Dad’s side. Family has always been important to me, and I was able to see my Dad’s cousins and their families this go-round. I wish I’d been introduced better when my Dad was alive, though.

I think Aunty Sheena and my Dad’s cousin Allison have had enough with the organising, though, so if we want another reunion, Jae and I will probably have to organise it, which I don’t mind. Jae is very good at this sort of thing, and I’m okay at emailing places and finding venues. (I planned a wedding, after all.)

Aunty Sheena picked a gorgeous hotel in Cheshire as that always seems like the ‘best’ location for most people travelling in, but I find that very self-sacrificing of my Aunty Sheena, as she lives the furthest away in Maldon (of the salt flake fame), which is rather closer to London than the north of England.

Michael and I hope to stay with Aunty Sheena and Uncle Nick in June and hope also to see the Great Aunties, Gillian and Pauline, I have on my maternal grandfather’s side.

I love to be a bit of a keeper of family histories, dramas, and stories.

I know some people in families only worry about the present and don’t keep up with that sort of thing, and don’t worry about knowing or meeting extended family. Others go as far as to do big genealogy projects. Where do you sit on the spectrum?

Do you keep your mind in the present or do you imagine a past, a patchwork of knitted-together family stories, imagined and real? I always wonder how we can’t accurately picture events that make up our family lore.

Turkey holiday

Michael was very romantic in that he researched and paid for a holiday for us.

All our spare money of late has gone on the mortgage overpayment or into my novels (very sacrificing of my supportive husband), so that has meant we haven’t had a holiday since we went away to Madeira with Grammy back in June 2024. Then, Michael booked us an incredible penthouse suite (the first time we have ever had something like that) and the first time we have taken Grammy away with us.

This time, Michael and I spent four full days (five nights) in Ölüdeniz, Turkey, in a part near Fethiye in what’s called Turkey’s ‘Turquoise Coast.’ It was the shortest holiday we have had, and this time, to keep costs down, we stayed on the resort, but when we have longer, we usually go in for all sorts of adventures and ‘excursions.’

I personally love the all-inclusive set-up where you just get to relax.

For Michael, this place had miles of walking as it traversed beaches, a mountainous hill, woodlands, and beautiful landscaping. It had a waterpark, lots of activities (including free archery and tennis – it seemed a very popular spot for tennis people and pickleball people), and multiple swimming pools – and the sea (glorious).

We lounged around, read our books for most of the day, and did lots of swimming and drinking (the drinks were surely watered down because I usually feel it after a couple and didn’t), but I was ever on the search for a perfect amaretto sour since my friend’s husband made them at one of her dinner parties, and it was incredible!

Michael wanted us to go for longer, but since we had my family reunion on the Sunday, the earliest we could book flights was Monday (20th April) and as we are firmly middle-aged now, we didn’t want a flight at stupid o’clock (i.e. 7 am) so that we’d be shattered all day so didn’t arrive on the first night until nearly midnight, which isn’t great.

Then, since it’s a 4.5-hour flight, you spend 3 hours at the airport, and 1.5 hours driving to the airport, the ‘final’ day was really just packing last-minute bits, weighing the suitcase again, eating breakfast, and going. I do hate the ‘lost’ time that comes with travelling.

Instead of flying with the travel company, TUI, (okay we are basic people who do TUI hols and the like) we had to fly with EasyJet. I’ve flown Ryan Air to Dublin but neveer with EasyJet and the luggage nightmare is true. We could only take on two small rucksacks onto the plane and we had to gasp share a suitcase. And my husband being a total as I call ‘princess’ took up most tof the case. The amount of weighing and dropping things out of the case we had to do is ridculous. Plus, in reality, we were in swimming cossies most of the time and barely wore any of the outfits we’d packed.

Also, I won’t get started on how expensive it is to be a woman. Pre-trip I got my hair, nails, and eyebrows done plus a lash lift and let’s just say I’m glad I don’t do these things regularly because all told that was £177 and the ladies who do those things for me are very reasonably priced (Jay, Steph, and Ella, thank you!). Carly is my usual ‘nail lady’ but she’s on maternity leave for now. And ‘usual’ is stretching it when I get my nails done every six months or so!

Funnily enough, I’ve been writing this post in dribs and drabs this week, and my writer-friend, , already wrote about the travel topic this week!

Now I’m going to sound very spoiled, but the food on the buffet wasn’t as good as those that which we’ve had at 5-star resorts in the past.

I don’t mind my food a bit on the colder side but Michael prefers piping hot but even though the food was nice and there was an abundance of options (catering to the main tourist groups of Brits, Russians, and Germans) when we got it to our table it was all just that tad bit cold but on the last two days we learned to ‘hack’ the breakfast system by going to the omelette station and the crepe station for freshly cooked food

I prefer when resorts have restaurants you can choose instead of the main buffet, as I much prefer table service. Mexico had the set-up where we could eat all of our meals at various restaurants on the resort (of which there were many). I know I sound moany, but I just find it much more pleasant to dress up and dine at a table with a menu without having to walk around and decide at a buffet.

We did discover there was a Turkish restaurant on the resort, which had a reasonable €10 supplement per person. Some of the other restaurants had a much steeper supplement, which I didn’t think was good value so we didn’t go for it. For example, I didn’t want to pay €50 per person for the steak restaurant in case it wasn’t all that good.

Michael is the type of person that not only does extensive research in the form of reading reviews for holidays but also watches people’s holiday videos on YouTube. In real time. Not even sped up 2x. He likes to scope out the layout of the place before we get there. Anyone else do this?

I’m thankful he does, but I really cannot be arsed with doing all that. Still, as a result, he’s never steered us wrong on holidays. He also has a theory that it takes a day or two to ‘settle in’ to holidays and scope out the good locations and bars and pools. But he lamented that this holiday was so short that we didn’t get to take full advantage once we were armed with the knowledge.

Because of his video foray, he thought we could just saunter into the sister hotel to their gorgeous woodland bar area with their private beach, so what we ended up doing without even knowing was sneaking into the hotel over and enjoying the day there. It was glorious, though, but I did read up that we couldn’t actually do that. Still, it wasn’t the sort of place where you have wristbands or where they even ask for your room number at meals so we really could just enjoy the drinks next door, no questions asked.

Don’t tell my nutritionist, David, but one of my favourite experiences was enjoying an ice cream cone or two per day. I find so much joy in a simple ice cream. Michael, however, is more a cake person. Where do you fall?

I mean, I’m glad I kicked my regular habit of consuming entire cartons of Ben & Jerry’s for health’s sake, but I do miss those days!

I have now completely bored everyone with holiday photos!

Is Dalaman the most expensive airport experience?

The Dalaman Airport has had a major ‘glow up’ since we last came to Turkey. We got engaged there at this resort further up the mountain called, the Montana Pine Resort, back in 2019 and besides a little trip to Bodrum from Kos by boat, we hadn’t been back.

Turns out they renovated the airport last year. As pleasant as the new building is, I’m convinced they are trying to recoup the cost of the project by making the goods sold inside it (captive audience) absolutely bonkers expensive.

The prices, if you can believe it, are astronomically more expensive than Manchester Airport prices, and that’s saying something. We expect to pay £60-80 for a nice airport meal for two (when we’d go to Wagamamas and we paid about £55 for a meal for two at Giraffe going), but this Turkish airport wanted €16.50 for a McDonald’s cheeseburger meal and €23 for a double Big Mac. They didn’t even have my go-to option of a Quarter Pounder with Cheese (extra pickles). I find these prices absolutely outrageous. It’s McDonald’s for Pete’s sake!

Every restaurant and cafe was the same. And no free WiFi at all. A few restaurants advertised things like ‘spend €25 and get free WiFi.’ I thought oh wow, that’s expensive until I found that you could practically buy one meal or drink (not both) and spend that amount.

At this point, after looking at everything and finding that a basic sandwich was anywhere in the region of €11-17 and even a basic beer or water was around €7 and €7 for a packet of crisps, I was in a huff.

It’s not that we didn’t have the cash, but it’s the perceived value for money. I think that everyone should have access to semi-affordable food in an airport. People are often stuck there for two to four hours, and with budget flights, there are no longer even peanuts or free drinks on board.

Michael joked that when we got on the plane, the prices of the snacks and food were a relief.

I ended up having an overpriced Chai Tea Latte from Cafe Nero and then a horrible Popeyes meal (we don’t even have this US chain in the UK), which I had to pay for with card (as they didn’t accept cash – another bugbear) for £18. In my head, a fast food meal should never cost more than £8-10 and ‘back in the day,’ you could get quite a bit for a fiver.

As I said, the last time we travelled to this area was about 7 years ago. For that trip, we had adventures such as scuba diving, going on a pirate ship (obviously not real pirates), feeding turtles, seeing ancient tombs by riverboat, mudbaths, and all sorts.

The airport I remember was hot back then, but reasonably priced – and now it’s all glass and marble and seating and looks gorgeous, but the prices are unreasonable – at least to me.

I don’t even remember Zurich or Amsterdam being this expensive. Do you have any stories to rival mine re airport costs? And how do you feel about it? The whole thing made me quite cross, and I even filled out a survey in the airport about how it was all too expensive!

Out kitty was very happy to have us home and despite being tired on Sunday, I had a lovely day with Kathryn from my Arvon writing course a couple of years ago. She travelled over from Canada to take more writing courses, research her family history, visit friends, and work on her novels.

Final bits

I’m thankful that the Bank Holiday is approaching. One of my freelancers has kindly agreed to cover. I may need it as weeks ago I signed up to attend an ‘Ibiza Night’ with my cousin, so I imagine Saturday night will be spent drinking and dancing. I am a terrible dancer and very embarrassed about my lack of skill, but we’ll see how it goes.

I imagine Sunday, I’ll be very hungover. And then at least on Monday, I may be able to work on my novel outline and edits for a good chunk of the morning.

I rarely drink these days, so a boozy holiday plus a boozy weekend will probably mean I need a break until my birthday in June. Last year in my 30s!

Also, Saturday morning and lunch, I’m meeting my fabulous former colleagues, Maureen and Esther, for lunch in Hebden Bridge. We’re going for Greek food, and I can’t wait to see them.

Maureen has since retired, so I look forward to finding out how she’s finding it, plus how she’s taking to grandmother life as well. She has two daughters, younger than me, and both became mothers last year (I think – unless it was the year before?).

If you’re in the UK, are you planning anything for the Bank Hol? As us Brits are weather-obsessed, we are very thankful A) for the extra light in the day (even if we hate daylight savings time) and B) for the fact that Britain has been warmish and sunny. Miracle! It makes a huge difference to mood with a nice, sunny day. I need to spend some time in the garden again today.

For my readers in Ethiopia, who subscribed via ’s Substack (thank you, Maya, for the amazing and risky journalism you do to report on human rights in your country), what is the weather like at this time of year and do you mostly have nicer weather?

For my American, Australian, and European readers, what’s the weather doing where you are?

Today is also the Labour Day holiday in Singapore and China, so at work our morning will be quiet (since Asia is off on holiday) after a horrendously busy early-publishing day yesterday. The Middle East team are still in, so there’s work to do, and Europe later!

My next chapter will be all about why I don’t think my husband would have dated me if we’d met at any other point in life.

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One day at work, my team and I had a virtual chat about why years seem to pass faster when you’re older. Dan, a colleague whom I trusted to copyedit my novel on submission, said how it’s because as each year passes, the percentage of your life that has passed gets shorter and, thus, a year feels like a lower proportion of time – something like that anyway.

He gave the example of how for a toddler, aged 2 years, 1 year is 50% of his or her lived life. For someone aged 35, each year represents only 3% of your lived life, and so on – so by the time you reach 80, a year is only 1.25% of your life, a mere blip.

I’ve meant to write. All when I was away in Florida visiting my mother and attending my 20-year high school reunion, all last week as I am now back home in England and settling into the dark nights and back to the grind of work (what a week). But alas, it has been 38 whole days since I last wrote to you. My brain has been itching to write, but I’ve also felt inexplicably tired by the jet lag this time around (more in a bit).

I wish I were also one of these people who could write gloriously snappy, cute short things, but I always seem to waffle on. How many words is a 5-minute read? 1,500?

Besides, whenever I send out an email, I generally get at least 2-3 unsubscribes, which is quite a number when I have a small (but very amazing, lovely) audience. But, seriously, I’m grateful for everyone who reads.

Is humour the key?

Why We Met is all about the journey to how I met my lovely husband and how I bang on about how lucky I am because the happier people are, the more they want to spread love and rainbows and happiness around. When you’re sad and having a hard time, it’s easier to be more miserly to the world. I know! I’ve been at every stage of loved up and miserable on my journey.

I realised something when contemplating my lot in life. The reason I love my life with Michael more than any other partner I’ve ever been around is because quite simply, he makes me laugh. He makes life a joy.

Most other people I’ve dated have been quite serious. Are Americans generally more serious? I’ve certainly been around Americans with a good sense of humour but I think on the whole maybe they are.

Growing up around my Dad and Uncles who were all quite witty and funny (and even my Mum is a fun person as is my Grammy), I maybe had this expectation that humour and even observational comedy is a gold standard.

Michael just makes me laugh with intentional jokes, observational humour, and the quirky things he does. For example, I went to the loo this morning only to find my car keys on the windowsill. Why are the keys in the bathroom, one may ask? We are both left asking. I have no clue. My husband is ‘quirky’, but whenever I find random objects in laughable places in the house, my husband often tells me, ‘There’s a reason for everything.’ I can probably print a list of his catchphrases on t-shirts for now.1

Also, thinking back, I was drawn to Hot Jewish Doctor and Red Haired Sex God not only because they were electric in bed but also because they made me laugh (when they didn’t make me cry).

I told Michael the other day that I sometimes dream about these men from my past. Unfortunately, not in the sexy way, but that I wake up and I’m with them. I’m in a relationship with them, and my subconscious brain in the dream is like, ‘But, no, I’ve found Michael. I want to be with him.’

Next year, will ‘only’ be 10 years with Michael, but I’ve never in the past made it past 3 or 4 years, so I feel immensely privileged and happy to still be so in love all this time later. Is this the secret to a happy marriage? I really have no clue, but I know there are people who make it decades together.

Here’s what happened in October. I planned to write more, but this is already a novella! So, next time.

October in Florida and Georgia

4 October 2025, 20 hours of travel

Flew to Tallahassee via Atlanta via Virgin Atlantic and Delta. My US passport just came in time. I had an absolute time of it taking my own passport photo. I have a silver streak at the parting in my hair in this one. I am sure I’ve aged more than a decade between passport photos. You can’t nip to the photobooth for US passport photos as, despite the fact that they cut them down for the actual passport, you have to send in photos that are 2 inches by 2 inches.

I had to take my own photo and then order this very odd custom size on Odd Prints. Odd Prints are usually fast, but this time they took an inordinate amount of time and thus sending off my passport was late and I thought the whole thing might not happen and I might not make it to see my Mama or my high school reunion.

I’m only 38 but feel too old to get up before 6am, take a train from Todmorden to Manchester Airport via Salford Crescent (surprisingly easy) but I’m tired.

Meet man on train platform from Bahrain. Gloriously, I attact people who want to tell me their life story. Perfect for writer!

He is some kind of engineer by training, had his own business, but now works for a very well-known terminal company (or at least in the chemicals industry in which I work) as a Chief Government and Security Affairs Officer. He travels a lot for work. He was visiting England to visit his twins (can’t recall if girls or boys now). All his children are grown up in their twenties. His wife is back home in their massive home with servants. I was once married to a Lebanese man whose mother was from Bahrain. I know the kind of life!

He also told me about various love affairs he had with colleagues. He said one colleague had wanted him to visit. But he says he won’t. He’s probably in his sixties now. I could tell he probably was handsome once, so I see it. Maybe he needs to confess to a stranger at arse o’clock in the morning to absolve himself? He hands me his business card before we part. Does he think I want to become a mistress too? Or that I love to talk chemical journalism? Who knows?

Mistresses often think husbands will leave their wives. They will never leave their wives. When I was briefly a mistress (at the ripe age of 22), the last thing I wanted was said man to leave his wife no matter how good the sex was. Would have been disaster!

Picked up a book at the airport that got all sorts of awards called Green Dot by debut author Madeleine Gray. Beautiful writing. Reminded me a lot of ’ very beautiful novel Bitter Sweet – or the Australian version of it. Both about young, clever women having affairs with a married man with more power and how they let it temporarily destroy their lives and souls.

I relate to these women and glad I never let similar situation destroy me.

I go for relaxing solo breakfast at Giraffe (maybe) in the airport which has replaced the Wagamamas, which I would have preferred. (I do have a photo of this but won’t share because I know it’s very millennial of me to take photos of everything.)

Very loud Scouse ladies who are clearly going to take their teenage sons on holiday come to disturb the peace. I’m annoyed at their display at first, but then think, why should I be? They have a right to enjoy it and just because they behave a bit more ‘brashly’ (a word?) than I would consider polite, they aren’t harming anything. We have a short convo as I pay and leave to go to my gate and they seem quite nice.

Have 9.5 hour flight to Atlanta. I sleep for maybe 20 minutes in one of those absolute pass-out-probably-drool sleeps but then don’t sleep again. Spend the first bit of the flight being annoyed thinking the man next to me (who may be autistic) has taken my window seat, but then check my ticket again to see that he hadn’t.

Glad I wasn’t a ‘Karen’ and chose this to be the half British side of my British-Americanness and not say anything. He watched films the entire time on an iPad with his big headphones and didn’t so much as glance at me. I think I recall him drinking quite a bit as well.

I actually watched films on the plane. One was an incredibly charming French film (why did I stop watching French films?) called Jane Austen Wrecked My Life (2004) and some other comedy film about two girls who are inexplicably close and in different stages in life with one due to get married and the other still scraping by at work and getting blackout drunk as if she was still in uni.

The one who has ‘moved on’ doesn’t want to tell her friend about the stage of life she’s in because she knows her friend won’t be happy for her. I can’t even recall what the film was called by I liked it in my bleary-eyed state.

I spent some time reading the other airport book I picked up The F**k It List and found that, disastrously (?), the plot is somewhat similar to my book, The Broken Engagement Club, in that the protagonist wants a baby and decides to try via IVF. Inspired by the fact that I am always on the fence of if I should have a baby and admire women who really just know it in their bones. Wanted to explore a character who wanted it despite it being un-modern and seemingly anti-feminist these days. Trad wives are in, obvi.

Anyway, have since finished the book at home last week, and the plots are different and have now added book to my query letter comps. Like anything, Goodreads users can be brutal about any books I find funny.

I kept glancing over at a beautiful woman in the row to the right, especially when she lifted her arms over her head to reveal a killer torso. I admire other women more for the ‘wish I looked like that sort of thing’ than for flirtatious reasons. Her lesbian partner did not think that was the reason, though, and sort of glared at me and then jealously held her hand. I also wanted to see what she was so engrossed in reading and how she could have such concentration in noisy tin can in the sky.

Planes also remind me of Air Traffic Controller (ATC) for obvious reasons and flying to the US made me nervous for the first time as the ATC problems they have been having and thus more plane crashes and I wondered if I’d make it or have some kind of plane crash and how awful that would be. A la Alanis Morissette.

Eventually made it to Atlanta only to have a 5-hour layover. I checked my bag through to Tallahassee, went to passport control again (no people anymore, all computers), also very happy you don’t have to take liquids and computers out of your bag now (as travelled with two computers: one work, one personal MacBook), and decided to walk between the gates instead of taking the airport train to kill time. It was a 45-minute walk, which was just fine. Bought a turtle and some other pecan-covered chocolate thing from Savannah’s Candy Kitchen. Apple pay worked, thankfully. Exchange rate and fee minimal. I love the combo of pecans and chocolate. Anyone else?

Wasn’t entirely hungry but had Wendy’s burger and giant drink. Miss giant drinks and free refills when in the UK. Didn’t miss the use of plastic. They even had plastic straws! I mean I work in the plastics industry, but c’mon! Paper straws are objectively shit but they don’t create more virgin plastic for landfill. Is paper better if it kills trees? It’s probably all bad!

Finally got to board Delta flight from Atlanta to Tallahassee. Have accidentally booked upgrade so am sitting in the very pointless premium section which is still not first class for a 45-minute flight. The upgrade was £100 for two, so I should have known it was too good to be Virgin Atlantic business class which I booked once for £200-ish on this very journey two years ago and was spectacular on the way there as I was on exit row solo. No such luck this time.

Spoke to the very nice man who was in his fifties and was married like me (no children, like me) and was early retired. They also have a cat. Nice chat but can’t recall too many details now except I think he had gone to Texas to visit his sister and nieces/nephews.

One day, I will fly first class with the beds. Do people just spend an exorbitant amount to fly there? Is it with those amazing credit card deals or frequent flyer points? I need this secret to the universe. Also, don’t have credit card as I can’t trust myself with a credit limit!

Am always amazed at how much the Tallahassee International Airport feels like a mall. Since I went through security in Atlanta, there’s apparently no security in Tallahassee, which gets me every time. My Mum and stepfather just casually stroll up to me as I get off the flight and walk with me to the baggage carousel (of which there are only two) and my suitcase arrives swiftly and we are on our way the hour drive ‘home’ to Madison, Florida and I’m excitedly greeted by one Yorkshire terrier (lovely scruffy ugly-cute dog belonging to my baby sister, Hannah), Teddy, and two of the three cats, who seem to remember me: Abi, my stepfather’s grey cat, and Eri, my favourite fat lump of a tabby cat with stubby legs.

Eve is hiding. All the cats have been various rescues with shaky starts. Eve has not recovered from her early trauma and near-death experiences, but the other two have.

The first week of three

5-7 October 2025: Absolutely need these couple of days off to recover from jet lag and spend as many hours sleeping and napping as possible. Mama and I run errands and, most importantly, visit Chick-fil-A. Am amazed by the quantity and size of Sam’s Club things. Have to buy giant container of lettuce and I worry how I’ll get through it because at home, I make two romaine lettuces last me for all five lunches (we may get an extra baby gem at a push but still)!

8 October 2025: My work gives me two charity days per year and my Mum works in the charity sector, generally as CFO or director, but she’s CFO at this one and I volunteer my time at her work, training the office staff on how to update the website I built as my charity hours the previous year, and doing lots of filing. Next charity day, I’ll spend with the special needs adults the charity supports.

It’s a holiday but mostly I am working from home, doing Europe hours, and for some reason last time I came, I worked merrily from 6am to 2pm and then had energy for walks in the sunshine around the lake upon which my mother lives. This time I am like a bed and front porch hermit and really cannot shake the inescapable tired feeling I have.

My 20-year high school reunion

10 October 2025: Part 1 of my 20-year high school reunion. Went to ‘tailgate’ and Berrien High School football game. Expected very warm weather but it’s a bit chilly and wet and I have no coat. Good to see classmates and we get group photo. Despite former Class President and Secretary ordering a mountain of pizza, only a few of us eat it.

11 October 2025: The actual reunion do. I enjoyed high school and had a good time, especially by senior year. I only moved to the school when I was 14 so I had all four years with them besides a brief summer where we moved back to Oviedo, but then I got to move back and finish my senior year. I’ve written about these chapters here.

My Mum and stepfather drop me off for the party because I didn’t rent a car and besides it’s BYOB. I’ve brought the only decentish bottle of wine I can find, a rioja. The wine brands I usually drink cost upwards of $45 in the US, when they cost $10-20 at home in the UK. But then again, I do rarely drink.

I’m always three sheets to the wind by two glasses, so I make sure to pace myself. Wish I’d had more tacos at the taco bar. Tacos were made by the local Mexican restaurant, which is now owned by a former classmate who was in the year above. His family always owned it, but it’s nice to see it’s still in the family. The pulled chicken tacos are amazing.

One guy, who I always thought was cute but he was part of the popular boys then and became a pharmacist now (with beautiful pharmacist wife), came over and said he found a notebook in which we would write notes to each other but he was ‘mean’ to me and he sort of sounded like he worried that he’d bullied me. He and I were always academically neck and neck and I always thought we had a healthy rivalric banter. I assure him that I did not think he was mean to me. He said sorry for giving me shit about my crush on Orlando Bloom. I was a LOTR nerd in high school and fancied Legolas. Someone even bought me a life-sized cardboard cutout. (Def no longer crush on Orlando Bloom but bring on James Norton!)

One of the popular girls in school, Janna, was one of my first friends when I moved to the school. She was always one of these bubbly beautiful girls with a heart of gold and it’s lovely to see her still that way. But now she has a handsome, tall husband, two beautiful boys and lives at Jacksonville Beach and does a lot of surfing, according to her Instagram.

It’s funny how none of us pretended we didn’t Facebook and Instagram stalk each other, and many of our conversations began with, “I saw you were…” Some even asked me about my novel, which is sweet. (But I don’t think anyone reads my Substack. Thankfully!)

Janna wrote on her FB a very poignant note: “To say I love my Class of ‘05 is an understatement. We laughed, we danced, some cried. … There’s something irreplaceable about the people who knew you before you knew yourself. See you in 5 years ‘05!”

I had my own small friend group, but I was always on the periphery of the popular set. I wasn’t popular, but I wasn’t invisible. I had some friends in the group. It was also great to catch up with some of the girls I’d run track with.

I’m also delighted at how well people have done. We have some anaesthetists, pharmacists, lawyers, business owners, teachers, and all sorts. One of my twin best friends from high school, Sarah, and another bubbly classmate Becky, are the only ones without children. This is the south after all. I went to high school in Georgia, and getting married and having children is the done thing. Most of my classmates have three children. Three!

We all decide to do the most redneck thing imaginable in Nashville, Georgia (yes, Georgia has its own Nashville) and go to the VFW, which is sort of like a line-dancing redneck bar (stands for The Veterans of Foreign Wars). I guess you don’t need to be a veteran. You just need to pay the $10 cover fee. We all arrive there with various ride shares. A classmate and I climb into the back of a massive pickup truck. Unlike in England where people take trains and taxis to various places, I suspect many Americans drive places a bit tipsy. See previous chapter about that time I got in a car with a practical stranger who was intoxicated here.

The VFW has a live band who give us a shoutout. Most of my classmates drink beer and I drink bottled margaritas because America doesn’t have cider. They are quite nice but I don’t drink these days and get a bit too drunk. Is so good to see my high school twin best friends.

I ring my Mum and ask if I can stay out with Sarah and Anna. This feels like high school all over again. She said they’ve been waiting in the car, chatting, but she sounds happy. She said they wanted me to have a good time and of course, she’ll pick me up tomorrow. I feel badly because it’s an hour drive from where she lives in Florida, but she’s okay with it. Like old times, I sleep in Anna’s guestroom. She now has a sprawling big white house with a massive porch on a massive plot of land with her partner and two children. I have contacts in and decide to sleep in them despite my optician saying this should never be done. I don’t sleep that well because I’m no longer used to air conditioner at sub-zero temperatures.

The next morning, Sarah has gone home to her house and brought me back a toothbrush, a spare contacts case, and some solution. My contacts are so glued into my eyes that I can barely get the right one out. The left one seems to have disappeared into the ether. I bin the right one. Shame because they were monthlies!

Anna has to go to work hungover. I ask Sarah if she fancies going to Lake Park to meet my Mama for some Waffle House. I polished off an insane amount of breakfast food at this little diner. It reminds me of 6am breakfasts after a night of no sleep and partying in my uni days.

I am glad our next one is in 5 years. I hope Michael can go to that one and I hope I’ll be a published author by then! Watch this space. For my 10-year I was at a military ball in Germany with my first husband. How times can change in a decade, eh?

The second week in Florida, time with baby sis

12-16 October 2025: Buzzing about the reunion and spend lots of time trying to catch up on sleep and adjust to working a full week from Florida.

17-21 October 2025: Baby sister arrives in the night from her boyfriend’s house in North Carolina and we have an amazing weekend. Hannah’s Grandma Ruth (our stepdad’s mother) brings over her self-driving Tesla and despite how much we think Elon Musk is a wanker we have to admit his engineers do design an amazing car. The self-drive features are incredible as is the fully glass roof.

We went to Silver Springs, where various films were filmed like Creature from the Black Lagoon, some older TV shows, and a Bond film.

It’s absolutely stunning, and we see gators, manatees, monkeys, turtles, and lots of birds (anhingas being common). There are about 500 monkeys there.

I only went once before for one of Hannah’s school field trips when I was in university, and we did the glass bottom boat tour then but a shorter version. This time we did a longer one and it was fab.

There’s some funny story about a guy who released monkeys on ‘monkey island’ with the intention of using them as an attraction for his boat tours, only not to realise this particular brand of monkeys can swim. Thankfully, they’ve integrated since then (the 1930s) into the local wildlife well and aren’t considered pests, even though they aren’t native to Florida.

Hannah got some amazing video footage of the monkeys on her new iPhone but it doesn’t show up so well here.

The springs are made of over 150 springs and the water is crystal clear. The largest spring pumps out 550 million gallons per day (our brilliant guide says that means you can fill an Olympic-sized swimming pool in 45 seconds). It’s a brilliant family day out, although expensive for Mama who paid for it all.

Hannah’s high school best friend drove to meet us there and we all went for southern BBQ afterwards, which was delicious.

Hannah got some quite good photos of me where a squirrel photo bombed me because Hannah had been feeding it Mum’s granola bar.

It’s so good to see Hannah. We don’t have to but we share a bed like old times. We find ourselves sleeping back to back, the dog curled at our feet.

I was going to write this chapter before my reunion and had thus started these couple of paragraphs:

Tonight is part one of two of my 20 year high school reunion. We have a tailgate pre-game before the high school football game. I hope I get to eat a hotdog with relish. Hotdogs are objectively shit food but who doesn’t love a good game hotdog? I’m sure if my husband was with me (instead of at home with our beloved cat), he would not even eat a bit, but more fool him. Tomorrow night we have a taco night and DJ at an old ranch restaurant that used to be owned by one of my classmate’s family.

I did not get a hot dog! I ate one of the mini ones at Krystal, but it was not the same without all the trimmings. I am also 10 lbs heavier on the scale which gives me lots of anxiety, but I did also eat like I’d never seen food before.

The two flights over from Manchester to Atlanta and down to Tallahasse were long with the flight times and layovers but I made it and I think I’m mostly caught up on sleep now.

I feel like I’ll never be caught up on sleep!

The final week in Florida

20 October 2025: Chester drives 8 hours round trip to see us. He brings his VR headset and he and Hannah do video game nerd out and speak sentences I don’t understand. Chester had a hell of time driving where a semi-truck tyre shreds on the highway and goes under his car, so he had to ensure his car hadn’t been damaged. He spilled sweet tea down himself which necessitated him buying a new white shirt. I think I’d have given up seeing my friend after that so I feel thankful he visited. Chester was one of my uni best friends and is the same age as my husband (47). I mention him lots in previous chapters.

22 October 2025: Had my final charity day at Mum’s work and worked with the special needs adults. Many of the same faces, which was nice to see.

23-24 October 2025: Busy days at work, which were a blur. Getting up at 5.30 am feels brutal. Mum had bought me this Chai Tea Latte mix and she likes to tell me I have managed to consume about 4 literal American gallons worth of this drink. In my defence, I say I usually only drink water, sparkling water, soda water, cups of tea, and the odd bit of diet soda at home (yes, I’m sure full sugar is technically better for you). It was a treat to make Iced Chai Lattes on demand and even have an ice maker. Marvel at the size of Mama’s fridge as it’s about six times the size of ours! (We have small under-counter fridge and freezer.)

Last night in Florida we meet my high school twin besties for fast food.

25 October 2025: I have Mum repack my suitcase because she’s one of those amazing tidy folders and I know that I’ll probably have to pay overweight fee if I want to bring back all the goodies Mama is sending back with me (fancy skincare, a Crate and Barrel cutting board, Swell water bottles for Michael, Caroline, and Jae, etc) but I need her to do her lovely, neat folding which i never mastered. We spend all morning her doing that, unfortunately, so it doesn’t feel relaxed and I feel stressed about the day ahead, despite the fact that travel time is only about 10 hours this day instead of over 20 hours the other day.

Mum also gifted me one of those fashionable Fjallraven backpack/rucksacks, which will come in useful for future countryside walks and is especially useful when you’re travelling with two laptops!

We eat at Waffle House again as we have not eaten breakfast and it’s about 2pm something. Love it. Last chocolate chip pecan waffle and American hashbrowns. I have the massive All-Star breakfast again but this time skip the soda and the biscuits and gravy as added extras.

Get to the Tallahassee airport and I set off the scanners. I’m wearing a bodysuit, which is now quite tight on me because I have gained weight. I tried to blame on my shrinking it in the wash as I looked a bit sausage-casingy until it loosened up.

Woman pulls me aside and says because she has to touch ‘intimate areas’ do I want a private room? I say no I’m fine. No idea why I’m fine with someone frisking me and my lady bits but whatever? I’m dressed. Who cares? Let’s just get through security, right? Obvs I’m not carrying weapon in my fanny so off we go. (This could go for the US or UK definition of the word! Either orifice.)

I decide to sit at the bar and have a last drink. Go for the margarita. Chat with bartender. What else is there to do? And then other guy at the bar chimes in and chats with me. He’s probably a few drinks in. He has two or three teens. He and his wife are separated. They were together twenty years. He is still in love with her but can’t get over her cheating on him with colleague with whom she had flirty banter. Grass was not greener.

Despite the fact that he also dated and slept with other women since, he can’t get past it. I said, get back with her. You miss her. Get couples counselling. They had been together since uni days. I mean with women and cheating there’s often some emotional element missing. It’s not often about the sex. I told him it’s not about the sex. Get over the sex. You can’t possibly have better sex with a stranger who doesn’t know your body than with your partner of so many years who does. It’s about something else. Figure that something else out. He said she felt alone. He travelled a lot for work as an engineer (why do I always meet engineers?) and then he had hobbies (fixing cars or something). I said go back home (he now has a condo) and ask her on a date, pay attention to her. I told him about the 36 questions to fall in love. I said ask these questions on the date.

I’m sure Jojo Moyes posted something on her Instagram which was someone’s Substack article about how men don’t ask questions about women on dates.

The plane to Manchester was emptier than I expected. Many people got lucky and had no one sitting next to them. I spied an exit row that was completely clear. After takeoff, I wanted to go there and see if I could lie down on the flight, but it was nabbed by a young couple. I wasn’t fast enough at the musical plane seats and other people had already bagged and shuffled about before I thought of it.

For the first two hours of the flight, my seatmate and I chatted. His name was Mark. He was an engineer (another one) for AT&T his entire career and was due to retire. He was about 65. He had studied at a university in the US, in Miami, and was from Burma. I’d never met anyone from Burma before. His wife was a doctor as was his mother. He was going to see his mother and uncles in Manchester. They’d moved there whilst he was abroad studying and they set up life in the UK and he stayed in the US, eventually settling with his wife in South Carolina. He and his wife longed for children but ‘God didn’t bless us with children,’ he told me. It sounds, though, they were active in their church and in the children’s lives of friends and family, having hosted and taken part in raising some young people.

He was also a very proud cat dad. He and his wife had spent time saving up to travel around the world after retirement, but life laughs at plans and all that (not to be flippant – this story is heartbreaking), but they found out his wife instead has stage 4 lung cancer, which reminded me of Doctor ’ piece this week about her chemo journey.

Doorknob Confessions by Hannah Harris

Chemotherapy: I never ever want to need it again

I have decided to write frankly about what chemotherapy feels like today because it is horrible, and I want to be able to go back and remember this feeling. It makes me feel resolved to do anything I can in my future life to prevent the cancer coming back. And I hope it will prevent me from slipping back into any unhealthy habits! Also I hope that perha…

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8 months ago · 14 likes · 17 comments · Hannah Harris

Mark and his wife, Peggy, have been together for 34 years and he was going to see his mother who is in her 90s and somehow they haven’t seen each other for 20 years. I expect he will be flying back today and I hope he is okay. I hope his wife recovers and her chemo goes well. I hate to hear such sad stories. I hope they get to travel the world. He travelled light and I pointed him to the exit in Manchester as he didn’t have a bag and he went to hug me and I hugged him back and wished him well.

It’s touching because it’s sad but it’s also my greatest fear. Having Michael for so many years and then losing him. I can have life without him but I love my life with him. And is it worse if you have no child left behind? I suppose some people don’t worry about that and children aren’t even guaranteed to live near you or even like you but it does make me wonder sometimes.

I was going to go through September all the way back to July, but I expect you’re all bored of reading and I can do that next time.

Of course, when I arrived home, it was a relief to see my husband (he sent me lots of cute pics of him reading with the cat on his lap), and I’ve also seen Grammy and my niece, Caroline, this week, which has been lovely. I slept about ten hours the first night and still felt tired all week, despite sleeping loads.

Interesting Substacks I read lately

I sometimes feel like reading all the Substacks I subscribe to is a part-time job, but here’s what I read/enjoyed lately:

• and had interesting takes on the Lily Alan album that’s everywhere. I admit, because everyone was going on about it, I listened and fully got it. The number of times I was gaslighted by men… I mean if my first husband cheated, I buried my head in the sand, but it’s likely. I guess it was discreet as no one told me. But I related to what Poorna said about women being beaten down to lose their sparkle in relationships. That was absolutely me. Thankfully, Michael allows me to shine and be myself.

As I Was Saying with Poorna Bell

On men who change the rules and steal your peace

Credit: Charlie Denis…

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8 months ago · 159 likes · 21 comments · Poorna Bell

My Top Secret Project

Lily Allen helped me through a tough week

I’ve had a week in bed thanks to some tiny virus with big ideas. I’m assuming covid, but I didn’t take a test because I was quite miserable enough shivering and moaning without having to poke a swab right the way up my considerable nostrils to scrape a bit of brain matter into a pot…

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8 months ago · 6 likes · 11 comments · Katie Lee / KJ Lyttleton

• talked about how nostalgia wasn’t as nostalgic as we think in this very hilarious piece. Remembering the good old times like when you could smoke in the pub! I swear my husband seems to think the 80s was peak time, the time before phones and social media – and whilst I loved the 2010s and my uni years, I’d like to think despite cost of living crises and inflation, life is getting better as a whole for more people? (Haven’t finished his book yet but the opening is hilarious. Loving it. I pre-ordered the Kindle version, but now I want to wait for the Audible version, so don’t at me people who don’t think listening to books is ‘reading.’ I love a good narrrator!)

The truth about everything*

The truth about Remember When

One of the most fascinating (and annoying) aspects of the decade-long obsession with generational demographics is the throttling power of Remember When, the repackaging of suboptimal childhood experiences as nostalgia. Poverty, bigotry and oppression given a pinch of the cheek to …

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8 months ago · 35 likes · 26 comments · Justin Myers

• talks about publishing rejections, which gives me a little hope. She talks about how she even saw someone get a 6-figure book deal after being rejected by 150+ agents, so there’s hope.

Craft by Vera Kurian

Repost: How do you know when to give up? (updated)

CRAFT is a reader-supported email newsletter about the nuts and bolts of fiction writing and the world of publishing…

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9 months ago · 24 likes · 3 comments · Vera Kurian

My publishing journey so far

That last one leads me to what’s been happening lately. I think I’m up to 18 rejections now, all form rejections. I’ve heard, though, there’s a lot of ghosting in the agenting world.

Michael said at least I am getting replies so that’s a positive spin on it!

If you caught up with my last post here, within 36 hours of querying, I had a manuscript request from Jenny Bent, which was very, very exciting as her clients are fancy and bestsellers and all that. She gave me lovely, actionable feedback, which you can read here, but ultimately passed. Despite my reaching out to say I’d fixed the things, may I have a second chance, still no word from here.

Why We Met

PRESENT-DAY SNIPPET: 36 HOURS AFTER SENDING MY QUERY TO AN AGENT, HERE’S WHAT HAPPENED

Remember in my last chapter, where I said that Kristen Weber – my freelance developmental editor and former editor at Penguin and Hachette imprint publishing houses – said I was ready to go on submission after US Labour Day…

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10 months ago · 17 likes · 25 comments · Elaine R. Frieman

Why We Met

PRESENT-DAY SNIPPET: SEEKING AN AGENT AND MY PUBLISHING JOURNEY UPDATE

For my longtime readers, thank you for being here. Did you see that I wrote a guest post – my first on Substack – on what it’s like to work with developmental editor Kristen Weber…

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9 months ago · 16 likes · 36 comments · Elaine R. Frieman

I decided to change querying tack and reach out with my query letter to be more specific about having a manuscript request and actioning the feedback from Jenny. On 21 October, on a whim, I queried Jane Dystel. Her clients include both Colleen Hooever and former President Barack Obama.

Here was my query (this is about the third version as I keep having to tweak it):

Dear Jane Dystel,

I’m querying you because your manuscript wishlist includes ‘women’s commercial fiction’ and you represent one of the most popular romance authors in recent years, Colleen Hoover.

Logline: THE BROKEN ENGAGEMENT CLUB: an unlikely, disparate cast meets in a church hall in the market town of Todmorden, West Yorkshire after their engagements end.

The Broken Engagement Club is complete at 99,000 words and will appeal to readers who love romantic/book club fiction, like The F**k It! List (Penguin, 2024), The Jane Austen Book Club (Penguin, 2004), Cat Lady (HarperCollins, 2022), The Wedding People (Orion, 2024), or ensembles like The Authenticity Project (Penguin, 2020).

Recently added the new word count as with Jenny Bent’s suggestions, it went from 95k words to 99k, and I am still deciding if it falls under ‘rom com’ or ‘women’s fiction’ and I added the new comp title as it’s very relevant to BEK and a more recent example.

Kathryn has the dream life: an engaged moderately successful romance novelist with two cats. But when Phil ends things cruelly, her dreams of motherhood and marriage crumble. Her finances are precarious and she isn’t sure how life will unfold. With the help of Kathryn’s new Club friends, a nosy neighbour, and a handsome fellow author (the famous Swedish romantasy writer Anders von Olsson), can she rebuild her life, especially when her ex – and her secrets – keep getting in the way?

In the midst of grief, Kathryn’s elderly neighbour hands her a poster for something called The Broken Engagement Club and encourages her to go. There, she meets Celeste, a Tarot reader, yoga teacher, healer, and commune dweller who lost her partner of twenty years when he reconnected with his recently divorced high school sweetheart; Arabella, a British-Lebanese influencer, jilted at the altar, is developing feelings for Ben, charming and helpful, always with a bird-embroidered hankie to mop shed tears, but he’s hiding a secret which they all hope to discover; next, is the plucky property law solicitor Jane who has lost another fiancé to her workaholic tendencies, and, finally, sweet Cerys, whose savings have vanished because of her gambling out-of-work plasterer ex-fiancé. Though vastly different, their shared experience bonds them.

In the other version of my query, I had a couple of more paragraphs around the plot, but I cut them out for this version and wrote the below:

I’m an elder millennial steeped in the culture, often questioning if becoming a mother is the right choice, especially that I seem to have the bit missing that longs for motherhood. In this novel, I explore these themes through a character who unequivocally wants to become a mother but can’t. What would that look like? I remember feeling mid-divorce (from my first husband) that the rug had been pulled from under my life. Around the same time, a YouTuber I admired had her engagement unceremoniously end. These seeds of an idea became this manuscript, a sort of ‘AA for broken engagements’ and broken hearts. You may enjoy this novel’s unique setting (West Yorkshire), the humour (hopefully funny), and the themes (ideas of success, body issues, motherhood, friendship, feminism, family, modern dating).

I’ve worked with developmental editor Kristen Weber (former editor from Penguin and Hachette imprints) to perfect the story. I hope this novel will be the first in a series of three to five (plus) books. I have the next two manuscripts planned (and partly written) and another two unrelated manuscripts written and ready to edit (with Kristen) – and at least half a dozen more ideas in various states!

In September, 36 hours after querying, I had a full manuscript request from Jenny Bent at The Bent Agency. She provided invaluable, actionable feedback. Although, she ultimately passed, I think my novel is now even stronger for a further revision and this novel is looking for its home.

Maybe it’s ‘naughty’ and ‘not done’ including this bit and Kristen’s advice was she wouldn’t particularly focus on the negatives (i.e. people who rejected me) but also what do I have to lose? She said she loved the new paragraph about why I wrote the book and the themes.

I’m a British-American full-time editor (not the glam kind) who manages a European copy editing team for a FTSE 100 data analytics and publishing company (in petrochemical and fertilizer journalism), have a master’s degree in Victorian literature, and write a Substack called Why We Met (chronicling my disastrous dating history which led to my Yorkshire husband). I grew up partly in Oldham, Lancashire and partly in the American South (Florida and Georgia), lived in Germany, and now reside in Todmorden, West Yorkshire with my husband and our geriatric cat, Kit Kat, who belonged to my late father.

Thank you for your time. I hope to hear from you in due course.

Kind regards,

Within TWO hours this time, I received the following email:

Dear Elaine,

Kindly forward your complete ms. I look forward to reading.

Jane Dystel

I was, again, besides myself with excitement. I tried to manifest and envision Jane loving my novel and giving me an offer. Why does doubt always creep in? Why am I more comfortable with rejection that success? I have now had two very top agents say yes when ‘smaller’ agents have ghosted so far or sent stock responses and here it feels I’ve gotten close with no results. Sigh. ( just wrote yesterday about how she manifested her success after years of failure. Do I need some kind of class?)

How to Evolve

The £75,000 Fish Pedicure

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8 months ago · 57 likes · 25 comments · Ros Barber

I thought I was going to write this week about how it was still all to play for and it’s very exciting but on 30 October 2025, merely a week after sending my manuscript, I got the following reply:

​​Dear Elaine,

Thank you so much for reaching out and sending along the manuscript for THE BROKEN ENGAGEMENT CLUB, which we read with great interest.

This piece is certainly energetic and thoroughly captured our attention. Your story was well developed, and we especially loved rooting for Kathryn, among others in the huge cast of characters. After careful consideration, however, we have decided that we are not the appropriate agents for this project.

Fiction, as I am sure you know, is very subjective and one of the toughest things to sell in today’s market, so we must be selective in what we take on. Though your writing is excellent, we really must fall in love with a novel to properly represent it, and I’m sorry to say that just didn’t happen here.

Elaine, thank you again for the chance to review this material and I wish you all the best.

Best regards,

Jane Dystel

I mean how lovely was this reply? But in a way, Jenny Bent’s feedback was more useful and actionable. Kristen said how it seems like now nothing is ‘wrong’ with the novel, but it just has to find the agent with the right fit.

I was considering writing my next novel about a fictionalised version of my Substack (a few people have floated this idea), but on Publisher’s Marketplace, I see quite a number of holiday novels selling so I have an idea for a second-chance romance holiday novel set in Georgia. I’m excited to get cracking with it.

Plus, in December, I’ll be working on developmental edits with of the novel I wrote right after The Broken Engagement Club, called Wanted: Golden Retriever Boyfriend, where a woman down on her luck meets a dog walker with a secret.

I’m trying to keep myself busy and hope beyond hope that somewhere along the line I get more manuscript requests and an actual yes! Fingers crossed and I’ll keep you posted. For those querying, let me know how it’s going.

Todmorden Book Festival

My little town has a book festival and I’m attending next week. has a new novella out and I need to read it this week and hope I can get my copy signed. I’m a sucker for an author-signed copy of a book. I still feel like authors have this aura of celebrity and mystery around them, and I feel giddy when I meet one in the wild.

At some point, I’ll get back to the regularly scheduled content, and the next post will be the timeline roundup (the TL;DR of Why We Met). I mean, maybe after a couple of years, these chapters have evolved, and it should just now be short present-day observations. What do you think? But I really did plan out 130 chapters and some more funny stories about my husband and our early dating life.2

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Sending love and best wishes and hope you’re all okay on whatever journey you’re on and because I love being nosy and hearing people’s stories, feel free to share.

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I’m 38 today! Approaching the big 4-0. I hope I come up with some brilliant plans to celebrate. Mum and I have been talking about what we will do next March to celebrate when Grammy turns the big 9-0.

When I was living in Germany and teaching on a US military base, I was turning 27 or 28 and joked I was having my 21st birthday with my students. One student who never took a liking to me later slated me in the professor review with how ‘young’ I was – and thus, in his eyes, unqualified or whatever. Obviously, from that comment alone, I could tell who’d written it. A couple of students had jokingly bought me cards with ‘Happy 21st’ on it. It would have been logistically impossible for me to be teaching a class with a master’s degree and be only 21.

Little trips

In May, Michael and I had a few day trips away and in this week in June we were meant to be spending my birthday with Aunty Sheena, my late father’s eldest sister, and her husband, Nick, in Maldon, Essex, but because of circumstances, she’s looking after her cousin in Brighton so we stayed with Nick a couple of fun days this week but came home early.

This time last year, Michael, Grammy, and I were in Madeira. But we haven’t been able to afford an abroad holiday since (tiny violins and all that). I also cried at breakfast, it being the first birthday without my Daddy, who always made a big deal of our birthdays.

Time has a way of moving forward at least. There are still times I’m stabbed with grief at not being able to see him, hug him. He was such a loving Father, and I’ll be forever grateful I had him, even if it wasn’t for long enough.

I’m having a birthday lunch at an Italian restaurant in Milnrow with my cousin Pam and her family; my niece, Caroline; my Grammy; and my husband, Michael, so all in all it works out. Plus, I got to wake up to cuddles from the cat who has very much missed us whilst we have been away but who has been well cared for by my mother-in-law and sister, Jae, and brother-in-law, Rob.

I came home also to a card from baby sister, Hannah. The first she’s ever sent me, and she said it’s only taken her 22 years to send me a card. It was a cute and sentimental one as well, which was kind.

I also got something nice in the post from Grammy and woke up to some presents from my husband – a little Lego typewriter I wanted and a lovely new murder mystery book that we looked at when we were in Cambridge for the day. And this is all for someone who doesn’t usually want or ask for presents, as I try to be more minimalist (sometimes unsuccessfully).

Visiting Saffron Walden

We spent a few nights seeing my Great-Aunties on my late Grandfather’s side of the family in Saffron Walden, which is a charming medieval town that most people haven’t heard of but apparently was voted one of the best places to live. My Great Aunty Gill said that Jojo Moyes lived locally, too, which is quite exciting and also unsurprising as most of the houses there are massive and very expensive – a very tiny terrace cottage with maybe two bedrooms was going for about £800k. Ouch!

I’m lucky that I have such a big family network. We stayed with my Great Aunty Gillian, who was my late Grandfather’s brother’s wife. Unfortunately, Great Uncle Geoffrey, who was a professor and botanist in Cambridge (but not at Cambridge), preceded my Grandfather Mike in death by several years (maybe decades), but I have very fond memories of what a lovely, kind, and soft-spoken man he was.

Cambridge reminds me both of Captain Cambridge (who attended King’s College) and of the lovely Grantchester TV show.

We also saw Great Aunty Pauline, who was my Grandfather’s sister, and only surviving sibling, and we saw her children (my mother’s cousins), Patrick and Rachel.

I haven’t seen the cousins since I was a child, but I always recall how magical visiting that side of the family was.

Great Aunty Gill has a massive countryside ‘cottage’ and I remember big family meals when my Great Grandmother Eva was alive (including venison), a deer park, a massive magical garden, and even a spiral staircase up to an attic bedroom with a telescope to look at the stars.

Even in my late thirties, visiting that house is still magical.

I love the way my Great-Aunties do everything. They are posh and formal but also lovely and kind – and quite relaxed and unimposing. It’s a balance I aspire to! Heh!

When Great Aunty Pauline invited us over for lunch, she served the lunch from little dishes with covers in a warming cart and on china plates. The food was delicious and we even had a sort of Eton mess for pudding.

Great Aunty Gill puts out all the breakfast things in bowls and on trays, and we have cloth napkins with that too. Everything is always served in the appropriate dishes using the appropriate utensils. She even has a contraption that cracks the top off the dippy egg for you.

All of the cousins on this side of the family (they are my Mum’s cousins) have done very well, and most have their PhDs and hold high positions, including a diplomat for the UN (specialist in meteorology) whose wife received an OBE from the King; a world expert in crop spray drift who has houses all over and travels the world regularly; a former rugby player and horsewoman; and a former banker. But I suppose with people who are happy with their status and position, they have nothing to prove and are thus genial and lovely.

Some photos

Here’s a bit of a photo dump of this week. I still need to teach my husband to take better photos and learn to pose me for the best angles. and I had a bit of a quip about it on Instagram.

Other Substacks I can’t miss out on

Last time, I said there were a few I always looked out for and read, but there are certainly those I missed last time. (Franco Amati, Dr Barbs Honeycutt, , , , , , , , , etc – really so many!)

So many talented writers are out there on Substack, big audience or not, and I only wish I had more time to read everyone’s amazing work every week. I do try to read as many as I can. I know publications like mine aren’t always easy when they take ten, twenty-plus minutes to read.

• – Charlotte writes so charmingly about having children; I absolutely love it. If I were to be convinced to have children and that it can be loving and lovely, she would be the one to convert me.

• – Check it out. Steve is just hilarious. Random and so funny.

• – No idea if these are true stories or just chaotic and funny fiction, but really, read a few!

• – Great art and craft with funny stories to accompany the drawings.

• – I would love Wendy to write a memoir because I just love being sucked back in time to the past when my Mum grew up. She has a charming post about diary entries from her mother when her children were growing up, and some of her own travel diaries, and they are all lovely. Wish I had time to dig into all of her archive.

• – Lovely, short pieces on a variety of topics.

Happy reading and THANK YOU so much for subscribing and reading. It does mean the world to me.

Life lately: What’s happening with my novel?

I think I am on the third rewrite of my novel, and some chapters have been rewritten with the help of ’s brilliant feedback, even more than that, and things are shaping up to be much better. It’s all a learning process. What I had the first go-round was more like loosely connected short stories rather than a novel with what Kristen calls a ‘staircase’ where one chapter leads to the next.

I suppose now I know, it’s quite obvious. Some people probably know how to write a novel amazingly the first time, but I’m learning, and I’m grateful for the process. I think this will all give me a much better chance of landing an agent and a publisher if I learn how to do it right the first time.

After this novel, I hope to write the sequels as my (hopefully future) debut contained about three novels in one and work with Kristen on the other two books I’ve already written and go from there.

I’m willing to put in the work, and I realise that I’ve surprised myself with my resilience and how it hasn’t been that hard to hear the feedback. Kristen was kind and said that she loved reading what she read, but it just wasn’t all connected the right way.

Beta readers also said they’d enjoyed what they read. And some people may say, well, why didn’t you keep it that way? But I specifically want a traditional rom-com type book published by a Big 5, and Kirsten (who used to work for Penguin and Hachette – among my dream publishers) knows how that looks as she’s edited thousands of novels in her career. I need my book to fit the mould so that I can achieve my dream of getting it published.

I feel like I’m at the very beginning of my journey. It’s all long. Even when the novel is ready to pitch to agents, it takes time to get an agent. Then, once I have an agent, it takes time to get a publisher. Once I have a book deal, it’ll probably take at least two years before the book is published, but I suppose being on this path is better than the alternative (i.e. not having written anything and not trying), so stay tuned.

Next chapter upcoming!

I haven’t forgotten, and I’ll publish my next chapter next week.

Despite being a household of two and not eating lobster and caviar every night (I mean Michael would hate both those things), when we were combing through our finances to plan the remainder of the year, we realised that we as a ‘family of two’ (plus the cat) spent £800-1,200/month on food shopping, which is ridiculous and now we have really started to reign in what we spend.

All of this is to say that we couldn’t afford even two holidays abroad this year whereas in the past we were lucky to go on two to three and stay in nice hotels (boo hoo, I know). 

This year, we decided that we were using our two weeks off as a ‘staycation’ of sorts and just roaming the hills and not spending as much money and it was lovely to have slower days.

I also find that when my schedule is not packed to the rafters, I don’t accomplish as much so perhaps my pipe dream of ever just spending all day being a ‘writer’ may not pan out as well as I’d hoped. If I ever didn’t have the figurative 9-5 I imagine I’d spend the first third of my morning listening to audiobooks and playing games on my phone after scrolling mindlessly on Instagram videos and then I’d eventually emerge in my nightie to brush my teeth (I can’t do anything without having brushed teeth) and then have a cup of tea and maybe some breakfast but at this point it would be brunch and then only if Michael dragged me for a walk would I go out. This would undo my usual morning routine which is writing at least an hour before my day job, walking on my treadmill desk all day at a low speed, and a couple of days per week fitting in a quick workout at the end of the day or during my lunch break.

I may overspend with things like a nutritionist and therapy, too, which I consider vital. And my Substack subscription bill is definitely something I can cut back on eventually. I love supporting writers but I fully understand that it can get expensive and when you’re looking at ways to cut back, things like ‘paid posts’ are sometimes the first to go.

With that said, if you like Why We Met and can’t afford a subscription but want to be a paid subscriber, I’ll always gift free subscriptions no questions asked if you email me. I really get it. I’d love to support all of the writers I read on Substack, but it’s just not feasible. And even if the subscription fees seem small (like £4-7/month) subscribe to 5-10 writers and you’ve now spent part of your grocery bill.

Michael and I have even cut out the extra Amazon Prime membership that we had each been paying for for years and gone to a ‘family plan’ so that Bezos doesn’t get our extra £100/year.

Does anyone else NOT live an influencer-style life?

I was thinking after seeing one of the celeb Substackers do a fashion roundup of things to buy for the Autumn and realising that one jumper that was very lovely was about £400, that I am thankful for the life I have but I definitely live a ‘non-influencer’ kind of life.

Every bit of my home is not Instagram-worthy. I try and keep things decluttered and tidy. But I shop at places like Next, M&S, and John Lewis and not Chanel, Hermes, and Prada – or even Free People or All Saints or wherever fancier people shop for their cashmere jumpers and seasonal boots.

I replaced my old walking coat with a new one (DKNY from TK Maxx if it really is ‘the brand’ for £80) and I just don’t have a massive inventory of things. I have plenty of clothes, don’t get me wrong, far too many, but not as many as these influencer-y people seem to have. 

I have a Barbour coat that is my winter coat and I’ve had that for three or four years now and it’s in good condition and I still love it. It was the most expensive coat I’d ever bought but figured if I used it for five to ten years, it’s fine.

Then, I had a walking coat which somehow got misplaced and my ‘nice belted wool coat’ that my first husband bought me at Barneys New York. It’s still a good coat so I still wear it even though it’s at least eleven years old. And that’s pretty much it besides a couple of faux leather jackets (both inexpensive and one from Facebook marketplace) and blazers.

I have been sucked into buying Fabletics and the odd Popflex item – both companies I rate – but not been drawn into LuluLemon or Sweaty Betty because even though the latter two are ‘a bit expensive’ the former are ‘ridiculously expensive.’

I’ve gone in for the odd trendy item like Teva sandals (love them) and Veja trainers (ish about these because mine sounded like squeaky farts (until I added talcum powder) when I walked but I liked they were nice quality and leather but when I buy an item, I wear it and don’t buy multiples of them. I’m tempted to buy more Teva sandals but I’d have to part with other items in my closet that I don’t wear as often because our storage is limited.

I used to buy a Tory Birch or Kate Spade handbag each year and use it to death for a year. I haven’t done that in years now since the prices kept going up. I used to be able to find a nice leather handbag by these brands for around £200 on sale but now the prices are crazy. My cousin, Pam, has a couple of lovely Mulberry bags and I have my eye on one or two for some unknown future, but any ‘luxury’ handbags or items I own are leftovers from my first marriage.

Michael and I are working on our goal of paying off the mortgage in three years at which point I’ll be forty and he will be fifty. We are incredibly lucky that Michael bought his house from his parents when they divorced at a price that's lower than house prices today. We wouldn’t be in the privileged position we are without that. But even still, clearly, we are not in the celeb Substacker tax bracket! 

Gaddings Dam

If you caught my last present-day snippet here about the eleven-mile walk with my husband that didn’t feel so lovely in the pissing down rain, then you’ll know on that walk we were trying to get to Gaddings Dam in Todmorden, West Yorkshire (where we live) but my husband hadn’t realised that the place he thought was Gaddings wasn’t.

So, we finally found the right way to get to Gaddings Dam thanks to Michael’s sister’s (Claire) directions. We stopped off afterwards for a pint of delicious blackberry cider at the Shepherd’s Rest (and I had a sneaky portion of chips – I can’t resist good quality pub chips) after our walk. Despite not being very big – and I can imagine it being difficult to find parking during peak times – it was lovely and peaceful up there. 

There was one other couple on the ‘beach’ with their dog. We walked the steep way down which isn’t maybe recommended for people with mobility issues. I’d say the walk has a medium difficulty level overall. There are some bits that are on a slight cliff edge with some rocky stones going up but once you’re on the tops, it’s pretty smooth sailing on grassy verges.

Malham Cove, Gordale Scar, and Janet’s Foss

Until our lease vehicle arrives (hence why we have been rejigging finances), we both had cars that we paid for in cash and were, let’s just say, less than reliable at times, despite breakdown cover (mine with RAC, which is getting increasingly more costly).

We have decided that it’s a false economy running ‘cheaper’ cars. In fact, more recently, I had to pay out a whopping £100 for a new tyre when I drove over to get my eyebrows done because mine inexplicably flattened. So, on our ‘staycation’ Michael searched for places to go within a fifty-mile radius and alighted on Malham.

I’ve never been to Malham but when Michael rang his Mum to say where we were she had some anecdote about him paddling in the stream in his undies (or was it a nappy?). And my Mother said she used to go to some church camp near there when she was growing up (she lives in Florida now).

The village was so quaint and it was an absolutely stunning day, which is rare for England. The weather was 66°F (19°C) and it felt quite hot. (It’s funny how I recall when the 60s would feel cold to me and the 70s, nice and crisp when I lived in Florida/Georgia). Sadly, it’ll probably be the last nice week we have until March next year, which I never like to think about – the long winters and the nights closing in. 

The light has been beautiful at dusk, though. That’s always Michael’s favourite time of day and the time of day he usually stands in the garden and shouts for me to come and look at the skyline with him (which I do even though by this point I’m usually lying on the sofa and don’t feel like moving).

We found that for a random mid-September Tuesday that it was really busy. I cannot imagine what it would be like on a weekend or a school holiday. We saw a school group on top of the rocks measuring things and recording data – and lots of retirees.

The walk was quite slippery in places where the limestone deposits had been polished like brass and/or tumbled rocks so Michael held my hand to steady me in places but it was beautiful.

Here’s the walk for those interested and/or those Stateside who might not get to go:

I love our little corner of Yorkshire but the views in Malham on the tops was just countryside as far as the eye could see and that’s so peaceful. Michael likes to be a bit go, go, go but I’d have loved to have some more slow moments of sitting for ten minutes or so staring at the views and we did have a bit of that but I could have done with more.

We stopped at the snack van to buy a cider lolly to reminisce on our childhoods; however, they seem to have changed the flavour and they are now distinctly overly sweet apple instead of whatever they were in the 90s, so we won’t be revisiting that memory again.

We climbed up the side of a hill near Gordale Scar and had a picnic. It was like the old days (the first year or two when we were together) when we had no money and would pack a backpack of ‘Tesco picnic items’ like meal deal sandwiches, fruit, chocolate, drinks, whatever, and Michael would pick a beauty spot like Ingleton Falls and we’d hike and have a picnic and lie next to each other looking at the sky, chatting. This time we just had sandwiches, crisps (potato chips), a bit of chocolate, and drinks, but it was lovely to eat our sandwiches with beautiful views on a picnic blanket that was a wedding present from my stepfather (my Mum’s amazing husband) and also lie beside each other, chatting.

Bettys Tearoom, Ilkley and Cliffe Castle

We came here and had an £80 afternoon tea. I’ve had Bettys (am I the only one who so desperately wants to put an apostrophe here?) on a few occasions, but most memorably with Grammy and Pam (my cousin) in Harrogate once when Pam was pregnant with Baby Harry (who is now 8). I think I rate the Midland in Manchester better or the Dome in Edinburgh (and less expensive). Don’t get me wrong, Bettys is an institution and I think if you’re just getting a cream team or a meal then it’s fine but the food looked so small and when food portions look tiny it makes me hungry just imagining it. It was, incidentally, enough food but it didn’t visually feel like it. Does anyone else feel that way?

In Ilkley, we also went to a bookshop together and it was so cute that we both bought books. Sadly, not cool, independent unknown authors who will be the geniuses of tomorrow but the latest Richard Osman book (which came with a free copy of Liz Nugent’s Unravelling Oliver – Oliver, so far, can give some of my exes and past lovers a run for their money in arseholery) and Michael got the new Lee Child short story collection.

Michael has read more this year than in previous years (love this), which I think coincided with him getting reading glasses (but don’t tell anyone). He’s also a huge supporter of my work including reading drafts of novels in progress, competition submissions, and many of my Substack posts (although I think he gave up twenty chapters ago when his obsession with reading about US politics and various wars took over).

We also had a jaunt over to Cliffe Castle Museum in Keighley which I look forward to going to again and spending longer this time. It’s free, too.

#100daysofwriting

We are on day twenty-six of the writing challenge and so far I’ve been so happy to write every day. (A quarter of the way through.)

It was actually more difficult whilst I was on holiday and had ‘more time’ because when Michael is at work (of course), I have more hours alone to carve out for writing. Don’t get me wrong, I adore spending time with Michael and love having the time with him when he’s home but that has meant I’ve only had under an hour to write each day and sometimes only half an hour.

However, even when I got back into my day job the week before last, I still didn’t carve out as much time, but I’m embracing being gentle to myself. Plus, my psychic said I needed to have more fun and stop being so ‘work, work, work.’ I need to have time with Michael, with friends, and with family. I even had one day last week where I didn’t write; my niece and her friend came over and I spent time chatting through the ideas I had for a young adult novel and the girls were a good sounding board.

I’m trying to realise that I don’t have deadlines (after all, there’s no book deal in the wings) and it takes time to finish novels (and I’m only at the beginning of four various projects and one novel that I need to expand and re-edit). Plus, once the novels are written and edited and ‘ready,’ I may need to hire a development editor and work some more and then I have the whole querying process, but it’s best only to think of one step at a time. 

Prioritising my husband and giving him time

I’ve had time away from Michael lately and wanted to devote time to him. Last year, I spent a month in Florida during November/December. This year, in July I went to the Arvon writing retreat on a week when Michael and I were both off from work, meaning Michael sacrificed our joint holiday time to let me do something I wanted to do. (Where I met the amazing and so many beautiful, talented writers, including our other tutor Andrew Michael Hurley. Here’s Katherine’s reel from the week back in July. I can’t wait to see what we all accomplish as a group.)

This September holiday, I’ve had days doing bits of writing here and there and planning things with others. Thus, I wanted to give him my time as he’s so good at letting me get on with what I want to do. He planned little day trips like he did in the ‘old days’ where we spent time walking, snuggling in bed on a Sunday watching television shows, and lying next to each other, chatting for hours. I love that this relationship has always been characterised by communication. 

Communicating and clarifying communication to ensure comprehension on both sides really is the secret to happy relationships. There’s an element of compatibility too and choosing each other. I’ve never been in a relationship over eight years and I love that I have my person and that I love being around Michael. There’s so much depth to longer relationships that I’d never had the chance to discover before. We aren’t the same people we were eight years ago but we have evolved together. Michael supports me in my goals and dreams and vice versa.

And there’s still the odd thing I learn about Michael as time goes on – often some quirky habit Michael has and usually makes me laugh and roll my eyes. I’d love to share an example but I really can’t embarrass him! It’s another thing I love about my husband is that he’s always been very much himself, not moulded by societal expectations. He’s unique and interesting. He still keeps me guessing, he still makes me laugh, and he still surprises me. And sometimes I feel I still ought to pinch myself because of my good fortune.

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To be fair, I agree that I do read a ton, but I didn’t realise I read the other two as often. It may simply go on the fact that some Substacks post almost daily content and others post less frequently?

I’d have imagined I’d have seen , , , , , , , and crop up somewhere in the mention because as soon as these writers post something, I’m straight on it and excited to read. Thank you to all of you! But who knows how the mysteries of the algorithm work?

Here’s my recap. I will be posting a ‘regular post’ later in the day or tomorrow. Sending love and best wishes to everyone.

Highlights

☕ I read the most in the morning (True – I have to read and write before the figurative 9-5 but mostly I listen to the Substacks using the voiceover feature which sometimes the voices change and I have no idea how/why – and I do mean the AI voice and not when authors voice their own)

💌 I subscribed to 41 new Substacks (Yay! supporting other writers and that’s a lot to add 25% more Substacks in the summer alone)

🎧 I listened to 1,461 minutes of podcasts (This is probably from and )

📽️ I watched 30 minutes of video (Don’t recall watching much video)

❤️ I liked 695 posts (I like to like posts to keep track of what I’ve read and it’s good for engagement)

💬 I left 250 comments on posts (Comments help writers feel that readers are engaging/relating to what they write – ’s recent piece said as much)

📜 I scrolled 77 meters in Notes (Heh!)

🕵️ I discovered 19 new posts via Notes (Yay!)

Top Substacks

I’ve added a bit to the autogenerated blurb. Does this mean AI is coming for our jobs because when Substack encourages you to share these Spotify-Wrapped-like stats, the post is already written, formatted, and ready to go, which is good and/or a little odd/creepy. What do we think about AI and the future of our jobs? But I’ve added my own bits to the below info so check these out. I also wonder how the ‘powers that be’ decided which were the most read posts from these accounts. Also, they randomly alphabetised the list.

Agents and Books by

The FAQ on how to find an agent and how to write books, all in one place. I find Kate’s posts informative and interesting as someone who will, hopefully, be seeking an agent next year. Zeta, my psychic, said to seek an agent for Grandad’s memoir ASAP so I really need to work on that query letter and pitch. Zeta said the agent should preferably be male for this book so we will see what happens!

Top post this summer: This is Why Book Marketing Doesn't Work

The Hyphen by Emma Gannon by

✨ A cosy online space for curious readers ✨ from Sunday Times Bestselling author Emma Gannon. On books, work, wellbeing, and creativity. 5th literature Substack globally. "One of Britain’s most prominent Substack writers." —The Times

I didn’t realise I was such a fan of Emma Gannon but she does post a lot of posts! That said, I very much enjoyed her New York diaries and have read at least two of her books. I plan to read her rom-com-y one soon.

Top post this summer: #65 A Slow Sunday Scroll ☕️

The Inkwell by

Coaching and community for ambitious authors. You guys know I mention a ton in my posts. She taught me on my Arvon course in Hebden Bridge this summer on “Writing the North.” She’s a brilliant writer, mentor, and tutor, and I hope to work with her more as my “writing career” progresses. Plus, her posts and workshops are super helpful to writers at any stage of their journey – and she’s lovely and encouraging.

Top post this summer: The Hidden Cost Of Getting Published

Share your own Summer Recap

You can see your own summer recap in the Substack app.

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I look forward to seeing your stats (if you feel like sharing them).

Coming up next, the post about how I met my first/ex-husband. I’m about to go on a walk in the countryside with my husband and his sister. I’ve written the post and need to edit it, so I will post it today or tomorrow.

I’m going to count this post and whatever extra I come up with later as my Day 9 of the challenge. I love that it’s such a gentle challenge in that whatever goes. It’s all about showing up.

Thanks for all your support. If you read my Why We Met chapters, I very much appreciate it.

Two weeks prior (I know, I know – serial dater), I’d moved to England after my first husband had ended our short-lived three-year marriage by text: “I love you but we’re not right for each other” and “You’re not the kind of wife I want.” It’s a long story that I’ll delve into another time. 

The two-minute version

I was left without money (didn’t go for the divorce lawyer because I had no money and no power – also more later) living back with my Father in the West Yorkshire town of Todmorden and utterly hopeless, heartbroken, and devastated.

I wanted a fresh start in a place with happy memories. I didn’t want to move back to Florida (where my Mum and baby sister lived) or Georgia (where many of my friends lived), so I thought Todmorden was a new start; I could be with my Dad, Grammy, Grandad and his wife, my niece, my older sister, my cousins, my cousins's children and so on. I had a network already.

I hadn’t seen the end coming and I had wanted to be married for life and here the rug had been pulled from under the trajectory I thought my life would take.

But I went on a date with this man who didn’t behave like anyone I’d ever dated before. He was funny, a little awkward at times, brutally honest to the point I’d sometimes laugh and shake my head, he had no filter, he was utterly himself. And that was charming. As someone finding myself again outside of a marriage, he was exactly what I needed to heal.

I didn’t know on that first date or even our second date – a charming walk where he pulled children’s snacks from his pockets and then planned prosecco and strawberries and a homemade tea of Yorkshire hot pot complete with bread, butter, and peas – that this man would be the one I’d fall for, a second chance at love. That he’d become my second husband.

I’m lucky he chose me, that we found each other, and that I have the kind of partnership that I could only ever have dreamed of. It’s like the cliche of marrying your best friend, of having someone to do life with. I have a man that every day I love, every day makes me laugh, every day I still fancy – all this time later, my longest-lasting relationship.

Our love is deeper and better than I could ever have imagined and everything we have built from the rock bottom of my life until now has been on our terms, together.

To my second and forever husband, Michael, you’ll always be my everything.

Happy first-date-aversary! 

(Third – I think – wedding anniversary to come in September. Don’t worry, thanks to COVID-19 changing our wedding date four times neither of us can fully remember the date but that doesn’t even matter.)

In other exciting news…

I’m going to a writer’s retreat for a week, down the road in nearby Hebden Bridge. 

If signs from the universe are your thing, I took it as mine that on Thursday last week of talked about ‘The Magic of Committing to your Writing’ and how when she was a mere aspiring novelist, she’d done a writing retreat in Heptonstall at Lumb Bank, which was the home of poet laureate Ted Hughes (aka the husband of Sylvia Plath). 

The Inkwell

The Magic Of Committing To Your Writing

The photo above was taken in August 2008 at Lumb Bank, once home of poet Ted Hughes, now a residential creative writing centre in Heptonstall, West Yorkshire, owned and run by Arvon. It was taken on the last day of my firs…

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2 years ago · 6 likes · 3 comments · Katherine Clements

She’s since published three novels and runs a successful coaching business but she said it all started at her retreat. But this time, she was having a sort of ‘pinch me’ moment because she’d been invited to teach there instead. Of course, she articulated this all much more beautifully than I have done in my clumsy retelling, but she also said, ‘there are spaces left.’

(Side note: I discovered Katherine’s publication when at posted a sort of ‘where is everyone from’ kind of post and I said I was in West Yorkshire and a couple of other people replied to my comment saying they were too. Katherine said she was in nearby Heptonstall and I subscribed to her publication and became a founding member because she had this amazing deal where you subscribe and then do a coaching session included – which I hope to take up later in the year.)

As you do, I Googled the retreat and found the course just to see what it was about and how expensive it was. It happened to be on the very days off I’d booked from work the week before last. (Am I channelling my inner, ?)

For those who know Michael and I, we have to book our annual leave a year in advance because The Royal Mail (i.e. where my husband works) does its annual leave rota way in advance to plan for the Christmas rush so that leaves last-minute things not very flexible and I always try to get the days off that Micahel has booked. 

Long story short, Michael had the opportunity to book extra annual leave days and he chose this week in July (15th-19th) because we had already booked the previous Friday (12th) to welcome Orienna, Cary, and Evelyn (we can’t wait for their visit). O and C are friends from my Germany days with my first husband but O met Michael around five years ago. O and C now have a beautiful two-year-old daughter who we have yet to meet.

I asked Michael if he considered it a sign, too, does this mean the universe is landing this opportunity in my lap and what do you think about me going? I acknowledged this would mean sacrificing our time together. As usual, Michael was majorly supportive and said he would never be able to provide writing feedback to me that a group can and he thought I should go. And just like that, I booked the course.

In two weeks, I’m going on my first writer’s retreat, which is fully vegetarian (Michael has joked that I may need to smuggle in snacks)!

After years of ‘wanting’ to be a writer and being too afraid that I’d fall short and never write anything decent, I’ve already taken steps to write over 40k words of a 50k-word romance novel so far (or in the last month) with the hopes of submitting it to the Harlequin open submission and in years to come, with the hopes of writing a more ‘traditionally published’ rom-com – because you can’t learn to write a novel without trying to write a novel – and I’ve been submitting all sorts this year such as a TV pilot and a piece for the Modern Love column (fingers crossed), which I’ll hear about at the end of the year.

I believe this retreat will be super inspiring, if nothing else, not only to give me the space to write but also to be inspired by other writers, people who are ‘real’ writers.

And since I only have two weeks to read at least one book from each of the course tutors, I’ve started Katherine’s The Coffin Path.

I don’t normally read historical fiction or ‘horror’ genres but it’s absolutely brilliant so far and I’m sucked right in. The writing is beautiful. I truly feel I’m in the bleak northern landscapes of the Moors in the 1600s with a shepherdess from the manor house down the path! In fact, I’m so sucked in that I started reading it on Saturday and I expect I’ll finish by today or tomorrow and the book is quite long. It has the elements of a mystery and I love mystery novels. Plus, even though the ‘Tudor’ period was more my Dad’s thing and my older sister’s thing (I’ll get her a copy), I’m enjoying it immensely.

I’m super excited for the second half of this year and to see what unfolds! Stay tuned!

P.S. Check out ’s piece on an ‘imperfect love story’ that I relate to so much because mine and Michael’s story wasn’t the usual ‘perfect’ beginning.

Emotional Support Lady

MY IMPERFECT LOVE STORY

When I first met my husband, I was still in love with someone else. That is not how I ever imagined my “love story” would go, but that’s the problem with expectations around what romance will look and feel like. The reality is never as polished because life is inherently messy. It very rarely goes the way we think it should…

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2 years ago · 202 likes · 40 comments · Allison Raskin

P.P.S. Doesn’t this brilliant piece just remind you of that time I tried to undo a breakup with an email? (Obviously, there’s more to it than that but I definitely resonated with the piece.)

As I Was Saying with Poorna Bell

On romance, angst, texting and getting older

There is nothing quite like a failure in romance to transport me instantly into being a teenager experiencing the first flush of disappointment. The sense of nihilism that you will feel like this forever, that you won’t be able to stop thinking about them, that they will move on quicker than you will, that you will…

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2 years ago · 129 likes · 13 comments · Poorna Bell

P.P.P.S. I will write about how Michael and I met down the line! And how my marriage to my first husband ended (and also how we met and fell in love and the realisations I came to about how sometimes we make small cuts into people without realising it). These stories will all be part of the chapters in Why We Met, of course. I feel that every story in my journey and all the people I loved and lusted after have helped me come to the place I’m in now – and I’m ever so thankful.

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My Father loved celebrating my birthday with me after us missing out on so many together when I moved to the States, so when I moved back to West Yorkshire to live with him (post-separation from my first husband), he ensured that even if I was on holiday on my birthday, I ‘stopped by’ before my big day to receive his funny card (often something about being late, loving shoes, overpacking, having a husband who did the housework), and carefully chosen present. 

In my ‘declutter’ years, that present was mostly vodka, my favourite tipple, but I’ve been the recipient of some beautiful, well-chosen presents over the years from my Father and my husband (and others, of course), including one year when Father planned and paid for all of our journeys (his, Michael, Grammy, and I) on a steam train on the Keighley & Worth Valley Railway line (not far from where we live) to have strawberries and champagne in the ‘Gentleman’s carriage.’

It’s been a comfort to re-read the beautiful inscriptions in some of the books he’s gifted over the years. He was always great at choosing books for Jae (my older sister and his other daughter) and me that mirrored our disparate interests with Jae’s interests more aligning with our Father’s and mine with literature of the more modern variety (but we have all been lifelong avid readers).

For one birthday, my Father and Grammy (Mum’s mum) visited me when I lived in Weiden in der Oberpfalz, Germany. We had a lovely dinner at a favourite restaurant in the Market Square, not far from the Altes Rathaus (old city hall), which is now a charming tea shop, ice cream parlour, and other little shops and on the very top houses the biggest bird’s nest I’ve ever seen.

On a sort of happier note, I’m turning some indeterminate age (although I think my face is starting to tell the story or maybe that’s the media (mis)perception I have) between 36 and 39 (far too close to forty). I’ve never tried ‘the botox’ or ‘the fillers’ but that might happen in the next so many years (does it hurt and how expensive is it to maintain?) except I’m the sort of person who barely has time to moisturise my face at night, nevermind have a thirteen-step skincare, gua sha, face roller routine (although I do have an anti-ageing laser that I need to start using because non-ablative lasers do work – I know because I wrote for the company!). I prefer to spend my evenings reading and unwinding watching a TV show or film with Michael and my mornings writing before work. I used to do lovely ‘woo woo’ face yoga class with my beautiful friend, Marie, who looks absolutely amazing (in her early fifties no less) so it really does work but I’m also too lazy for that!

Love and best wishes in the universe to all who find first birthdays and first Father’s Days without their Dads difficult – and every subsequent year after that.

Ageing has a way of making us thankful for another year and reflective on time and mortality – or maybe that’s because I’m approaching forty.

Let me know about the Botox thing!

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One of my favourite writers on this platform, , recently published a piece by writer, , about the ugly truth behind influencers' lives – spoiler: they aren’t all living the glitzy life they pretend to be. The piece is brilliant so take a gander here: ‘The lonely, curated life of the fashion influencer: poverty, sugar daddies and face-altering apps- what a social media star found when she moved to the influencer capital of the world.’

That piece led me to visit her Substack, The Simple Letter, which led me to another article Williams wrote about ‘Being a stepmom’ (also, brilliant – so read here). She describes becoming the stepparent to two girls when she had an affair with a married man, twenty years her senior, who left his wife for her. Their marriage ended. 

Her poignant, raw, honest look at how difficult it is to be a stepparent resonated with me.

Williams writes (and really every line is so good so I do encourage a read):

Being a stepmother was a job I never wanted. Does anyone? Snow White doesn’t exactly paint the role as a favourable one. I was 22 when I married a man with 2 children, who were 3 and 6 at the time, but it would be close to a decade before I felt anything close to comfortable with the title. I knew he had children when we met, but as a teenager head over heels in love no less, I wasn’t able to understand the consequences of this in terms of a relationship. … You can divorce your spouse but you can never untie the bond between parents. That’s not to say they’re still in love or their relationship extends beyond that of co-parenting but they are still in some sort of relationship that cannot and should not be terminated. 

It resonated not because I was a stepparent or even that I ever dated anyone with children but when I was 22, I slept with my married professor (written about here) who had children around my age. I remember how young, naive, and inexperienced I was. I never wanted him to leave his wife – neither of us wanted that. It was a fling in the way that Williams’ affair clearly wasn’t but the piece made me equally reflect on the two stepfathers I’ve had in my life.

The first of which was Carl, Hannah’s father, who my mother met when I was ten years old, just shy of eleven. We’d moved from England to Orlando and he was a truck driver who delivered to my mother’s work where she worked as an accountant. She’d go to the loading docks to smoke and they’d sit companionably and chat. Carl was handsome. Hailing from the neighbouring state of Georgia, he was a kind man with Southern charm and I can see how he swept her off her feet.

At that time, I welcomed Carl into our lives for my mother’s happiness. I missed my own father in England so deeply it was unbearable especially that I wouldn’t see him for many years due to various circumstances. He wrote letters to me every week. 

After my Mum and Carl married and moved in together, times felt tougher for me because Carl’s parenting style was so much stricter than what I’d been used to. Being at that awkward age of adolescence and confused about where this new ‘father figure’ fit into my life when I had my own father was troubling. I’d not have been able to articulate it then.

I also had competition for my mother’s time. We’d always been ‘thick as thieves’ as they say and this was the first ever serious relationship she’d had since my father. She’d had boyfriends but none had ever lived with us and encroached on our lives. I lament now how things played out. I know Carl found it tough, despite how much he loved my mother.

Something I remember distinctly was that Carl’s nieces doted on him and vice versa. He was a loving father to his daughters. He was loving to my mother.

Once when we’d stopped at one of those big gas stations in America where the plate glass runs floor to ceiling, a monstrosity of a building; we sat in the car together, Carl in the driver’s seat and me in the back, looking in the windows at my mother, illuminated by the fluorescent glow of the checkout and Carl looked wistfully and said to me, “Your Mom is really beautiful.” That struck a chord in me and I always remembered it. It made my heart glad to know my mother was loved.

Another time, I remember for my Mum’s birthday, we went to the jewellery store together and he let me pick out a ring for us to present to her. I chose a beautiful oval-cut emerald, surrounded by diamonds, set in gold. It was a smaller version of Princess Diana’s ring that must have entered my subconscious and my mother still wears that ring.

In our fraught relationship, Carl did try. He bought cats for me because he knew how much I loved them, he built a treehouse for me (only half finished but I could still climb up to the platform and I thought it was brilliant), he always allowed my friends to come over, raid the fridge, make us pitchers of kool-aid to drink, and buy in those (horrendous but delicious to kids) Little Debbie snacks. He’d borrowed a massive tent from one of his brothers and he’d pitch the tent in summer and fill it with air mattresses for my friends and I to have big sleepovers, building a bonfire for us to roast marshmallows (making s’mores), hotdogs, and eat potatoes wrapped in tinfoil. He even took me fishing from time to time, which I pretended to hate, and we’d go as a family to the Alapaha River to swim in the tannin-coloured waters, taking a cooler filled with ice and sodas.

He came from a big, loving family, consisting of his four siblings: Danny, Jimmy, Scotty, and Debbie, their respective spouses and children – and Granny Dot and Papa CJ (who died a little before Hannah was born).

I still have such fond memories of Christmases, Thanksgivings, Easters, Family Reunions at Ray’s Millpond (an award-winning restaurant owned by Carl’s family), and summers spent in Granny Dot’s swimming pool in the country under tall pine trees. Carl’s family never treated my mother and I as interlopers: they embraced us wholeheartedly. At these gatherings, there was amazing Southern food, sitting shelling peas and shucking corn, and the distinctive laughter of bubbly Aunt Phyliss with her Hollywood white smile (Uncle Danny’s wife) and young, cool, stylish Aunt Jackie (Uncle Jimmy’s wife) with a hot-shot job, whom I admired. I’m glad Carl had this big, wonderful, loving family.

I’m also glad that on his final weekend, his brother Jimmy took him fishing. I’m sure he’d have loved that day with his much-loved brother.

Carl had many friends, too, and I remember many backyard BBQs, cookouts, fish frys, and low country boils, filled with people – and even the odd company picnic or two where Carl’s work would throw these massive carnival-style events for the people who worked in logistics and trucking in the company.

He equally embraced my mother’s side of the family: my three uncles, Steve, Dave, and Tim. He loved enjoying a beer with them and chatting when we’d visit Florida or they’d visit us in Georgia. Carl never did seem to drink much back then – only the odd half-finished bottle. He’d drive hours for my mother’s side family holidays where we’d meet at places like Cedar Key, Sanibel Island, St. Augustine, or Ft. Lauderdale for motel and beach vacations. 

Carl was a good, kind, gentle man, but I was a moody, angry, confused teen. I didn’t always behave in ways I’m proud of. I made his relationship with my mother difficult. He always tried.

One thing I resented too was how he’d make me do homework after school before I could go online to message all my friends all night on MSN messenger. He only complained the odd time when he’d missed important phone calls because I was hogging the phone line with the dial-up. And he’d even bought us that family computer in the first place. I’m not even sure why now because he rarely ever used it and never seemed bothered about new technology. 

A half-decade into their marriage, my Mum, now 39 accidentally got pregnant with my baby sister, Hannah. Carl, now 43, was delighted. 

Hannah healed us all in a way. I loved Hannah with a fierceness I didn’t know was possible. We all did, every part of her. When my mother, who didn’t have maternity leave (thank you, US), stayed home with Hannah for the first couple of years of her life, I think that put a strain on the marriage, combined with the toll of my incessant unhappiness. My mother left Carl when I was 16. We moved briefly to Florida and then she returned to him and ended things again just before I went to university.

I did feel sad for Carl because he was devastated at the end of the marriage and, of course, relationships are about the people in them, but having a stepdaughter surely didn’t help make it easier.

Mum, however, always had the uncanny ability to stay friends with her exes. She never said a bad word against my father or Hannah’s. I tried to follow that example and never say anything negative to Hannah about her father, despite our fraught years.

It’s sad to me I got the best years of her father’s life. He’d been fun-loving, sporty, outdoorsy. He’d been unwell in later years, the years Hannah will most remember him.

Years later, though, I messaged him a few times telling him how much Hannah loved him and adored him, how much she’d loved going camping and fishing with him. I’d said how I’d hoped he was well; he was a good man and deserved happiness and I was sending love. Then, in another message, I said I was thinking about the delicious pineapple-mandarin cake Granny Dot (his mother) would make for family occasions and did he have the recipe, which he kindly sent to me. Another time, Hannah was in England visiting me and I sent him a photo of her with our Grammy and said I was keeping Hannah safe for him and he said thank you and he hoped we’d all have a wonderful time together.

That’s as close as I got to “I’m sorry for our past.” In later years, I had wanted to be kind. I wish I’d said that my behaviour as a teen wasn’t really to do with him, although probably when he was in his 40s, with a moody, sarcastic, and rude teen girl on his hands, he wondered what he was doing with his life.

Hannah has had to navigate her own stepfather too as our mother later met her current husband, Lamar. They met when Hannah was around 6 years old. Being in my 20s when Lamar came onto the scene, I could fully embrace my second stepfather, not least of which is because he’s a wonderful person. But had I been younger, would the relationship have been different?

Hannah has always been able to navigate this relationship more easily, not least of which because Lamar never got involved per se as a ‘parent’ but always as a friend, a confidant, a partner in crime. Hannah and Lamar are alike in many ways, they’re ‘besties’ and I love the easy, gentle relationship they have.

Hannah has beautifully navigated having a father and a stepfather, embracing her love for both men and their role in her life. 

Carl has been welcomed to family dinners, Christmases, birthday parties, the lot. He and his long-time girlfriend Aleyshia were part of Mum and Lamar’s now-extended family unit.

Except when she was a young child, I never really got to observe Hannah’s relationship with her father in later years. When she was a girl and we still lived with Carl, he doted on her. Her face lit up to be held by him, falling asleep in his arms; she was proud to have him as her Daddy. He was a wonderful, loving father. 

Hannah’s lucky to have both these men in her life. I’m sad she had to lose one of them too soon. 

The stepparent role is a curious and difficult one – it seems. Although now, I’ve had Lamar as a stepfather for longer than I had Carl, I will always remember Carl for his good qualities, generosity, and kindness: his laugh, his funny sayings, his singing, his fried turkey, the way he grilled a mean steak, and, most importantly, how much he loved his three daughters: Hannah, Carla, and April.

To Carl, who like many in my life, shaped part of who I am. I mourn for my baby sister and Carl’s family. May you find peace and comfort in these difficult times.

I’ll miss seeing my Dad in his chair. I’ll miss his hugs and his smile as he saw me walking through the door. What am I saying? I missed all of those things when he was in hospital already, living the last moments of his life trapped in himself. 

I feel for all of those who have to live with deep grief. The shock of two deaths this year already has been difficult, to say the least. I’m adapting to a new normal. I miss my Dad every day but I’m finding equilibrium.

Grammy update

I announced in this post (below) back in November that Grammy was in the process of buying a cottage near me. Unfortunately, that fell through – as have another couple of attempts at purchases – to poor Grammy’s dismay (and the cost of all the surveys). It’s been a stressful process and she’s still searching for a house closer to her grandchildren. It’s all been a bit of a nightmare but let’s hope she finds somewhere soon.

On writing again

I’ve scheduled the last few posts in advance (up to post #52). I took time to build them and hit schedule and it’s even a surprise to me these days when they are published. I wrote most of that material in January. 

I had been so sad and unmotivated that I haven’t found my usual relish to get back to writing but I’ve written a little this week which feels like progress, however small. I’m not writing daily yet but a little is more than barely being able to get out of bed. And now I’ve written this post too!  

I have had five ‘serious’(ish) boyfriends in my life – High School Sweetheart (HSS), the Stella Adler Academy Actor (Dorian), Captain Thor, my first husband, and now Michael. I say serious ish because Dorian and Captain Thor weren’t serious about me. Posts about the latter three yet to come.

This week, I began writing my series of posts about Captain Thor. I’ve written two and planned out a few more. I’m really trying to write shorter – eek. I only have a few readers who give me active feedback so I have no idea what people prefer (please let me know). 

I discovered a new writer this week called and she has this piece here about trying to ‘write short.’ Of course, writing short and precise is a talent, isn’t it? I’m working on mastery. Or maybe as an editor (by day job) I should ‘kill my darlings’ more and just pare back continually. 

Marjorie’s Musings

Long or Short

“I write long.” I remember hearing this declaration from an author back at the start of my writing career. It seemed like one of those self-fulfilling prophesies, like maybe if she hadn’t said it, she could solve the problem—if it was a problem. In fact, at the time, I had no idea. Now after dozens of short stories and poems, one completed novel manuscri…

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2 years ago · 2 likes · 1 comment · Marjorie Apple

It’s tough to revisit some of these times and emotions. Ultimately, though, I think it’ll be healing. Writing about it is like therapy, expunging deeply buried memories. I feel sad for past me for all the wisdom she hadn’t yet gained, all the ways she allowed herself to be treated. 

Those who knew me 10-15 years ago wouldn’t recognise Series 2 Elaine (or Lainey as close family, family friends, and my husband call me) or am I now on Series 4 or 5? My life ethos, income bracket, job, confidence, everything is different. I’m more secure, happier, and complete in ways I never was in my twenties. All of which has allowed me to focus on this little side hustle dream which at first was my freelance portfolio and now is my Substack. And I hope, eventually, will lead to writing a novel. Then, trying to get published.

On boring adult-y thingies

So I saw this advert for this UK company called Must Have Ideas and they sell this brilliant stuff called ‘Mould Magic.’ No amount of scrubbing, bleach, whatever (my amazing cleaner) was fixing a tiny mould problem around our clawfoot tub that sits against the bathroom wall (we have one of those corner versions) so I tried out this stuff and it really does work. 

For fear of sounding like an infomercial, I’m thrilled. Should I now become like Mrs Hinch and be sponsored by practical cleaning products? (I wish! And I haven’t checked on her in a while so hopefully she’s not cancelled.) 

I am the opposite of a domestic goddess but who doesn’t like clean spaces? And how boring have I become in middle-aged that this legitimately thrilled me yesterday and I asked Michael to pour praise on me for my brilliance at buying this product. He gave me one of his ‘Michael faces’ which is sort of like shaking his head and looking sort of bemused at the woman he married. 

The cat, Kit Kat, my Dad’s cat

Michael and I took on my Dad’s beloved cat, Kit Kat. Sometimes he loves us and sometimes we are his annoying roommates that he disdainfully tolerates. He’s stopped waking me up at 5 am, 6 am, and 2.52 am for cuddles and head kisses, so I’ve surely pissed him off somehow. He only accepts food scraps from Michael’s plate, not mine – I must be seen by him as inherently untrustworthy. He spends 99% of his time in my attic bedroom window staring lustfully at the great outdoors in which he used to be allowed to roam.

Something strange has happened to Michael and I as we become “cat parents.” We have accepted that our carpet and furniture will be decorated by a few scratches (I mean he’s not too bad but he’s had a bit of a tickle at the arm of the settee and my attic carpet) and that everything we own will be covered in far too much cat hair (which is a battle to clean up and control).

Michael has spent an inordinate time researching cat litter – he went with corn. By ‘inordinate time,’ I’m sparing everyone the details of how intensely Michael researches things… He has also decided that Kit Kat needs a smorgasbord of food to try and we are delighted when he gobbles up a whole packet of something. We also talk about the number of wees he does (how can he produce so much?) and when he does a poo. 

Michael has also taken to giving him cat licky treat things that smell vile, clotted cream (what budget is this cat on anyway?), cat pâté, human pâté (for human consumption not made of people – it’s not Cloud Atlas), salmon skin, smoked salmon, tins of tuna. We live to please this cat. When I expressed that our lounge now looks ‘an absolute shocking mess’ my husband retorted, ‘You can’t have nice things with pets or children.’ This is our life now. 

Shitting kombucha

In other news, I have an adorable nutritionist, David, who has me drinking fruit-flavoured kombucha.

I joked to David that I need a second mortgage to afford to drink kombucha as these are over £1.40 per can per day. It’s a tiny drink? I didn’t sign up to spend £45/month on drinks. I don’t even drink wine or vodka that often these days.

I never thought it’d come to this. I thought kombucha was only reserved for my beautiful friend, Marie, who is entirely too healthy (jokes) and I’m now shitting far more often than I’d like. Would drinking vodka each day have the same ‘gut impact’?

David assures me that this is what ‘proper digestion’ should feel like. I think it’s entirely too time-consuming. I already always drank 2-3 litres of water per day so my digestion was probably okay, surely? And I’ve already been mad enough that I make my own homemade sauerkraut a few times per year and eat a tablespoon per day. My current batch should last me another month at least.

I love that David is under 25 – I can’t recall how old he is but around baby sister Hannah’s age – but he’s so positive and gives me lots of praise for wins and is gentle about my failures. Everyone needs that sort of person in their life.

He amuses me and gently jokes that my phone call with him is my fave of the week despite the fact I’m always rescheduling and/or late to the calls (sorry! Not usually like me but recent depression and I hate phone calls – as cousin Pam knows).

With all this extra fibre, protein, and gut-healthy bacteria, I am feeling better. Plus, with my treadmill desk, enforced workouts, and stretching – and eventually, to conquer my pre-sleep doom-scrolling and sleep more – I’ll be a complete person, especially when I finish writing my past stories (on here) and start seeing my therapist again. 

Plug for my friends (not that they asked)

If you’re local to West Yorkshire, get an amazing facial, reiki, cosmic healing, etc from my friend, Marie, here. I swear after I get a facial I feel incredibly relaxed and rejuvenated. 

And for laser treatments, botox, and the like, I have another gorgeous beauty industry friend, Ruth. She started her own podcast recently all about issues that face menopausal women. The first episode features actress Lisa Allen. Allen was in this series called Passenger which was filmed near my Dad’s house.

It’s funny to see the Old Library as a ‘police station’ which is also where we used to have our Saturday morning breakfasts with Dad because they did both a ‘vegan’ and ‘meaty’ breakfast for a steal. I miss the ladies who ran the cafe too, but that all closed down during COVID-19 times.

On reading

I’ve read 25 books this year. I generally try and read 50-60 books per year. 

My beautiful friend from uni days, Kate, has read 35 so far and she has a full-time teaching job, two children, and a husband – and she is also an artist, writer, and poet. How does she do it? 

What did I read this week?

• PD James, A Certain Justice (Adam Dalgliest #10) (also a series I want to finish – think four books left now)

• Dolly Alderton, Good Material (can I get enough Dolly? Love her work!)

• Dolly Alderton, Ghosts (loving her and should finish by Sunday)

At the beginning of this year, I also made it through all of Jojo Moyes’ novels. I think there are fourteen and I was determined to read them all eventually. I discovered her around 2015 and have loved her ever since. I say ‘made it through’ as if I didn’t race through the books to find out the oh-so-lovely endings. I’ve also read all but one of her short stories. I watched her BBC Maestro course on writing romance novels too. I think those who know about her work rate her highly (thankfully) but within the ‘wider literary’ world women’s fiction writers are often underrated. Moyes writes page-turners that tackle real, serious life issues (like Marian Keyes) and they are funny, charming, and beautifully written. What’s not to love? 

Back when I was doing my BA and MA in literature, I was a little ‘snobby’ about this sort of fiction until I started reading it and/or found that it was a total ‘guilty pleasure’ that I couldn’t tell my other ‘literary’ friends about but now I proudly say how much I love a rom-com and women’s lit. And if I ever do get around to writing my own novel, I hope I can write half as well. 

I have two more posts coming up next week. One about the dashing Captain Cotillion and the other about the Air Force Guy who almost ruined my first marriage – well, certainly caused tension. And no, infidelity was not involved. 

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A year after I was discarded like yesterday’s rubbish, things were looking up: I’d interviewed at a startup marketing agency for a writing job (not very well paid and I’d earn in a year what my ex had in a month but it was a start) and I’d gotten accepted to do a PGCE (postgraduate certificate in education) at the University of Manchester to teach primary school children. I couldn’t really afford not to work for another year nor the cost of tuition. I didn’t know which path would lead to the life I wanted so I consulted a psychic.

In the year I was out of work, I subsisted on the £500 a month my ex gave me as “alimony” and by working as a dishwasher at a restaurant in Todmorden and tutoring school children a few days a week in Rochdale and Oldham. I took the odd jobs I could get and having a Master’s degree but no job prospects in the post-Trump and post-Brexit landscape left me feeling hopeless and worthless.

Besides being heartbroken, I was learning happiness in simplicity and Michael made me feel alive again (but that’s a story for another day – and the whole reason for the Substack in a semi-How I Met Your Mother sort of thing with “mother” just being husband with no plans for children as of yet – or ever).

I’d never gone to a psychic before or for a Tarot reading but I was curious yet sceptical. This was March 2017 (seems crazy it was 7 years ago). She was a local lady named Katavia Hall. A few years later in 2022, I decided to listen to the recording I’d made of the 2-hour long session only to discover to my surprise that many of her predictions came true, including that Michael would be a good fit for me. I’m not sure what led me to listen again.

After mine and Michael’s honeymoon to Mexico (which was for our first anniversary) in 2022, I’d landed my current editorial job (managing a European copy editing team at a major FTSE 100 company) and I felt I’d finally “made it.” It had taken 6 long years with Michael by my side to build the life I wanted, but I’d done it. 

Something made me seek out a psychic reading again only to discover (very sadly because I did feel melancholy at finding out the news) that Katavia had passed away in the intervening years (in July 2021). I was a year too late.

I was talking to my brilliant, intelligent, adorable “eyebrow lady” Stephanie and we got to the topic of psychics (like hairdressers she’s heard it all and we have talked the gambit) and she told me about this amazing psychic on Instagram who had done a reading for her called Zeta at Zee to Zen. Steph had said everything Zeta had predicted had come true for her business. My curiosity was piqued again.

I loved my first session with Zeta in November 2022 where she spoke for several minutes of things that resonated with me. Then, I talked about Grandad’s book and without even realising it when I looked back at my recording and notes for the session a year later, the timelines Zeta had given for “finishing” edits and finding my own creative inspiration were spot-on. Zeta’s website promised she’d be my “spiritual bestie,” which feels true despite her possibly having hundreds of clients.

I had another reading almost a year later on the 1st of September 2023 as Zeta advised only getting readings when most of the previous reading had come to pass. When she has read for me she has mostly predicted extended timelines for my journey – with predictions one to two years out. I was feeling anxious and had another reading at the end of September 2023 again before I went to Florida to visit my family and I found even more help and direction.

Most of the shorter timeline cycles have come true and she even asked if there was some anxiety around someone having “health issues” or “sickness” in the family, which I dismissed (was that Grandad Ted, my Dad, Derek? Who knows now…). She says she never reveals things she doesn’t think people can handle at the time.

Since that first reading, I have bought candles and crystals. I have had readings with another wonderful local psychic in Hebden Bridge, Donna Preece (also amazing). I have gone to Face Yoga and new moon sessions hosted by my beautiful friend, Marie, with whom I’ve also had sessions in acasma (quantum energy healing), cosmic healing, reiki, amazing facials, and so on. Marie was way ahead of me in “this stuff” but I always admired her calm, peaceful energy even if I wasn’t sure if it was all “made up.” I even recall that my late father-in-law, George, believed in the book The Secret and the “power of positive thinking.”

I don’t necessarily have a “daily practice” but my mind is more open to the blessings the universe can bring. For some, I’m now considered firmly on the scale of “woo woo.” 

At my end-of-September session, I asked Zeta if I should focus on writing my novel or a short story collection I’d started and she said something along the lines of writing the stories would help me find my voice – a different voice – and did I have a platform where people could see my writing, somewhere like Substack?

At the time, I’d only just signed up to Zeta’s Substack and was enjoying the posts but I’d never heard of the platform. I didn’t think anything of it. Many of Zeta’s subscribers don’t have Substacks of their own; they are often businesswomen and not writers. They are there for her (understandably) and the spiritual guidance she brings.  

Zeta said joining Substack wasn’t a “psychic” suggestion, just her personal recommendation. She said the spiritual guides were saying to look in my “phone notes” and that what I wanted to say was practically already written for me. When I scoured my phone notes from years ago, what did I see? Only copious notes about all the dating disasters (and slight successes), heartbreak, and lessons I’ve learned and so on – so we come full circle. Of course, I had diaries and emails and all sorts of supplementary material to tell this version of my tale – the journey from the beginning, the ups and downs of dating and life that led me to Michael and where I am now.

And this week, I’m thankful she has become a new subscriber. Thank you, . I cannot wait to see what the universe has in store for me next (especially after the heartbreak and setbacks I’ve suffered this year already with losing Derek and my Dad).

If you’re new here, check out some popular previous posts:

• Why I’m writing Why We Met

• Captain Cambridge

• My very first date

• My first kiss, my first heartbreak

• The red-haired sex god: how things ended, AKA that time I went full-blown hot-crazy scale

• The air traffic controller

• The guy with the fake eye

• My best date ever with the finance CFO

• The sweetheart tech bro

• The one who reminded me of Patrick Bateman (a la American Psycho)

• When I f*cked my married professor and karma bit me

Thanks for supporting me. It really does mean a lot.

Next up, the second person I met in Starbucks part two (read part one here).

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Have a read of some of the other posts I’ve written, including the one on why I’m writing this newsletter/blog in the first place – and the odd “present day snippet” of what I’m up to lately.

Have you ever had a psychic reading or Tarot reading? Do you believe in it all or feel like it’s a bit too “hippy dippy woo woo” or something in between? Let me know in the comments.

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Jaelithe, Dad’s sisters (the aunties), and I were so thankful for the turnout we had and so many beloved faces from many stages of Father’s life. Thank you to all who attended.

For those who were unable to attend (and are interested), here’s the transcript of the memorial service.

Here’s the memorial service written by celebrant, Zetta Bear, with additional words from my Aunts (Dad’s sisters), Great Uncle Ted (Dad’s mother’s brother), my sister’s mother (Jean Tempest), my mother (Lisa Hewitt as she was then), Jae, and me.

All of the framing narrative words were beautifully constructed by Zetta except my asides and words marked as by others. Zetta listened and Jae, Jean, and I reminisced about Dad’s life and got a sense of who he was and what he meant to us. We were so thankful she led the service so well.

The amazing vegan catering was made by Claire at The Kindness Hub in the old Coop building in Todmorden.

Welcome

Melanie, “Ring The Living Bell”

Hello and a warm welcome to you all. Thank you for coming to commemorate the life of Reid Lyndsay-Maxwell, who you’ve lost unexpectedly, and at only seventy years old. 

This isn’t an easy day. You’ve lost someone you cherish; you’ve lost him far too soon, and too suddenly, and I know many people here are still reeling from the shock of what’s happened. Your grief is important. But we’re also here to talk about the good times, the times that warm your hearts, and make you smile. 

Reid Lyndsay-Maxwell was a rare and lovely man, and his list of nicknames tells us a lot about him – he was The Prof (because he was clever and knowledgeable), Moses (because of his Biblical-level beard), The Old Goat, Rincewind (after the inept wizard), The Bean Herd or Neil (due to his famous lentil stew), The Wobbly Man and Grandad Wobbly (as he got more wobbly with time), and more recently, as Pulsifer (for his ability to break anything just by looking at it and for his antipathy to modern tech). 

Today, we’ll call him Lyndsay, which is the name he went by most often.

Lyndsay was a kind, loyal, loving man. Above all, he was a wonderful father whose children always knew they were loved without doubt – he was devoted to them and committed to their care. He was also an adoring grandfather, a beloved brother, uncle, nephew, father-in-law, and a dear friend to far too many people to mention by name.

All of you loved him for his wit, his intelligence, his easy-going charm, and yes, for his incredible stubbornness, because he was stubborn! It’s a characteristic that stood him in good stead – he spent much of his life fighting on behalf of others. He had excellent values, and he was determined and unflagging in his efforts to make sure people had access to the things they needed and were entitled to. He was never a bystander when it came to inequality; in fact, he was much better at fighting for other people than for himself.

He was a complex man – he could talk to anyone and get on with everyone, and yet he was private, quite self-contained, and he kept much to himself. He was very funny, but he also took life seriously and did what was right rather than what was easy. He was a wordsmith – a talent he passed on to his daughters – and yet his infamous wedding speeches were, to put it mildly, rather brief: ‘Pies are up,’ ‘Here’s to Jaelithe and Robert’ and ‘If you want a successful relationship, think “what would Dad do?” and then do the exact opposite’!

He loved words though and was an avid reader, and if he happened to pick up one of your books and start reading it, it would likely leave with him and you’d be lucky to see it again any time soon! He loved imaginative, wry, clever writers, and I’d like to begin with a quote from one of his many favourites, Terry Pratchett:

“No one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away, until the clock wound up winds down, until the wine they made has finished its ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone’s life is only the core of their actual existence.”

Today we’ll talk about the core of Lyndsay’s existence, but in the context of all those ripples. He was a heavy stone cast into a deep pond, and the ripples will continue to expand for a long time – all of you here are part of that. As long as you live, and remember him, and in the case of his daughters, continue to be the women he helped you to become and to affect the world in your own unique ways, Reid Lyndsay-Maxwell, Rincewind, Pulsifer, The Prof, will be here in the world with you.

Tribute to Lyndsay

 So, let’s talk about Lyndsay. His family kindly shared their memories of him with me, and we’re going to hear directly from some of the people closest to him, so we’ll talk about him in the words of the people who know and love him best.

It all began on the 24^th of July 1953, when Lyndsay was born in Manchester. It wasn’t a straightforward start. His mother, Ethel Morgan, died when he was only three years old, and he and his sisters Sheena, Jane, and Jeanie were taken in and raised by their Grandmother Morgan. Lyndsay didn’t reminisce a great deal about his early years, but his sisters were there with him, and they have their own memories to share, along with some memories from his uncle Ted.

His sisters’ words

Sheena Lindsay Maxwell Kent, eldest sister

We are Reid’s sisters. I’m Sheena. These are Jane and Jeanie. You may find it strange that we refer to our brother as ‘Reid’ but that’s the name we have known him by all his life. However, the “Linsday” in us will live on because our middle names are all “Lindsay.”

My wonderful eccentric, witty, funny brother, I have so many wonderful memories to treasure forever. Who remembers the advert that’s tagline said: “Do you love anyone enough to give them your last Rolo.” Well, my brother did. In 2010 on my 60^th birthday, Reid gave me a last Rolo. 

Side note: the gift is a large gold-plated Rolo with an inscription.

It was inscribed: “Sheena, 1953 – 2010.” When he realised that the inscription should have said 1950 (the year I was born) and not 1953 (the year he was born), his response was, “Oh well I didn’t know you in 1950 and that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.”

I will miss our weekly FaceTime chats even though I spent the first few minutes talking to his forehead while he organised the phone in the right position. I’m missing them so much already. 

I loved him coming to visit and I think he did too. The first thing he did on arrival was to grab the BOSH cookery books and give me the menus for the duration of his visit. He obviously didn’t trust my vegan cooking without a recipe to follow.

One day he wanted to have a good look ‘round our town of Maldon, so Nick pushed him around in the wheelchair for five miles while we went to the Military museum, the Promenade, up and down a really steep hill to the town centre, and the shops. Fortunately for them both, the local hostelry was downhill.

One time he phoned and said he would like to stay over Easter, coming Good Friday and leaving Bank Holiday Monday. He didn’t specify which bank holiday Monday and ended up returning home on the last one in May.

I could mention so many other special times we had together but I would need to write the book we always said we would do together, so I think Jae, Lainey, and myself might get around to it on his behalf.

So many brilliant, special memories of a very exceptional person who I was so proud to call my little brother.

Love you, Reid

Jane Lindsay Jackson, second eldest

Reid grew up in a household surrounded by women: us three sisters and Granny. I am not sure much changed later as he shared his life with two daughters, Jaelithe and Elaine, and later a beautiful granddaughter, Caroline.

I have been looking at photographs over the last few weeks and the one thing which struck me on all of them was how smart Reid always looked. I know he prided himself on his appearance, and this I am sure stems from those early days. The photographs included us all on the beach on holiday, posing for more formal pictures, and a very proud Boy Scout in his uniform saluting outside Granny’s front door.

I was so pleased that you were able to come down to Windsor for my 60^th birthday celebrations, along with Jaelithe and Rob. It was lovely to spend some precious time with all my family on that occasion. I am only sorry time did not allow us to explore Windsor more.

After I moved to Littleborough, you were not very far away, so coming to see you was so enjoyable. We could usually guarantee a laugh and have lots of memories to share. We also set the world to rights and although we may not have had the same views on some things, we didn’t fall out about it and respected each other's views. Whenever I was driving through Todmorden, I always said, “Hello, Reid” as I went past, perhaps not calling in, as often it was a little bit early for you. I think the habit will stay with me for quite some time. 

So, Reid, as Granny used to say to us every, “Night, night. God Bless. See you in the Morning.”  I know we won't see you in the morning, but you will remain in our hearts forever and we will remember you with laughter and tears in the years to come.

Jeanie Lindsay King, baby sister

Reid was my big brother, as children I was his little shadow. We went everywhere together and had many adventures. We enjoyed playing board games: Risk, Monopoly, Scoop, Chess, and Draughts. He was fiercely competitive and almost always won.

Saturday afternoons we had the ritual of watching the wrestling on the newly acquired two-channel black and white TV. Mick McManus was probably our favourite wrestler. This routine came to an abrupt end when Reid got a little over-enthusiastic and tried one of the wrestling throws on me and nearly knocked me out. Granny thought it was better and safer to ban wrestling for a while.

Reid had a wicked sense of humour and was known for writing letters that could bring a smile to your face and lift your spirits. One such letter he sent as a round-robin during lockdown. I’m sure it brought a smile to those who received it. I will read you an extract from it:

“In view of the omni-shambles our illustrious Government is presiding over, I have decided that the only way to sort all this out is to make me The Great Dictator. I possess all the necessary skills and can call upon experienced personnel to carry out my wishes.

I shall appoint Jeanie as Chancellor of the Exchequer. She has the expertise having sorted out serious overspending by Paul. I thought about Sheena as she has the experience of dealing with large deficits but as this is only in relation to her credit cards, I decided Jeanie’s experience of constraining overspending would be more appropriate.

Sheena will therefore become Minister for Transport. She has travelled extensively and knows how to pack for travel throughout the country.

Jane shall become Minister for Health as she is experienced in sorting out recalcitrant Doctors and Nurses. A Matron in charge of health provision would soon resolve the problems we have and make people terrified of going to A&E unless it is a genuine emergency and not simply because they can’t get an appointment at the Doctors’.

Elaine shall be in charge of the Foreign Office as she has lived in foreign countries and with her policies would soon have America begging to become a colony again.

Jaelithe shall become Schools Minister (Education is its proper title). She is fully aware of the needs of tiny terrors and is au fait with student debt, having to deal with it since she left University.

Rob will become Minister for the Environment with a special role in preserving all Elizabethan architecture Jaelithe tells him is worth preserving.

Michael will become communications Minister in charge of the newly Renationalised Royal Mail.”

Thank you, Reid, for your letters that always made us laugh during lockdown.

God Bless, Reid. Thank you for all the memories that I hold so dear and I will miss our long discussions putting the world to rights.

Uncle Ted, Dad’s mother’s (Ethel) brother

I did not see you often, Reid, but we talked on the phone and often put the world to rights – but no one listened to our moans. I’m sorry I will not be there to listen to your sister’s memories but I am sure they will be good and not mention trips to the pub that Granny did not know about when underage. 

I enjoyed all our long phone calls when we discussed the books we read, our views did not oft converge but we both enjoyed our chats. Good night, God bless, dear nephew, your time on earth has passed. Love, Uncle Ted.

Lyndsay left home when he was still a lad, joining the army at sixteen as a boy soldier. He was, understandably, appointed to the Intelligence Corps, but was given a medical discharge early on after suffering from a serious illness. After that, he somehow ended up in Brighton, married, although no one knows quite how. When the marriage ended he returned to Manchester where he led an interesting dual life as a Legal Assistant by day, and a writer and journalist on the side, as well as roadie-ing for some of the most famous bands of the time. He met Morrisey back then, and hated him, describing him as a ‘miserable bastard,’ a statement which now looks prophetic! 

Again, somehow, Lyndsay found his way to Oldham, and there he met Jean. They had an absolute ball together; their relationship was such good fun - Lyndsay worked and played hard in these years. They had Jae together, and Lyndsay embarked on possibly his most consistent and accomplished role in life – that of Father. He was wonderful at it, and Jae and later Elaine have happy memories of him singing to them, and taking them on walks where he fair charged along with them hanging onto him and flying out like kites behind his great strides. He never raised his voice or shouted, he was kind and gentle and he took his responsibilities seriously, as we’ll hear. But first, I’d like to hand over to Jean to talk about the man she knew and loved:

Jean Tempest, Jaelithe’s mother

I met Lyndsay when I was 17 in a pub in Oldham called The Sergeant At Arms. An easy-going pub who had a Mynah Bird to whom the landlord bore a striking resemblance…

We got chatting in the pool room, mainly because he liked the look of my friend Di. I took a shine immediately to the long-haired hippy with his pink cravat, suit jacket, and waist-length hair but it took some time before I was invited to his home to sample his famous lentil stew. 

His pub friends called him the Prof because he gave off a definitely aristocratic air, was unquestionably very clever, erudite, and had an answer for everything. It was later in our relationship that I understood how intelligent Lyndsay was; how well-read and knowledgeable, mainly because he was an autodidact who brought a powerful intellect and matching moral conviction to social welfare. 

One of his overriding passions was to help the vulnerable in society which manifested itself most prominently in his work for the then Council for Racial Equality, defending mainly members of the large Asian community in Oldham and Rochdale and winning cases to prevent the deportation of individuals who had every right to remain in the UK. I could go on but suffice it to say he carried these principles into many other areas helping many people overcome injustices in the welfare system. I was always very proud of his ability to find loopholes in the system and exploit them for the good of people who needed representation and at the highest level.

Side note from Elaine: Jae and I found evidence on his computer that unbeknownst to us, Dad continued this work throughtout his years. He continued to help dozens if not hundreds of people even as recently as last year.

Now back to the lentil stew, which was very nice but I was already a vegetarian and over the ensuing months I introduced him to other veggie dishes in my tiny bedsit. As he had wanted to become vegetarian for some time, it was an easy transition to make, except I had to be mindful of his terrible allergic reaction to all things containing milk. He was never easy. That was his most charming trait.

Eventually, he sold his house and we gravitated to a council house on the notorious estate “Sholver'' where we shared the place with one of Lyndsay’s friends, Martin Haywood.

Later, we managed to move a few streets over to a better house and began trying for a baby. Our beautiful daughter Jae was born in December 1982. She was immediately the apple of her Dad’s eye, only rivalled a few years later by her sister Elaine, but that’s someone else’s story to tell, as by then we were no longer a couple.

Lyndsay raised our daughter when we split up – and did a great job, too. She is a testament to that. Overall though we remained friends despite the inevitable fall-out of a broken relationship. We were forgiving of each other and our friendship over the 45 years I knew him is one that I cherished.

Over 20 years ago, when I was already living in Todmorden, Lyndsay expressed a need to move out of Oldham. My next-door neighbour had a room to rent and I suggested he might want to check it out. He did and the outcome was amazing – my neighbour Liz and Lyndsay hit it off and were, as Lyndsay told me later, a perfect match in many ways but particularly in intellectual capacity and relaxed temperaments. So much so that he even put aside his lifelong fear of cats! No cats were not an option for Liz. They were very happy and over the years we shared many significant events: my wedding to Martin (who is my husband of the past 20 years), Jae’s 21st birthday party (which was a murder mystery where Lyndsay played the venerable professor I always knew he should’ve been), and many other celebrations.

Sunday dinners were a regular event particularly after Liz passed away. Martin and Lyndsay were christened Waldorf and Statler; for those who don’t know these were the two grumpy old men sitting in the theatre box on The Muppet Show. Martin and Lyndsay were hilarious without intending to be; grumbling and sparring whilst the rest of us couldn’t help laughing at them the whole time. It was very gratifying that the two significant men in my life became firm friends; Martin would like to add that Lyndsay was both affable and generous. Like most men, Martin is understating his respect for his neighbour and friend. After all, he’d known him for nearly as long as I had.

Lyndsay was liked by many people, young and old. He always had time for others. He was generous and giving – particularly of his political opinions, which only became more entrenched over the years. His firm beliefs in justice and fairness remained strong as did his wry sense of humour.

After what amounts to a lifetime, the loss of my friend, who knew me better than most, leaves me both saddened and able to say without hesitation my life would have been poorer without him.

As you’ve heard, Lyndsay was a hands-on father and raised Jae himself. He was initially working while Jae spent time with a childminder, but when he discovered the childminder thought fish qualified as a vegetable and was feeding it to his vegetarian daughter, he immediately gave up work and looked after her full time – you rarely got half measures from Lyndsay on anything! It’s worth saying again that he was a simply wonderful father. His commitment was total and unwavering, and his daughters appreciate him deeply. Jae is going to speak about him:

Jaelithe’s words, my sister

The loss of my father has left a gaping hole in my life that will never be filled. I have no words to convey the depth of my grief. Instead, I will allow W H Auden to say it for me. This poem was originally written as satire about the death of British Imperialism – a series of political events that Dad would no doubt have approved of – but it nevertheless describes the loss of a loved one beautifully and poignantly:

Let’s take a break from talking now, and take a little time to absorb all that’s been said so far, while we listen to the song chosen for this moment:

Fleetwood Mac, “Dreams”

Cats have been mentioned, and we should probably say more about them. Lyndsay wasn’t keen on them, but against his better judgement, he got a couple of cats because Jae wanted one and he’d promised her one, and he never broke his promises. Two would have been plenty, but when he met Lisa, she had a house full, and so Lyndsay and Jae ended up living with a houseful of them. He must have liked it, since he kept cats from then on, and Elaine has inherited his lovely black cat, Kit Kat now. 

Elaine’s side note: Dad and Liz had a cat flap and they’d let any cat move in or have a feast and Kit Kat chose to move into “The Grove.” Someone on the street found a collar that read “Kit Kat” and Dad rang the number to tell the owner he had his cat but they said their cat had been found but Dad had already been calling this black cat “Kit Kat” so the name stuck. They were companionable friends for years. Kit Kat used to bring my vegan father lots of “treats” he hunted from the hills from birds to voles. Dad didn’t appreciate the gifts but Kit Kat clearly thought he’d be an inept hunter on his wobbly legs.

Lyndsay and Lisa’s daughter, Elaine, was born prematurely, and when they brought her home from the hospital, the cats welcomed her, especially Bobby, a little cat with disabilities that Lyndsay particularly adored. He and Lisa created a warm family home where there was always an open door and enough lentil stew for anyone who turned up, and Lisa has sent a few words of her own for today which I’ll read on her behalf:

My mother, Elizabeth “Lisa” Frieman Blakely’s (formerly Hewitt) words

Lyndsay and I met in 1985 when I was 21.

At our first meeting, I was dating his friend Woody, who had four children: a son and identical triplet daughters. One day I was at his house when visitors arrived. They were Lyndsay, Jaelithe, and Julie Lomas (as she was then). Jaelithe wanted to play with the triplets and the rest of us sat and talked. It turned out that Julie and I had gone to school together many years earlier and we soon became best friends.

Some time later, Julie and I ended our respective relationships and decided to “swap.” She began dating Woody and I began seeing Lyndsay! As Julie would say, we shared everything back then!

The first time I went to Lyndsay’s house, I had offered to lay a new bedroom carpet he had bought. In exchange, Lyndsay cooked me a wonderful vegan meal. I offered to do the washing up. He said he would wash and I could dry. I was very surprised by his washing-up skills! He thoroughly washed everything and even rinsed them before they made it to the dish rack. That was a huge plus for my obsessive-compulsive nature as I was an immaculate housekeeper at the time. We talked the night away and I was smitten.

I considered myself a hippy back then and Lyndsay was an old soul with a gentle nature and wicked sense of humour.

Jaelithe was always well looked after and she was the apple of her daddy’s eye! I still remember him running up and down stairs as she yelled for him to pass the toilet paper (even though it was right next to her) or pass her a toy as she sat on her bedroom floor. I remember telling him she was spoiled and he told me something he repeated over and over, “you can’t spoil perfection.”

We had so much fun listening to music and going to see Victor Brox at the Black Horse, but within a short amount of time, I found I was pregnant! This was a huge shock as I had been told a few years earlier, after a couple of surgeries for pre-cancer, that I would be unable to have children.

Lyndsay attended every doctor’s appointment, even commenting on my diet on many occasions! All I wanted to eat was Coco Pops and jars of pickled anything. I remember the doctor telling him that as long as I didn’t get heartburn it was fine! 

In June 1987, Elaine was born at around 28 weeks gestation, weighing 2 lbs 5 oz, and as she was premature, we spent long hours at Oldham Royal Hospital’s Special Care Baby Unit. We moved into a rental house on Lee Street but broke up soon after.

I moved with Elaine to Hornby Street a few streets away and we became good friends. I went back to work and Lyndsay dropped Elaine off at school and picked her up for me and he cooked for us most nights. He was a wonderful and loving dad and I’m thankful that he was the father to our daughter.

I remember the four of us laughing and skipping down the road on multiple occasions. He was never ashamed to be himself and I really loved that about him. We managed to co-parent as great friends, which was beneficial to both Elaine and Jaelithe.

In 1997, when Elaine was 10, he permitted me to bring her to the US. Elaine moved back to Europe around 10 years ago, living in Germany and in recent years, in England and was able to be close to her father for which I was grateful.

I saw him for the last time at Elaine and Michael’s wedding. It was as though we had never been apart. We laughed, we talked, and we cried. I told him he was a great father and that I still did and would always love him. I am so thankful now that he knew that.

I will really miss him.

Lyndsay and Lisa parted company when Elaine was young, but it was, as usual for him, on good terms. He continued to develop his own open, loving version of a family, and Jae and Elaine spent a lot of time together with their dad – days out, time in each other’s houses, and time with Jean and her husband Martin and his daughter Abi too. The ‘family’ was a big loose arrangement, based on goodwill, and community, with the needs of the children at the heart of it.

Lyndsay’s generosity as a father, and his ability to put his children’s needs first, is strongly evident in his willingness to accept Lisa and Elaine’s move to the United States, a separation which can only have been painful for him, but which, he knew, would work for his youngest daughter. His abiding dedication to Elaine, regardless of the distance between them, was clear. He wrote to her every week, and they remained very close. Here’s what she has to say:

Elaine’s words

When it comes to writing, I’ve never been short of words. I have been unable to write since my father died. My grief has been insurmountable. 

I can’t begin to describe how much my father meant to me. All words will inevitably fall flat. Zetta, Jean, and my mother, Lisa, have already captured him beautifully, so what can I add?

Whilst I have always chased the concept of “more” my father understood what it was to have “enough.” He was rich in time and love. He knew the things that mattered. He showed his daughters' unwavering support and care. He had a strong sense of character and justice. He was funny, witty, intelligent, and kind. He was a wonderful father, and we were lucky. We thought he’d defy his ill health and keep plugging on. Unfortunately, we feel we lost him all too soon.

I’ll forever cherish the memories of pretending to fall asleep so he’d carry me upstairs to bed as a child, the way he’d stroke my forehead and land a kiss with his scratchy moustache. The way he sang lullabies to us. The way we’d skip down the road hand in hand whilst Jae pretended not to know us. Dancing in the living room to vinyl records. Creating art together – something he loved. Sitting companionably as we all read. Watching Audrey Hepburn films. Eating the famous lentil stew where I’d easily gobble down five bowls, and he’d remind me that even from being a baby, I had a voracious appetite – and my parents could never feed me fast enough.

Elaine’s side note: I’ve been reminded of all the times we went to the library together, played badminton, how he’d put blobs of tomato paste on our fingers, and Hula Hoops like the father in Amelie did with raspberries. I think I shared some of these memories in another post.

Despite his wheelchair in later life, we had adventures. He and my Grammy, my mother’s mother, were able to visit me at least twice (maybe more) when I lived in Germany where we ventured to Neuschwanstein Castle and took a carriage ride to the top, but we missed the carriages down the steep hill so I struggled on the descent, keeping hold of the wheelchair handles so he wouldn’t roll off a cliff – and once we even drove to Austria and Switzerland via the Alps. 

When I asked to move in with him mid-divorce, he didn’t hesitate to take me back at the age of twenty-nine, and he embraced the new person in my life, Michael, with open arms. He saw that Michael brought me joy, and I’m so thankful that Michael loved my father, too (and Kit Kat).

My heart will always hold the memory of my father, a missing piece. And whilst we all share memories of his life, we can ensure he never truly dies.

Lyndsay always maintained that he, Jae and Elaine were perfect. Wherever they lived and whatever the circumstances, he adored his girls, backed them up and stayed close to them, and he was delighted to become Granddad to Caroline, who was, of course, perfect too.

In 2004, Lyndsay, as we heard from Jean, made his way to Todmorden, and embarked on a very happy phase of his life, living with Liz. These were years of domestic contentment, of cooking good food and spending lazy Sunday mornings reading the paper. He made friends with his neighbours, who included Jean, Martin and Jae, and he loved their little community. It was a time of peace and plenty for Lyndsay – his needs were simple anyway, and he had all he needed and more.

Lyndsay lost Liz on New Year’s Day 2012 and missed her terribly. In fact, he stopped celebrating the new year entirely until, this year, his family insisted that they get together, and they had an amazing night, playing games, and just being with each other – a wonderful memory to look back on now.

Lyndsay lived with a rare hereditary disease (hereditary/familial spastic paraparesis) which has affected his health over the years. He was stoical despite living with chronic pain, but his health has declined, most noticeably over the last five years. As he was increasingly affected, his family and friends were with him every step of the way. They visited regularly and spent time with him, and his life was still filled with people, even after he lost Liz, including his neighbours, Gini, Jonathan, Amanda, Simon, Michaela, Jamie, and Keri. Grief and illness could not diminish him, Lyndsay remained very much himself, passionate in his opinions, and with his values and his innate spark intact.

He did tend to have annual death-defying trips to the hospital, but he always rallied.  So, when he fell ill with flu and pneumonia and was admitted to hospital recently, no one was too alarmed. After all, he’d recovered so often, and he seemed to be recovering this time, too, until he developed sepsis. Time and illness caught up with Lyndsay at last, and he could not recover. His family was with him constantly, but he waited for them to leave before letting go of his life, peacefully and gently, making his own choices to the very last.

Lyndsay has left in his wake a family of fine people with strong bonds between them. All his life was filled with people, a loose, loving collaboration of ex-lovers and ex-partners, children and new partners, neighbours, and friends, all integrated into an extended family of mutual care and respect that worked essentially because of the tone set by him – a spirit of openness, inclusivity and acceptance. His legacy is this – a concept of family, a set of values, a commitment to making a difference that has changed the world for the better, once and for all. These are Lyndsay’s ripples.

Close

 We’re nearing the end of this memorial service, but the celebration of Lyndsay’s life will go on, not only today but also in the months and years to come. You can start today – everyone here is welcome to join his family at the cricket club, after this service, to share your own memories of him, to spend time relishing Lyndsay just as he relished life. You can also make a donation to the RNLI as you leave, in his memory – it’s a family tradition to support this particular charity, and Lyndsay did. 

If anyone would like to stay behind to light a candle for him at the end, you’re welcome to do so. Candles have long been used to represent life, and to focus our thoughts, and also to strengthen our prayers. Lyndsay was not a religious man, but there are other ways to understand how someone makes a lasting impact on us and stays around. Aaron Freeman, a physicist, has written about it, and I’d like to paraphrase his thoughts. Love will keep Lyndsay with you, but so will science.

While a minister would talk about God and faith, physicists talk about the conservation of energy, and about the first law of thermodynamics; no energy is created in the universe, and none is destroyed. All Lyndsay’s energy, every vibration, every wave of every particle, remains in this world. And all the photons that ever bounced off his face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by his smile, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off, their ways forever changed by him. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not one bit of Lyndsay is gone; he’s still part of the universe, he’s just less orderly.  And Amen to that!

So I hope you go out of here with spirits raised, encouraged in the old, true sense of the word – made strong, and heartened. Lyndsay loved you, and you know what he’d want for you and all of it is good.

X Ray Spex, Identity

The Bangles, Walk Like an Egyptian

I’d have wanted a more poignant way to break the news since my last post here. My Father’s energy has now gone on to live wherever the energy in the universe goes when it’s no longer needed by a body, dispersed amongst the stars.

Reid Lyndsay-Maxwell (24 July 1953 – 11 February 2024)

Much-loved father, grandfather, father-in-law, beloved brother, brother-in-law, uncle, and wonderful friend

Loved by many and missed by all

Jae and I have been busy since our Father’s death. There’s a lot to organise when someone dies – not least of which are that person’s possessions, all they’ve left behind, against a backdrop of crippling emotional weight. It’s not like me not to write each week but I’ve been crushed and paralysed by the sadness I’ve been feeling. Simply existing has been a challenge, along with going back to work, helping sort and organise Dad’s house, and arranging the memorial with my sister.

Thoughts a couple of weeks ago…

When my father was still hanging onto the threads of life I wrote this, which is now mostly irrelevant.

My Father never knew that one of my greatest fears was of him dying without ever getting to know him better. What I meant by that was he knew me as I was stuck in time up to age 10 when I moved to Florida. He wrote to me every week. I wrote to him on occasion. I knew him as he was, too – also stuck in time – forever 44.

I don’t think he knew how much I missed him and longed for him for all those years we were apart. I cherished every single letter he sent and I still have them. 

As a parting gift, he bought me a gold locket and I never took it off – so much so that the picture of his long-time partner is preserved perfectly and the picture of him has a scratch down his face because of all the times I touched it – and the fact that photos don’t withstand the shower. 

My sister, Jae, also bought me a locket at that time, round in shape, silver, beautifully simple. The pictures have nail marks for the times I rotated them to see the pictures of us: sisters preserved in time in each half.

In some ways, life in the US was better for me growing up – educationally especially and it did enrich my life and give me experiences I’d not have had otherwise – but in other ways, my heart was forever divided by an ocean with so many loved ones left on an island over 5,000 miles away. 

My grandparents visited but Dad wasn’t able to visit and I was too young to fly alone. Jae even lived in New Orleans for a time when she was working on her biochem degree at Tulane University for one year of her degree at Manchester University. She paid for me to visit her one Thanksgiving break, and she visited when she was around fifteen by herself and my mother took us to Epcot.

When I could finally afford to visit England at the age of 19 when I was a university student, I came every couple of years or so. I remember my and Dad’s tearful re-meeting. I needn’t have worried about not knowing my father as his values and character stayed true – and no matter what he always loved his girls fiercely. I’m sad for the lost time but thankful for all the years we did have.

When I moved to Germany with my first husband, I visited England more often. Dad came with Grammy to visit me two or three times (such happy memories), and, finally, when my ex left me, I moved back home to be closer to Dad. 

“The things they carried”

Sifting through belongings, categorising them, makes me think of The Things They Carried somehow.

In Dad’s things, I found that he was as sentimental as me but I never knew. He’d written on the back of a movie ticket from 2006 that we’d gone to see together: the second instalment of Pirates of the Caribbean (never as good as the first). He’d kept so many artefacts of our childhoods – not that he ever showed us. He wasn’t that sort of father. He never said, “here, girls, let me show you these things I’ve kept.” He was private in that way. He’d even kept the cork with a ten-pence piece jammed in it from when I had Father’s Day with him that same year, the first in a long line we’d missed.

When I returned to England in 2016, I thought I was moving back to spend time with those with finite time: my Grandfather, my Grammy, and my Father. I didn’t know Dad’s time would be even shorter than I expected. 

Looking back at 2 am through photos, I realise my Father hasn’t looked well for many years. I’ve been back in England for almost eight years now. We’d all joke as a family about his “annual” trip to the hospital. 

I rarely visited the hospital when he was in. I hate hospitals. I always knew he’d come home. I had a stupid faith that he’d get better. I’d been kidding myself that for the last two years, his health had declined further and he hadn’t been taking care of himself despite my “nagging” about him not eating properly and not chasing his ailments with medical professionals, but I think the fight had gone from him. 

Thankfully, I didn’t avoid the hospital this time.

The push and pull: he’s getting better; now he isn’t

Even a week ago on Saturday (3rd February), he was getting better and recovering and then Saturday night suddenly he wasn’t but they still had hope he was getting better. And that hope was snatched away again on Wednesday (7th February). This back and forth has been awful and what’s worse with a stroke and seizure on top of his infections and high oxygen requirement, he can’t even talk to us; he’s locked away in himself with only the ability to nod or say, “no” or wave with left-hand gestures (he can’t use his right side).

My Father (known as Lyndsay to some and as Reid to his siblings), is now in palliative care. I will never get the wish of hearing his voice again. 

Tomorrow, he may be able to be transferred to hospice care where I’m told the room will overlook a garden, be nicer, and less clinical than the hospital as he wouldn’t be likely either to make the journey home (as he would have wished) or receive the end-of-life care he requires at home.

We found out the day of or the day after I posted this post.

The weight of sadness is crushing.

I miss him already and he’s still hanging on by a tenuous thread.

Side note: he never did make it to the hospice. He died in hospital. He’d been drugged up and made comfortable for days. We were told he’d live two to three days. He lived five. Jae and I tearfully told him he could let go when he wanted. We told him our goodbyes and of all the ways we loved him. I hope he could hear us. By that point, he was unable to respond. We’d all been to see him that day but he waited until we were gone to let go. I’ll never forget the phone call from my sister.

Reflections on when I wasn’t a good partner in grief

I know so many people have faced grief as have I but maybe there’s something different about losing (or imminently losing) a parent. 

I can’t help but think that 2024 is a karmic kick in the teeth. 

When my first husband was my age now, he lost his family friend to a heart attack very suddenly. Then, his father slowly died of cancer. Those deaths broke him – and maybe our marriage too (of course, I’ll write about this eventually). 

But I was 27 or 28, still young, having only ever been impacted by the death of my Great Grandmother Eva who had died at the very old age of 96 (I think). It was sad to lose her and I’d loved her and had fond memories, but that’s the cycle of life. 

I didn’t know what to do or how to support him in his grief as he withdrew from me further. That was my fault for certain but maybe it shows how despite loving each other, we weren’t a good match. We couldn’t communicate or meet each other’s needs. As a selfish twenty-something – someone needy, unsure, and not yet able to self-soothe or realise “not everything is about you” – I felt his withdrawal as something he was doing to me, not that he was in his own private world, out of his mind with grief.

Michael’s goodbye: all the people we have loved and lost before

Michael came after work to the hospital to see my Dad on Thursday (8th February). It was too much for him. As he cried and held me last night, both of us sobbing into the pillow, he said he was sorry that he couldn’t handle seeing Dad like that, how he wanted to tell him he loved him, but he couldn’t. I said that Dad knew and that I didn’t have any expectations of his behaviour. We all grieve and react in our own way.

Michael and I have been met by grief and death almost from our very beginnings. First, we lost his grandmother (Joyce), then his father (George, a crushing blow for us all), then my grandfather (Mike). Followed by one of his father’s best friends, Alan. 

I was so sad that George and my Grandfather Mike would not see us get married. 

Then, just months ago we lost Grandad Ted, Michael’s grandfather, which was devastating to my beautiful mother-in-law (also called Elaine), now having lost both of her parents.

Then, we suddenly lost our beloved family friend, Derek. That grief hit me hard and I remember going to Dad’s house and him holding me. He stroked my hair and said he knew how much I felt for the family and he was so sorry. 

I had no idea that the next month I’d face losing him – all the things I would’ve wanted to say to him unsaid because I thought he’d come home.

Thankful for my support network

During this time, I’ve been grateful to have a loving, supportive husband; a sister by my side; my wonderful brother-in-law, Rob; my cousin Pam who has been a rock for us; Pam’s husband, Dave, who lost his wonderful father just over a year ago; Grammy; my mother; my baby sister Hannah; Dad’s friends sending well wishes; my friends; and extended family; and especially my paternal aunts and uncles. It’s been horrible for us all. 

And this is all before we have lost him. 

The wait is torture. The balance of life and death. Of knowing he will go, feeling like he’s half gone without being able to communicate to us, but wanting him for as long as possible and the glimmer of hope that maybe they got it wrong and he will get better after all.

On Saturday afternoon (3rd February), he looked dreadful but the doctor said he was getting better and it flipped like a switch that evening. I hadn’t poured my heart out to him when he could talk. 

That day, Michael had wanted to buy him some magazines to cheer him up, which Dad pretended to read although his eyes were giving him trouble. I don’t even know what we talked about. I thought he’d come home. I didn’t hold his hand to tell him all the ways he was a wonderful father. I hugged and kissed him goodbye as usual, but I had this sense of hope that he’d be home soon and I’d have all the time to appreciate him more, to show him how much I adored him. To prioritise seeing him more than our once-per-week visit and our little summer jaunts. But I won’t have more time and that guilt and sadness feels like a granite stone upon my heart.

New reflections

I wrote this today (Wednesday, 28 February) but these are thoughts from my phone notes from ten days ago. All notes have stopped since he died. I hadn’t been able to write a word until today when I had to write a tribute to read at his memorial service. I barely wrote 500 words, which demonstrates brevity for me.

At that time, over twenty days ago, I felt guilty that when I lived under two miles away, under a seven-minute drive, why didn’t I visit him more? Why did Michael and I only visit him once per week? Why was I busy chasing my dreams of writing when I should have chased the dream of being with my father more often? I didn’t know I’d run out of time.

But my friend, Chester, pointed out that it’s useless to feel guilt. Chester noted that my Dad loved me and what parent doesn’t feel joy at their child having their own life? 

He said: “If you saw him six times a week, would that change how you feel now? No. You’re allowed to live your life. What child who doesn’t live with their parents sees them every day? At least he led a life that enabled him to be loved by you and others. Unfortunately, there’s no beautiful way to end anything and you’re going to miss him and nothing will ever exactly fill this feeling you have now. You love your dad each hour of the day, whether he’s around you or not and I’m sure he feels the same.”

My Uncle Paul said something along the same lines at the memorial service, too. Not everyone even sees their parents once per week, he said.

Snippets of my father

My Dad was a funny mix. He came from a well-to-do family. He had formal manners, growing up in a house that would “dress for dinner” and he was always well dressed even to sit in his living room with his beloved cat, Kit Kat. When we went out for the day, he often wore a suit. But his political values had long been more of the “hippy” variety, social justice, for the people type of thing. 

In a way, I come from a long line of black sheep: my grandfather who was born into wealth who did his own thing; my Grammy who defied expectations of her small-town Illinois life and married an Englishman, living not in Oakdale, but in England for most of her life; my mother who was rebellious; my father too, who rebelled against his formal upbringing and grew his hair and beard long in a time when those actions were frowned upon. He once told Michael and I a story about how he flew to Greece and the authorities turned him away because they didn’t let “hippies” in.

I’d drive my father absolutely crazy with the “Southern” (South Georgia, USA) ways I’d picked up like drinking from a bottle or a can instead of a glass. 

Michael and I spent the summer with Dad’s much-loved sister, Sheena, who was a bit of a rebel herself in her youth. We had a delightful time with her and her husband, Nick, with gourmet food and wine pairings, a glimpse perhaps into how my father grew up.

His sisters loved him. They were all raised by their maternal grandmother after their mother died when Dad was only three. He was very private about his childhood and rarely talked about it besides the odd quip about his sisters and Jeanie being the baby and the favourite.

I think my father longed for that sense of family since his father didn’t raise them and I believe had another family later – and his children gave him grounding. Dad and Jean, my sister’s mother, planned to have my sister and he was such a proud and doting father.

There were stories he’d tell over and over like about his dalmatian and another dog, Dusty, who cornered the gas man who had to sit and wait for Dad to return from work. There were stories about his time as a legal assistant, as a Welfare Rights Officer, as a Georgian furniture restorer, and his favourite role: father, raising my sister, Jaelithe. 

There are so many stories that I’ve already forgotten the details, only recalling the imprint of the shape. I’ll never hear these stories again. There is never more time.

I searched frantically on my WhatsApp for voice recordings to hear his voice again and cried when I heard it. Jae sent me the video, badly recorded, of his wedding speech to me, and I cried thinking I’d never hear his voice again, never feel his arms around me, never “pop by” his house to visit. Michael and I in the summers would always go on a countryside walk that would end up with a drink at Dad’s house. We can’t do that again either.

My father had the manners of a gentleman. He lived life in the present. Whilst I’ve always chased “more,” he knew the value of “enough.” He was happy to live simply to have time to do what he wanted. He realised the most precious resources are time and love.

A morning in childhood, piling on like kittens

When Jae and I were young, we piled on top of him in the morning after knocking on the door. We’d snuggle with our father and chat away.

A few years ago after a bout in the hospital, I came home with him and he was frail and skeletal. I cuddled him and laid my head on his chest. Sometimes when I’d touch his hand it was painful so maybe this embrace that was more for me than for him. As a child, I was always cuddly and hung on him like a limpet.

If only Jae and I could be transported back to a morning in childhood – like in the film About Time (a favourite of mine and Michael’s) – where we could bask in the simplicity of our love. And visit another moment when he could walk and we’d skip down the street (Jae being so embarrassed she wanted to melt) and Dad just doing it anyway to bring laughter to my face.

The last hug

When he was a little more conscious at the end, I hugged my father lightly so as not to cause him pain. I felt a hand on my arm. I thought it was my sister but it was my Dad. That was the last hug I ever received from him.

“I’m proud to be your daughter”

Pam was with us on many days in the hospital and I whispered to Dad what a wonderful father he was and how I was proud to be his daughter. Pam said she thought he could hear and he had a tear come from his eye. She left us so I could say my farewell to this kind, gentle, and loving man, who means more than I can ever convey.

Dismantling a life

Since our father died, with all the duties we have to do, and my returning to work (my team has been amazing), we have been utterly numb. The heartbreak of dismantling a life weighs on us. It’s sad to pick through the secrets and long-forgotten memories of someone else.

Amongst Dad’s things, we found a press pass for a magazine, letters from when he was a Welfare Rights Office, an Army discharge book and notes where he was medically discharged from the Intelligence Corp, old photos, funny letters, an abandoned novel, typed witty humorous letters, an unsigned will on a disk, a yellowed cover page for a will without the rest of it. We hope we are carrying out his wishes as he’d have liked.

If you’ve ever had to clear someone’s home, it’s exhausting. You get decision fatigue. Even though Dad’s terraced cottage wasn’t filled to the brim, he still has hundreds of items. What does one do with them all? How do you decide what to keep, what to give away, what was special, what was not? I can’t even describe the sadness of taking apart the house we have visited for years.

I’ll forever have unasked questions, forever buried bits, the diaries he said he’d burned. So much lost. But the pervading memory is of love. He was a character, intelligent, humorous, and loving. He was our Dad. I’ll miss him forever but isn’t that the sign of a good life? I loved him so much that I am heartbroken to lose him too soon. I just hope he knew how much I loved him.

Taking on Kit Kat

Everyone who knew and loved Dad knew that he’d want his beloved cat taken care of and after much persuading, I convinced Michael to take him on. 

I’m now convinced I can ever have a child with Michael because the level of coddling and research that has gone into taking on a cat is unreal, starting with researching (on YouTube) the best type of litter to use (he went with a corn variety and a tofu variety for A/B testing), the types of food that are best, the letter boxes, scoops, bowls, cat trees, and the list goes on, the worry over if he is settling, if he’s happy. I’m taking time to adjust to the fact that my house no longer feels fully “clean” and there’s cat hair everywhere but I’ve always been a cat lover and it’s been a comfort to take on Kit Kat, knowing he’s a small piece of my father that’s left. I know he misses Dad terribly. They were perfect companions.

To my paid subscribers

I haven’t been writing even though I had already written posts 42 to 53 in January, I won’t resume posting until next week after my Dad’s memorial service. I was in the middle of writing post 54 about Captain Thor before I couldn’t write more. 

If you’d like a refund of your monthly subscription fees, please get in touch as I know I’ve not been delivering on posting, which I’m sure you understand. Thank you for your support – thanks to any and all readers for your support. 

The story continues…

I still plan to finish my Substack story. Unfortunately, the world doesn’t stop when you lose people. I wish there was a pause button where I could live in my grief, curled up in bed with my novels and audiobooks and TV series like Gilmore Girls and Dawson’s Creek but life doesn’t work that way. I hope I’ll get my energy and productivity back. I hope I won’t forever be wiped out by the sadness brought by losing Derek and my Dad this year. I wish I lived back in an alternate reality when all those people I’ve lost were still alive but that sounds so trite.

Final words

I hope your 2024s have been a bit better, that life is treating you kindly. I feel like I lived in such a happy little bubble and that allowed me to pursue the things I loved: my day job plus freelance plus my own creative writing. And that bubble is leaking. I hope I’ll get a patch-up in time.

Sending love and best wishes to all my readers. Thank you.

Side note: I’m going to post twice in succession. This post and then a transcript of Dad’s memorial service.

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I rang 111 and stressed to the operator that I knew what my Father usually looked like and this was not it. He was very ill. They sent an ambulance and the ambulance staff were brilliant. They assessed Father but said that his oxygen saturation was so low, they’d need to take him to hospital. He was not impressed, insisting he’d be okay.

The doctor told us he had a heavy requirement for high-flow oxygen and was severely dehydrated along with having Flu A and pneumonia – and his usual COPD/emphysema. The doctor and nurses wouldn’t commit to his survival. They didn’t know if he’d recover. 

As soon as we told his sisters the news, they all rushed to be by his side. Aunty Sheena and Uncle Nick came up from Maldon straight away (almost a five-hour drive) – as did Aunty Jane, Aunty Jeanie, and Uncle Paul, who lived closer. Everyone gathered by Dad’s side, wondering if he’d get better, hoping not to lose him when he’d only been alive seventy years. 

But by last week – after having been moved three times in the Huddersfield hospital and twice in the Halifax one – he seemed to be improving. Michael and I saw him Saturday and he was talking but still had barely eaten in his whole stay (being vegetarian and deathly allergic to milk and lactose makes meals difficult). And he’s long lost his appetite over the years, often a worry for us all.

Then, Jae got a dreaded phone call on Saturday night to come quickly to say goodbye. She rang me, incoherent, howling in pain. I too broke down on Michael as I stumbled to get dressed. I was the only one of us who hadn’t had a drink that Saturday night. The drive to the hospital was interminable. The Schrödinger's Cat of life. Would we be able to say goodbye to Father? Would he already be dead when we arrived? 

When we got there, I could see his yellow sock poking out, a hospital-issued sock with those grippy soles I’d loved as a child, a sock that wasn’t his. What did it mean if he was lying in bed still? Was it even him?

We weren’t taken to see him. We were ushered into a dark corridor and told to wait for an update from the doctor. Again, our emotions hung in the balance. Was he dead? Dying? What was happening? For over forty-five minutes, hospital staff walked through that corridor, never making eye contact or acknowledging us, making us feel like ghosts in the night. Eventually, I couldn’t stand it and went to the nurses’ station to ask the sister for an update. We just needed to know. 

She told us Father had had seizures but was still alive. Shortly after the doctor, “Tom” as he called himself (I’d rather he said Dr So and So), explained what had happened and what they were doing to stabilise him. They stabilised him again but they’d wanted to explain to us how he’d look “much different.” We just wanted to hold his hand and kiss him.

He was sedated yet moaning, noises we couldn’t make out. Oxygen mask affixed to his face again, something he doesn’t tolerate well. We stayed until past 3 am until I had to pry my sister away. We needed sleep and we couldn’t do anything more. 

What was worse for me was seeing his face, his eyes moving and trying to focus on something or nothing at all, locked in his head, not knowing that it was us. Seeing his face but knowing he was not there.

Michael and I went on Sunday, seeing Aunty Jane in the lobby. Father was there again, conscious, blinking, but not returned to his body, not able to talk, not able to move his left side – a stroke added to the five seizures. 

When Pam, Jae, and I went yesterday on Monday, he could say, “no” and “stop” but I don’t think he knew we were there fully. He was frustrated at having the mask on, at being trapped in himself, at being unable to talk to us, a message he wanted to convey, “I can’t pick it up,” he said to Pam as she was by his bedside and Jae and I had an update from the doctor.

Now, it’s a waiting game again. Will he recover? Will his body respond? Will the feeding tube on the plan help him gain some nourishment and strength from a body that must have been long malnourished?

I’m not ready to lose my Father yet. Jae isn’t either. And his sisters’ love and support show just how much he means to us all.

I hope to the universe that things improve. So much loss and worry in my life is making me feel wrung out like a sponge, with little left to give. 

I am waiting to see what happens, to see if he returns to his body, to say goodbye or to celebrate his healing. I long to hear his voice, the comforting voice, calm, reassuring, loving.

I think one of my Father’s great sadnesses is the time I moved to America. During nights when we’d have a drink together and he’d had a touch too much, he would say how he hadn’t wanted my mother to take me but she was a good mother and he couldn’t stop her. He consoled himself that, educationally, at least the US had turned out to be a better fit for me.

We didn’t see each other for 9 long years. He wrote to me every week when I was gone. I still have the letters. When searching for his things to take to the hospital when he went in the ambulance, I found the letters that I wrote back (certainly not as many) tucked away in a drawer in his bedroom, in a plastic bag that had gone brittle with age.

When my first husband left me, I moved to England for a fresh start and to be closer to Dad, my sister, and my niece Caroline – as well as Grammy, Grandad, Grandma Gill, cousins, cousins’ children, etc. But I moved in with Dad and he took me in with no questions asked, no hesitation. 

Dad only lives 2.1 miles away from me, a 6-minute drive, and we only go once a week. Life gets busy. We sometimes have game nights (sometimes Cards Against Humanity is interesting when played with parents). We always enjoy going over. We love our chats with Dad – if I can get a word in edgeways with Michael and Dad chatting away as they share many interests.

If I get the chance to tell Father, I’d tell him he was and is a wonderful Dad. He’s not the stereotypical father who is under the car, tinkering and fixing, watching sports (but I think he does support City), putting up shelves, reclining and watching television. He was always more the intellectual sort. He’d sit in his chair reading. He was more there for cuddles and chats, art and sport. In his younger years, he was a carpenter, doing antique furniture restoration, often of the Georgian era. 

When I was young, he was game to hold my hand and skip down the street, often embarrassing my sister who is five years older and was too cool for skipping. We’d go to the library every weekend together. Books were always a vital part of our lives. We’d play badminton together. We’d do art projects like painting or papier mache (we once made money box pigs using a balloon and egg carton pieces). 

I have nothing but fond amazing memories of my father in childhood. I’d pretend to fall asleep so he’d carry me up to bed on some nights. Other nights, he’d sing to me (often "Kum ba yah") or read me stories. We’d watch Audrey Hepburn films together on his black-and-white television. TV was never a big feature in our houses (Dad’s or Mum’s). 

He’d make a massive pot of lentil and dumpling stew because he knew my appetite was always voracious and could run to five bowls. If Jae had eaten all the salt and vinegar crisps, he’d put vinegar on the ready-salted ones for me, even though they’d go a little soggy. I was also prone to theatrics and he’d watch the one-girl “plays” I’d put on for him and Jan (his long-time partner at the time) as well as my “ballet” shows. 

I don’t remember a raised voice or a telling-off ever. He always had a calm and relaxed temperament. He always radiated love.

I was an “accident” child. My parents barely dated yet they loved me and each other. They were always friends. I never wished they were together. They were too different in temperament. I didn’t grow up in a traditional two-parent household but I didn’t grow up without love. I had a wider support network that mattered. I had all of these people around me who meant so much to me – from my parents to my uncles to my grandparents to the Leylands. Maybe that lifestyle is a little too bohemian for some but it worked out okay for us. I had what I needed materially and I especially had love.

When Father moved to Todmorden next door to Jae’s mother (Jae and I have different mothers) and her husband, they’d hear Dad and Liz laughing through the walls. When Liz died of lung cancer over a decade ago, Dad struggled without her. He didn’t take as good care of himself as he ought to since it was difficult with his rare genetic condition too (familial/hereditary spastic paraplegia) which left him in chronic pain and often confined him to a wheelchair. Yet he maintained his independence and good spirits as much as possible.

He had lived life to the full in his youth and he was known for his welcoming spirit and generosity. He threw many parties in the 80s and 90s and people knew they were always welcome and they’d always be fed. Pop in some more lentils and potatoes and things can stretch! 

People often celebrate others with traditional success markers but Father devoted his life to raising Jaelithe; his girls were always top priority. Later, his disability defined his life but he always retained his intelligence, laughter, and interesting conversation. He was always just there for us. He never lectured or judged our lives. We were free to do as we wanted and we were always loved. He is a man with a good heart, kind, funny, friendly, fun-loving, well-liked, and generous. Father never had grand plans. He was happy with a simple life, a life of enough, a life of reading, his daughters, love, and laughter. What more can you ask for really?

If I get the chance, I will tell Father that he was wonderful, what I needed. He was enough. The way he loves us unconditionally. He’d often joke and say, “My daughters are perfect” in the way only a father can see only the rosy version of us, true or not.

I wrote about my travel journey a little below if you want to have a read.

But flying back right before the week between Christmas and the Christmas/Boxing Day break – during the absolute busiest publishing period at my day job – plus the Christmas madness, plus working the interim days between Christmas and the New Year (the copy editing department never gets to sleep because even if we aren’t publishing reports and news in Europe, Asia still has publishing deadlines), I got sidetracked. I didn’t have time to write. That may not strictly be true: I didn’t have the energy to write is more like it, with jet lag, dizziness, sleeping late, and then being drained after work. 

Emma Gannon writes about it here about “What if we do have time” which is what I have found with this Substack venture all along. I am always so busy but I can spare an hour here or there in my day or week or weekend to write if I want to! (But I fully appreciate that’s because I have no children and my husband does more – way more – than his share of the domestic load, but that’s a post for another day. I don’t know how parents juggle it all.) 

Then the new year rang in and blam, I was hit with the most devastating news ever: the passing of my beloved family friend, Derek. I wrote that piece during a deep period of mourning and sadness. I didn’t have my usual levels of motivation or energy.

From spending every week writing thousands of words, to having several weeks of zero words (or just my freelance words) was a new experience. But I started something, I’m 38 posts in and I plan to continue until the end: until I get to the story of meeting Michael and all I’ve learned in the culmination of that experience. Then, I still have places to go after that. I have reflections on being child-free, on friendships, travel stories, and so forth so it’ll be a long-term project.

I was thinking about this the other day about how in curating the stories about these men I encountered, I’m often leaving out a rich cast of characters. For example, HSS had a couple of really close friends whom I adored. One of them got a type of cancer really young and he was a virgin despite being really handsome and lovely. He did survive it and I hope he’s well and happy but I lost touch with him after the breakup. He had another friend he crashed with from time to time too and he’s happily married with children. I have other male and female friendships that I haven’t had time to explore too because, let’s face it, my posts are usually far too long anyway. Curation and writing are funny things. Novels capture slices of life but real life doesn’t have a cast of ten neatly boxed characters. I’ve known hundreds of people in my life, coming and going: significant people with lasting impact, acquaintances, people who had an impact on me (but maybe I had less impact on them), and people in between. There are many unique, funny, lovely, quirky people that I’ve met that I’ll unfortunately write little about but they’re there lurking on the edges of my stories: maybe after I’ve written the journey to get to Michael, I’ll be able to write a little about some of these other significant friendships as well.

Back to my time in Florida in November/December, I won’t go into long-winded stories (as I’m wont to do) but it was lovely seeing friends, friends who knew me during these fated undergrad and grad school days, days when I was a lot less “together.” They’d last seen me in person years ago when I was in the trough of my life: my divorce, where I was lost, shocked, and directionless.

It was lovely to catch up with Brittany and Kelly (her little sister) in Columbus for the weekend and see the beautiful home they’ve created together with Kelly’s dogs and Brittany’s cats (plus my Jack-Jack). I’ll be eternally grateful to Brittany for caring so well for him. We reminisced about old times, gossiped about people we knew and where they are now (not in a bad way), and ate at some amazing places. We went on the Riverwalk and went to a fun (read: sorta weird but amusing) museum exhibition of “awkward family photos.” Boy, did that not disappoint. I look forward to seeing Brittany again as during that weekend I was a little flat with jet lag and tired after adapting to my new schedule. You can’t have read any of my Substack without mention of Brittany. She’s been there for many years in my life.

I ran into my old stepsister, Carla, twice and her son, Liam. She’s Hannah’s half-sister on her father’s side and I’m Hannah’s half-sister on her mother's side. I’ve known Carla since she was about eight years old (and I was ten or eleven) and let’s just say she’s in her 30s now. She was as sweet as ever. She always did have a kind heart and I wish her nothing but good things for her future as she rebuilds her life (very sadly) as a young widow.

Kristy came to see me too (of Kristy and Cole, my grad school “parents”). She now has her PhD (yay!) and Cole is finishing up his. Kristy has one of those personalities that you can’t help but love. She is loud, bubbly, warm, and fun. My mama treated us all to dinner and we “about laughed the restaurant down” (to be read in your best Southern belle accent).

Then, finally, Chester came to visit for a few hours; he’s my long-suffering guy bestie. We went for sushi with Hannah because Hannah and I love sushi so much. He almost didn’t let me buy him dinner after all the dozens (hundreds?) of meals he bought for me as a broke grad student (thanks) because he was a real adult with a real job by then. He’s another one (like Dr Luke) that was of indeterminate age back then. But turns out he’s a year younger than Michael. And like my Michael doesn’t seem to age (do they have a painting in the attic or are they vampires?).

I spent my lunch breaks sitting on the front porch, looking out to the lake, or walking Teddy – Hannah’s Yorkshire terrier yappy lovely thing – around the lake but he was only a good companion if you didn’t run into other people (he’s a protective little arsehole) or other animals (he wants to chase the ducks and herons and whatever else – I’m thankful we didn’t spot a gator). If we saw another person, he spent his time walking behind me to bark his head off at the “threat” thus rendering our walk useless as I had to keep dragging him along (or carrying him home). And the lake is nearly a mile around.

Some lunches Hannah or Mum would bring me lunch or take me to lunch and that was lovely. We had dinners as a family. Mum and I watched the PBS version of Little Women, which was sweet and well done and the odd bit of trash TV. I spent time writing too – freelance and Substack – and overall, I had a wonderful time.

I’d love to go again and work from Florida if I could take Michael with me so we’d have to make it so we could go and he could take a week or two unpaid as I don’t want either of us to use up our annual leave balance on that for now. I plan for us to go to Florida for a longer visit on an actual holiday next year (2025), though – fingers crossed. We may do the whole tourist Disney thing and I’d love to take Michael to do things that I loved in grad school like tubing and going to the beach.

Some posts I earmarked last month to share and my snippet of thoughts on them (a sort of new roundup thing other Substackers sometimes do): 

• Alyssa Derogatis’ 21 things I would tell my 21-year-old self from her Substack – I love the title and I completely relate. I could’ve done with this when I was 21, especially number 3 about chasing emotionally unavailable men as well as points 5 and 8 – ask yourself “do I like them” not “do they like me” and hooking up with someone will not make them like you, respectively. But then again, I think I chose who I hooked up with and enjoyed it! Still, it’s a good, short post.

• From ’s Jessica DeFino: 'Now that I’m a mother, I’m mourning my old, pretty self’ and just remove the word “mother.” I’m annoyed I didn’t realise how “attractive” I was back then and how I took it for granted and wasted so much life worrying about how I looked and being underconfident and insecure and wishing I was rail thin like a supermodel – and rationalising that I was ugly and disgusting if I wasn’t.

• Along those lines, ’s Anita Bhagwandas’s piece on “I’ve gone from ‘fat’ to ‘fluffy’” and how damaging “fat phobic” society is on women. I hard relate to many of Anita’s columns and even though, rationally, I know the media has pushed these ideals on me (on society), I still struggle. Body size and “beauty” are an identity and I realise now that I exist in a bigger body that I’m not happy with how much that has mattered to me always (but that’s my next therapy tackle).

• ’s “Liberal women should not marry Republican men” – it’s depressing how much I relate to this topic having had a Republican first husband (but I’m sure I’ll discuss something like this when I get to the posts about him – which may be the most difficult ones to write). Thankfully, Michael and I are politically aligned.

• ’s piece on “How NOT to have children” deeply resonated with me. As someone who adores children, has no idea if I can have them, has a husband who doesn’t want them, and is sort of contemplating if I ever want one, especially given my already “geriatric maternal age,” it’s lovely to see women talk about the beauty of not having children. There are so many women who talk about how amazing it is to have children but not enough about not having them. I don’t think for a minute my life will be empty without children because I love my life as it is. How can I even know either way since I only know this way? Plus, I am very lucky to have a niece, two nephews, and my cousins’ children – and I’ve seen them all grow up. They’re all lovely and gorgeous and funny and cute but I can also give them back. In my pro-con list of “should I become a mother,” the cons always outweigh but people often say I’m overthinking. Also, my husband is already forty-five and would it even be fair to him? I married him knowing his position and he married me knowing my “maybe” position (but he said he wouldn’t deny me the chance but then does that alter his future in an unfair way?). All I know from observing mothers is that being a mother is very hard work and am I even prepared for that at my age? We have no idea if we can even have children, if we are fertile, and part of me thinks life will give us an answer either way. Watch this space before I hit forty maybe (which is closer than I’d like to admit).

• Anything writes on her Substack, It’ll be Fun, They Said, always makes me laugh like her post about a UTI and Finland but her Hot Husband post had me in stitches.

• ’s post (from The Sober Millennial) about being a Grinch at Christmas and all the obligations that are stressful resonated with me too. A few years ago, I decided to cut back on my ever-mounting Christmas gift to focus on my niece and nephews – and grandmother and an occasional other person or two. Stress eliminated. It’s not that I don’t like giving gifts but I also have too many things and have been trying to streamline and downsize my life for years. I don’t give many gifts and don’t receive many in return which eliminates an extra 10+ items a year that I have to put away. 

• I also earmarked a post from at Midlife Mess with Annie Scott, but it seems all past posts are archived as paid, but she wrote a brilliant piece about asserting Christmas boundaries.

• Plus, I always love ’s writing. Every piece resonates with me. And the financial updates from – really, check her out!

I meant to say some variation of the above after Boxing Day but life got in the way, but this weekend I hope to get ahead of myself and write half a dozen posts or so and get ahead on freelance too so that life won’t catch up with me so spectacularly. 

I mean I also have to book an eye appointment, a teeth cleaning, call my car insurance to ask why it’s gone up (surely, I’m middle-aged now and it should be going down – oh the joys of adulting and that should have been the only benefit of ageing). Michael’s insurance has always been lower than mine by several hundred pounds and it keeps going down, which I’m more than a lot miffed off about. Who else hates all the constant “life admin”? I mean I do it because there’s not an option not to but I would say if I had lots and lots of money, I’d pay a PA but then what’s the point of not knowing how to do things or getting out of the habit? Good job I’m not “blessed” with this dilemma.

Next up, the hot Scandi Lit professor I briefly had a fling with before he left in the middle of the night.

Here are my last two present-day snippets.

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“Family friend” doesn’t encompass how I felt about Derek; his wife, Jenny; his daughter, Sarah; his grandsons, Thomas and Henry; the friends of theirs I encountered (Barry, Judith, Sally-Ann, and others); and their wider family. The whole family is made up of wonderful people who I have been lucky to know for decades. I’ve decided to call them “chosen family.” I may not have had such a big impact in their lives, but to mine, they have been instrumental, woven into the very fabric of who I am.

That’s the happy accident of life sometimes, too. There’s the good and the bad. The tragedy and the comedy.

How I met the Leyland family

Once upon a time when my Uncle Tim was in uni and around eighteen years of age, he dated Jenny and Derek’s beautiful daughter, Sarah. Sarah and Tim grew up, of course, and went on to meet other partners (as you do) but fate changed my life.

They may have forgotten each other entirely were it not for the fact that Tim introduced Sarah to his niece, me! They used to take me out to do whatever it is they did on dates involving me. I’m sure my parents were glad of the break. One day when I was about three or four, Sarah and Tim took me to meet Sarah’s parents, Jenny and Derek. As Jenny tells it, I walked up the myriad of steep steps up to their side door and, shattered, held my arms up to Jenny (who is only a very small lady) who gathered me in her arms and I promptly fell asleep on her.

When Tim and Sarah split up, Jenny rang my mother to ask if she could look after me once per week, so every Thursday was my day with Jenny and Derek. And also for about a week every summer and sometimes when I was unwell. To me, their house and garden was like being dropped in the Secret Garden (without the nasty cast of stern maids). It had a magical, mythical, happy quality to it. Their home was sprawling and full of treasures from their travels.

Jenny was a school teacher (with the patience and kindness of Miss Honey but only a lot cleverer) and Derek, as a physicist, was a technical director at some sort of firm (but I don’t recall the full details) and he travelled often on business to the US and beyond. Barry was the headmaster of the school where Jenny worked (and is father to a famous English soap actress). On Thursdays, Barry would pick me up from Clarksfield Junior School and take me to Saddleworth (the posh bit of Oldham) to Jenny and Derek’s house.

The magical times at the Leyland house

Jenny bought toys for me but mostly I was allowed to play with anything, which included Jenny’s Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls from Sarah’s childhood, her own (slightly falling apart) doll Roger from Jenny’s own childhood, her expensive wooden chess set, a cast of Russian dolls, Portuguese cockerels, and other beautiful wooden carved figurines. These figurines got into all sorts of adventures. 

I’d also play pretend shops where Jenny would save the small packets of cereal boxes and tape them back up and various other items that I could “sell” back to her in my shop. Sometimes I’d run a library or whatever I was imagining that day (the house was also filled with books). I also treated Jenny and Derek to my “ballerina” shows which often ended up with me knocking over the lamps or bumping into other pieces of furniture.

I had a beautiful, big bedroom to myself that had once belonged to Sarah but when I was very little I’d sleep in their bedroom on the sofa bed where Jenny would read stories to me and we’d recite nursery rhymes before bed. Later, the room was converted for the grandsons with their endless Lord of the Rings figures.

I have a love of golden retrievers because Jenny and Derek always had one in those early years! As did Sarah. Riley, Harvey, Casey were the names of the dogs I could recall (but there may have been more).

Aunty Jenny, Uncle Derek, and Uncle Barry were a cast of characters that were from that point on, vital to my childhood. I had an amazing, happy childhood thanks to these three, my grandparents, my parents, and my own (biological) uncles. Even though I had a loving family of my own, my parents had long split up and time at the Leyland house gave me the stable home I lacked, a glimpse into a world where there were two “parents” in the home and what that might look like.

I first called them “Aunty” and “Uncle” when I was up on stage at a pantomime. Barry’s daughter was in the cast. It might have been Cinderella or Aladdin or another panto (I also recall getting a tour of the backstage with all the array of costumes and the “behind the scene” of how the magic carpet flew – and sitting in Cinderella’s carriage which felt magical). I was “selected” to go on stage and asked who I was there with and my eight-year-old brain said, “Aunty Jenny, Uncle Barry, and Uncle Derek.” That was that. They were my family. They were almost as old as my own grandparents but to me my uncles were magical and so were they.

Their home was an enchanted world where I didn’t get told off, restricted, or asked not to do something. I could run wild and free in the garden eating strawberries, blackcurrants, and sour gooseberries (and sometimes we’d pick an apple from Uncle Barry’s apple tree).

I have memories of walks in the meadows behind their house, welly-shod, golden retrievers in tow, wading through streams.

I met their neighbour’s daughter, Kate, who was my age. Another link in the puzzle that is their impact on my life. We met because she heard me singing and pretending to be a princess in the garden next door. At teatime, Kate and I had “Ribena races” (to see who could drink our drink the fastest with those curly straws). There were Postman Pat pasta shapes (a lovely treat my parents never bought – apparently I told my mother I got “real kid food” there, which I presume Jenny bought because I asked for it). Jenny and I would curl up and watch soaps on TV (to watch Barry’s daughter, of course) and I recall watching The Wizard of Oz over and over. 

Later, I joined Jenny and Derek in watching Wimbledon as Jenny enjoyed her favourite players, Federer and Nadal, and Derek – prior to COVID-19 times – took Jenny every year to watch Wimbledon in person.

When I was young, Jenny and Derek paid for my expensive childcare costs in the best nursery (a place my mother could not have afforded at the time as she was a university student but later she had a good job with the council). Jenny would surprise me with party frocks and throw me birthday parties in the summer (inviting Kate and some girls around my age, Vanessa and Maria (of the names I recall), that Jenny knew via her friends). At these parties, Jenny devised “Smarty Hunts” where she hid Smarties chocolates (sort of like plain M&Ms for the American audience) around the house and all of us girls at the parties with our gloves, hats, and dresses would run around the house collecting our smarties back in the little boxes they came in. I was a gourmand when it came to chocolate (or any food really) so this was an extra special treat.  We also played pass the parcel, musical statues, and various other English party game staples. Jenny would laugh in years later that she’d find Smarties all over the house as we’d not always been the keenest hunters.

Jenny was an excellent artist and Kate and I have memories of drawing lots of cats (we both adored cats to distraction) but anything we couldn’t draw (to cut out and play with), we would ask Jenny to draw. And so we littered their house with all of our cut out drawings which would always be there the next week for Kate and I to play with.

From childhood, Jenny was always big on general knowledge (she’d be sad to know that my knowledge is appalling after schooling me for years). She used to spin her globe and have us name countries and capitals. She knew each country’s flag, random facts, the food, the language, the culture, so much. She taught me maths, patiently, even though I was an appalling pupil. I can still remember my nine times tables because of the finger trick she taught me (I’m sure you all know it).

When I was a teen and visited with my high school boyfriend (HSS as I’ve written about in other posts), Jenny, Derek, and Barry paid and booked for our hotel in London because they didn’t fancy us staying in a hostel. Also, on the trip, I remember us staying at their house when they were away on holiday (they generously allowed us the use of their house) and locking my things accidentally in the safe when I forgot the code (oops) which we had a laugh about when they returned and Derek retrieved the items for me.

When I showed Derek my new camera with a 16GB SD card and I’d said something flippant about having to download my pictures because I was running out of memory, he surprised me on the next visit with a shiny new 1GB SD card (this was back when 1 GB was probably out of my uni student budget). He was generous and thoughtful that way. Always wanting to help come up with solutions to things. A problem solver. But also a good listener.

They were generous but it was never about the generosity. It was about all the love they gave me and I will forever be grateful for those experiences.

My mother called Jenny my “fairy godmother.” My own family knew how much I loved the Leyland family and that it was an enrichment to my life, not a diminishing of their own love and attention.

My memories of Derek

I didn’t get to know Derek until I was older when I started to visit in university as he was gone on business trips on and off in childhood – and in the almost eight years I’ve been back in England – but I cannot capture him adequately in words. He was kind, funny, generous, encouraging, loving, and intelligent. And so much more. 

He never had an unkind word for anyone and he was universally loved and admired, which is rare. He was unimaginably intelligent to the very last. His brain was brimming with so much and he was so full of kindness when he spoke. He was just encouraging and without judgment. He had a thirst to learn.

As this Manchester Evening News tribute reveals, his cricket club wanted to make a commemorative bench for him because he was such a legend but he was so humble that he thought the idea was “ridiculous.” He was a local hero and a hero to his grandsons, especially, whom he adored.

When I’d go to visit, he and Jenny would greet me at the door. 

“Come in, Lainey,” Derek would say and they’d give me a hug in turn and kisses on the cheek. I’d deposit the flowers I usually bought for Jenny in the kitchen and sometimes bring a bottle of wine for Derek, especially if Michael had bought a wine for me to take to Derek for his approval (he and Michael always talked about wine and recommended things to each other). 

They’d usher me into the lounge, often with the log burner going (or the conservatory) and Jenny would go and make the cups of tea (with tea leaves, of course, and milk that gets delivered still by the milkman). My offer of help was always declined. Derek would find some biscuits or sweets and offer me one, which he knew I’d never refuse. He’d ask me how things were going at work. He remembered details. I’d ask about his beekeeping. 

Sometimes I’d come for Sunday lunch and I’d be encouraged to “eat up” as I’ve always had a hearty appetite. Sometimes we’d go out for lunch or tea – and just last summer we met at Hollingworth Lake for lunch and a short stroll. 

When I’d visit England during my uni days, Derek would go out of his way to pick me up from wherever I was staying even if it was a two-hour round trip. I’d stay over a night or two – Jenny would pop the electric blanket on to warm my bed in colder months – and I’d wake feeling rested and happy. In the morning, I’d join their routine of eating muesli, yoghurt, and grapefruit for breakfast. I could sit for hours in their company (and often did), chatting comfortably, curled into their settee.

On my visits to their house, Jenny would come into the lounge and Derek would get up to help her bring in the tea things and we’d catch up as they asked after each of my family members – from my grandparents to my parents to my sisters to my cousins. They are that kind of people – always thinking of others, always remembering the details. They may tell me about how their family members were doing, all the ways they were proud of their grandsons, how they loved their girlfriends, news of friends, or their latest travel adventure and recommendations.

Jenny and Derek sat on chairs on opposite sides of the room. Their interactions with each other weren’t of passionate embraces (not around me at least) but subtle gestures of support. They looked at each other when the other was speaking, they helped each other, and they took pride in caring for each other in little and big ways, each playing to their strengths. They laughed together, shared an interest in travel, and supported each other’s hobbies (Jenny tutored children, embroidered, gardened, read avidly; Derek did his beekeeping, squash, walking, admin, reading, computers).

And each night in winter, Jenny would turn on that electric blanket to warm up the bed for them where they’d sit companionably reading before light’s out.

Derek’s bees would produce the absolute best honey I’d ever tasted. He was always one to be careful with money but he laughingly confided in me that it was much more expensive to produce the honey than he ever hoped to make (if he’d sold it at a market) but he didn’t mind. I expect he mostly gave the honey away as I must have had at least half a dozen jars or more. I was lucky enough to receive a jar from Derek when I saw him last. I even had a recent conversation with my mother about how delicious Derek’s honey was when I visited her – and she said there was tremendous benefit in eating local honey, apparently. I didn’t get a chance to tell Derek that. He may have already known as he knew so many things but I’m sad to know I’ll never get to share it! 

Jenny and Derek were there when Michael and I got married. Part of my speech discussed the impact they’d had on my life and how if Michael and I could capture some of the happiness they had, we’d be lucky. 

Jenny and Derek have been generous to me over the years and have celebrated my successes. They’ve seen my highs and lows of life – from poor uni student to my first marriage, my divorce, my career trajectory (when I started earning peanuts) to now, and my current happiness with my forever husband. 

When I’d visit their home, I just felt this cosy, happy, safe feeling. Some people give you that sense of reassurance. Solid institutions. Places that have had no bad memories. Places that give a solid foundation. Happy places. Their home was filled to the brim with my childhood memories (they even have photos of me scattered around the house at various ages and Jenny keeps a scrapbook of my “drawings” over the years). Every now and then they’d pop on the video that Barry had made of various stages of my childhood, reminiscing about seeing me at that age. Having a niece, two nephews, and my cousins’ children to watch grow up and sometimes have over at my house to stay, I understand this feeling. You can love these children and the joy they bring to your life. I’m glad they gave me that. I’m thankful that I have had that decades later, too.

Jenny and Derek had known each other since childhood, dating for four years before marrying, and had been married for 57 years. Can you imagine? Over 60 years together. They were so in love. So happy. They had only one daughter, Sarah, who they adored. Sarah adored them back. They had the closest bond, that little trio, and the two very loved grandsons, Thomas and Henry. Jenny and Derek couldn’t have been prouder of their grandsons and all they accomplished – and the kind of men they have grown up to be, men like Derek: kind, humble, loving, and well-mannered. 

Jenny and Derek recently told me about their amazing trip to Egypt. I’d never known a couple who had travelled to so many places on every continent. Derek planned their trips meticulously, to take Jenny to see the world. She trusted him to guide their life. And what a magical life together it has been.

Goodbye too soon

On a random Tuesday in the new year, eight days before they were meant to go to Mexico to celebrate Derek's 83rd birthday, Derek did his usual routine of going on his 12-mile hike on a Tuesday. Another day each week he played squash. He was remarkably fit – and not just for his age. He could still play squash like men twenty years younger. His eldest grandson had only just begun to beat him at games. He still did the log cutting, beekeeping, gardening, tinkering, and fixing. I thought he’d go on forever. I expect everyone thought that.

The weather had been particularly bad in the North of England for weeks. His walking club decided not to join but he drove to park at the squash club, popped on his walking clothes, and set out. Except this time, he didn’t make it home. I can imagine all the times I’ve been at that house to see him come in the side door, windswept, squash bag in hand.

I couldn’t sleep when I heard he had gone missing from worrying. He was still sharp and he always came home – and as time passes, your hope gets less and less but there was a glimmer because I (let alone his family) was not ready to let the universe have this man. How can this legend of a man pass from the world so shockingly and unexpectedly on a Tuesday in January? Before the anniversary of his birth (16 January 1941). 

When I visited Jenny and Sarah this past weekend, I learned that there was not a single mark on Derek’s body when they found him, almost in repose legs crossed at the ankles with a hand over his heart. There’s no official report of what happened yet but I hope he passed peacefully from this life, knowing what a great impact he had on so many, knowing just how loved he was, and how deeply he will be missed by all. 

Words can’t describe the impact Derek had on my life and especially his family’s lives. I’m trying but everything I have written does not capture his essence. This is what this man meant to me. He will be many things to others: to his wife, children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, friends, former colleagues, all his loved ones. And I grieve with you all. Doesn’t it seem that we always lose good people at the prime of life, when you wished they’d have more time and could go on?

I didn’t know that when I visited Jenny, Derek, and Sarah in mid-November before my America trip that that would be the last hug I’d give Derek with the hope of “see you after Christmas and our Mexico trip.” I suppose we never do know.

The butterfly effect

The butterfly effect impacts us all. For better or worse. If my Uncle Tim hadn’t dated Sarah… If Jenny hadn’t reached out to my mother… If we’d all made different choices at different points in life… Even my moving to the US for years allowed Jenny and Derek the space to give attention to their grandsons, which left room for me in their lives later. 

All of these events happened by chance. The flip of a coin. And the impact ripples out like a stone breaking the calm surface of a pond.

I was talking to Brittany about this butterfly effect right after I found out. I was the last person to see my father-in-law, George, before he took his own life and if I’d given him my full attention that morning would it have changed events? I only hurried by with my cup of tea in hand ready to get back to work. I gave him a quick kiss on the cheek (which I usually did) and was off. I didn’t hear him leave and drive away.

A friend told a story of her friend in middle school who wanted to talk to her after school but she said, “We’ll talk tomorrow. I’ll miss my bus” and hurried away. The little girl was hit by a car. She didn’t go to school the next day or ever. My friend wondered if she’d stayed to talk would things have been different?

A split second. Unfair moments in life. Tragic consequences. Devastating effects.

There’s no use speculating an alternative timeline of Derek making it home safely (as much as I wish that this wasn’t my reality – or his family's reality) – but it, unfortunately, illustrates life. Just life. All its ups, downs, tragedy, unfairness. And all the trite ways we have to say to “cherish every moment” and “you don’t know when it will be your last.” But, sadly, no one lives that way. We get angry and upset. We are busy and hurried. We say and do the wrong things. We are human. We don’t realise that time will be our final goodbye. 

I send well wishes and love to all who knew Derek. He was a legend. A great man. A true English gentleman in every aspect of the word. He was so much greater than I can ever capture in words. 

We always say, “he lived life to the full” but Derek truly did.

To Derek and his ever-lasting memory. “Do not go gentle into that good night.”

Whilst my postman husband is merrily back home in Yorkshire delivering Christmas cards and packages in the snow on the dark Autumn days of early December (weird, right, that it’s not officially winter until the winter solstice on the 21st, which happens to be the day after my late grandfather’s wife’s birthday, Grandma Gill), I’m in north Florida with my mum, baby sister, and stepfather.

I’m missing my husband terribly and wish he was with me but even if we could afford for him to take a month off unpaid (as he’s used all of his generous seven weeks off this year), the Royal Mail would most likely answer a big fat “no” to his being gone for a month during their busiest time of year, especially when they bring in extra staff to cover unprecedented mountains of post each holiday season. 

As evinced by this Royal Mail ad, Michael always dances when delivering the post (or is that in the kitchen with dance music when cooking our tea? Definitely the latter). Royal Mail, eroding contracts since privatisation™. You know the greedy percentages the postmen sucked up from the strike? Um, yes, that was only if they signed away their lives but that’s another matter. And RM forced their hand so what they are left with is less than satisfying. I mean some postmen earn under £25k a year and the CEO is on half a mil plus bonuses (23 times higher than the average worker, one source reported) and the postmen are the greedy ones… 

Despite all that, my husband has loved his job for the past fifteen-plus years (may even be over eighteen years) and as much as I’d love to move more at work, personally, I’d really rather not be outside in the pissing British rain but he seems to love being outside walking twelve miles per day and then coming home to garden, cook, and do the laundry. Bless him. Really! He’s a gem of a husband.

When was my last Stateside visit?

Anyway, back to flying to the States. I haven’t been back since my mother got married to my stepfather in 2018. They’d been together a decade at this point and I think we were all starting to wonder if she’d ever make it down the aisle again. 

Our family has always adored Lamar, who is from Oregon and had a Canadian father. He has a kind heart and is such a good-natured, calm, generous, animal-loving, and intelligent human. He’s the best thing that ever happened to my mother. He’s the reason for her success (making it to the Directorship of a charity organisation) – and even Hannah’s, but that’s another matter. 

He was there for my baby sister growing up since she was about five or six years old and as she turns 21 in January, I’ve reflected on his presence in my life when I turned 21 myself (and the fact he bought me Three Olives vodka and a pack of aspirin. Lols).

Mum and Lamar’s wedding was wonderful and it was lovely also to see Brittany, Chester, Kristy, Sarah and Anna (my high school twin besties), Jayde (one of my Germany ladies who flew to Florida to see me – so amazing), and my family during that visit too. 

Hopefully, next year M will actually come with me!

Why didn’t I come back for five years?

But I hadn’t been back in years and that was really because of COVID-19, the postponement of my and Michael’s wedding, the fact that Mum and Lamar visited me in England in November 2020 when my beloved grandfather was dying of lung cancer and again in September 2021 when M and I finally got married – and then M and I actually had time travelling again in 2022 to Greece and Mexico. 

When I realised my mama was turning 60, I thought I really just wanted to be there with her that day (I missed her 50th) even if she didn’t want a big party to celebrate (I asked). Funnily enough, she has such a wonderful community here in Madison, Florida that I almost wish I had arranged a party as I’m sure she’d have many guests who adore her to celebrate.

How I got to come

So, I asked my amazing boss at work (the Global Head of Copyediting) who is based in Singapore if I could work from Florida for a month – and take a few days off here and there – and she said yes. I have, understandably, to align with my UK work hours (since I manage the Europe copy ed team and need to be online during Europe hours otherwise there's no work to do since we do daily news and publishing — not that my team needs my “expertise” as they're all amazing, talented, capable journalists and copy eds and know the day-to-day better than I do as I’m still relatively new) so essentially, I’ve been working 5 am to 1 pm or 6 am to 2 pm, depending on the day, with my usual hour and a half for lunch which is a little odd to take around 10.30 am but I’m making it work. 

And whilst 5.30 am is a semi-acceptable wake-up time since I have been going to bed ridiculously early (a la 9.30 pm), 4.30 am seems unusually cruel, but sometimes I’ll have a nap after work and then walk Teddy, the family dog, around the lake with me and cuddle with the cats. 

Hannah, my baby sis, is a super-gamer so she has very high-speed posh internet and double screens (like I have at my home office setup except one of hers is rotated to “portrait” for what reason I've yet to garner) so working from Florida is “working” thus far even if it’s taken some adaptation – such as kicking my poor darling sis out of her room at 4.30 am. She’s not loving that factor so much – poor kid. And I have had to get used to her giant microphone vised to the desk in my eyeline. Brill!

The flight(s) from Manchester to Atlanta to Tallahassee 

Michael and I have been lucky to do a fair bit of travelling together – mostly of the British package holiday variety (to Spain, Greece, Turkey, Mexico and the like – and Madeira upcoming next June with Grammy in tow) which I actually love because Michael always researches the best places and everything is done for you (like airport transfers, good food, and poolside cocktails) besides day trips and optional lunches out. 

Plus, in my uni days, with travelling to England as often as I could, and a jaunt to Paris (which I've been dining out on in memory for years with my lovely trip to see my Parisian friends but am yet to convince M to do with me as my first romantic Paris trip ever), I've had a fair few flights. 

All of this is to say, what was most surprising on my journey back this time was my ATL to TLH leg… 

The Manchester and Atlanta flight

I'll backtrack. Despite when young in my 20s, lugging three packed suitcases to England each time I visited (in the glory days when you could take all that for free), as of late I'm not an over-packer. 

My holiday suitcase with M is always firmly well within the weight limit. Michael’s, however, is not. Michael, of course, has to pack for all 5,000 eventualities or possibilities he has conjured in his head, sometimes including snorkelling fins. We both love a swim, but he’s more like a sleek dolphin and I’m just paddling in the shallows like (I was going to say beached whale) I’m loving life. 

Despite packing less, I've never once needed more than I put in my case and I'm an organised list maker so I put together shoes and clothes that can be rotated and work with each other, a capsule wardrobe if you will, but a whole lot less stylish than those Instagram model-like people. I used to be more stylish but I also used to be thinner and it was more effortless to look better (even if I didn’t think I looked better back then). Michael always pays for extra luggage allowance and even then, it's sometimes hairy so I call him “my princess.” To be fair, he’s quite fashionable even if he still dresses twenty-five and not forty-five.

But when I came to Florida this time I knew my 5+ kilos of Dairy Milk and English sweet accoutrements would pop my suitcase over the 23kg limit on the scale so I looked at the price for having overweight baggage online because I couldn't be arsed unloading the case I'd packed two weeks in advance, shuffling things around, and removing too many items. After all, I hadn’t packed that many clothes anyway. Online it said it would be £65 extra and I figured that's one way so why not?

When I arrived at the airport, however, at the weird, randomly placed semi-jutting out Virgin Atlantic desks (I booked via KLM but wasn't unhappy Virgin would be flying me as the flights are always as luxurious as you can get in cattle class), I was told my overweight suitcase would cost £109 extra (£44 more than I “wanted” to pay). 

I'd always hoped I'd be randomly selected to upgrade to first class for free one time but that has never happened (spoiler: also didn't happen this time — here’s to hoping I can do my best of Zee to Zen to manifest it someday) but I asked how much the upgrades were and was told Premium (Business Class) was an extra £289 (on top of the £1,000+ I've already paid for all the flights) and I thought let’s girl math.

Or as my older sister Jae said in our family group chat when I texted about the scenario in real-time:

That's absolutely right, Jae! 

I figured if I'm paying £109 anyway to lug this heavy suitcase on this flight I might as well get bang for my buck (sadly, I could’ve gotten TWO suitcases for the upgrade – damn) and the girl said she could pop me in a big armchair near the window that also had no one sitting next to me. Michael never “lets” us have window seats because we’d have to disturb people to go to the loo and he’s far too English for that. 

£289 on my debit card. Why not? I texted Michael and he said I deserved it for working so hard anyway and I should treat myself (adding “hun” at the end). Bless! He barely ever spends money on himself and is a saver; well, that is until I go away for a month and he's left home alone during Black Friday: we are now the owners of a Ninja dual drawer air dryer, apparently, and a wooden Die Hard advent calendar (which M insists is a Christmas film because it features a Christmas tree which is about as logical as saying Dude, Where’s My Car? is an Easter film because it contains an egg).

I won't upgrade every time and certainly not on the way back but let me tell you, boy, is premium worth it (if you can afford it or are one of those people with all those skymiles). You are greeted with Prosecco (I had two glasses and orange juice) in real, glass champagne flutes (with squat bases) and you get an actual menu of the lineup of meals which includes afternoon tea and real salt and pepper shakers shaped like mini aircraft. The food was posh and lovely. The blankets nicer. The pillows pillowier. The flight attendants are lovely (tbf they are in cattle class too) and you get access to a sort of snack bar (which I didn’t realise until the end, oh well). And also whatever drinks you want (I should’ve had way more than one vodka). 

I bought overpriced Wi-Fi (£21) and managed to finish off a little freelance work too and just spend far too much time internetting which I might well do on a usual Saturday except I'd do it from the comfort of my duvet and then my husband would come home to schnuggle me (and then some) after he finishes work. 

I mean I dread to think what first-class food is like as this was pretty epic – because they also have beds. Those reclining kind. And the little pods are private One day, life, one day! 

This was also my first flight ever where I watched zero television. I was on the exit row so the TV had to be extracted from the armrest and I decided I was far too tired to bother.

Atlanta to Tallahassee

So I had that nice, pleasant 9.5-hour flight to the States. It was long and I’d woken up at 6 am that day so I could have a leisurely morning before my former personal trainer and amazing, beautiful, generous friend Nicola came to pick me up around 10 am that morning, so I was tired but all was okay. 

Atlanta Airport was a little confusing but there were plenty of people to help and get you to where you wanted to go. 

I met a lovely Texan girl named Farah at the baggage carousel and we were going to the same terminal to catch our connecting flights and we spent a lovely couple of hours chatting before she had to go. We even navigated dropping our bags off and getting the train together. Farah, a beautiful, sweet person who was a few years younger than me, had flown to Manchester to visit her English boyfriend who lived in Chester (I think they’d met online).

I, on the other hand, had a total of a FIVE-hour layover in Atlanta before my Florida flight and I thought I’d have to pull my hair out with exhaustion. I was waiting to get a flight just five minutes shy of midnight.

Once Farah was gone, I wandered around the airport listening to my audiobook of Lessons in Chemistry and trying not to break down (figuratively). I’d had a total of maybe a twenty-minute fretful nap on the plane so by this point I was in full-on Zombie mode. And then I had a forty-minute flight plus an hour drive home.

I am getting to a point. Bear with me. Long story long! 

Finally, the flight time had arrived and I sat miserably on the seats in the corner watching a man with a birdcage with birds in it also probably boarding this flight. I’d never seen such a menagerie of pets at an airport. Earlier in the night, I saw a kitten in the bathroom (with its owner).

Then, the Delta gate flight desk person announced about fifty categories of people to board the flight, which I felt was total overkill for a small plane and a short flight. I was very surprised that the plane was so packed for a random Saturday night.

And it made me realise that despite the fact I am part American, Americans have to feel important. 

“Delta would like to welcome all the first class passengers...” or some such variation. 

“Delta would now like to ask families with children…”

“Delta would next like to invite active duty military members (thank you for your service)...”

“Next, we want our premium super gold card members…”

“How about the people who have flown six times internally this year to Seattle…”

The categories seemed to get increasingly laughable/absurd as per my tired and cheesed-off brain. 

“...and now zone two passengers.”

How “low class” would you feel if you were zone three?

There were lots of the usual grumpy Atlanta staff but also some very ridiculously over-friendly shiny, cheery, guardian-angel bollocksy people too. Normally, I’d be all for the wholesome people stuff but not when I was approaching 24 hours of no sleep. This is what makes me question having a child. I really cannot function without sleep and neither can Michael. And I’d like to think at middle age, I’ve become quite a kind, zen, calm person, but lack-of-sleep me reverts back to “toxic, grumpy bitch.”

Thankfully, on the flight I sat in between two beautiful Asian women. One who was giving FSU student vibes and another businesswoman/impeccably dressed vibes. Both of whom were uninterested in speaking to me – which was absolutely fine by me. Thank goodness. I charged my phone as there was an actual UK plug (hallelujah!) and promptly fell asleep. I hope I did not snore.

But my point of the post… (I think?)

How these arseholes disembarked…

We arrive in Tallahassee “coming in hot” (sing that song in your head, see above) because the pilot was not about slowing down before we practically bounced off the runway. He does not have time for that (Julia Garner as Anna Delvey voice). 

Then, the dickheads at the back of the plane decide they are too busy and important to wait to disembark in a logical fucking way. They were probably passengers in one of the fifty categories or alternatively, they were pissed off they were not singled out for special treatment over the intercom.

For anyone who has been on flights with English people travelling to “quite nice” holiday locations (I’m not talking about the Ibiza booze fests or English football fans abroad), English people generally let the plane empty logically. From the front and snaking back from row to row, left to right, and people politely being English, “no, you go ahead”, “oh thank you”, “do you want me to help you with your case?” That sort of thing. They wait patiently and Britishly even if there’s always that set of people who take far too long. 

I was shocked – but maybe not surprised – to learn that Tallahhasse people (or wherever these people are from) do not get off a plane this way. The people at the back get up as fast as possible to bull their way to the front. Of course, everyone knows that if all the selfish kind of Americans are doing this, this causes a clusterfuck and just makes everyone else’s wait longer. Not that these people care. They are more important than everyone else and have somewhere to be. 

I swear it was the longest time it’s ever taken to get off a plane.

Thankfully, that bullshit was made up for by the fact that the Tallahassee airport is like an empty mall. It was so empty that I was very confused. I don’t even think there was passport control. I saw Mum and Hannah waiting at the end of the hallway. Was I going wrong? Why hadn’t I collected my suitcase yet? Did I get through customs without even knowing it? 

Nope, you walk almost to the exit doors of the airport and you can just collect your suitcase relatively easily right by the doors.

I decided to go to the toilet whilst waiting for the suitcase to come out and I had another American surprise I’d totally managed to trama-block in my five years’ absence: the gaps around the loo doors. I really did not miss someone watching me piss via creeper holes.

Welcome to America! 

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Today is my mother’s 60th birthday!

Happy birthday, Mum! Hannah, Lamar, and I are all off work today to celebrate with her, so we are going over to the Florida Gulf for lunch.

Check out my previous present day snippet.

Read my latest post in my regularly scheduled content.

If you’ve lived in the UK, Europe, or abroad, what are some stark differences you are always surprised about when returning back to the US? Also, do you agree with Michael that Die Hard is a Christmas film (or are you wrong)?

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I’m spending a lot of time reflecting on the past, scouring through old emails, messages, and photos – and even chatting with some of the people from my past (when they have gotten in touch), which is giving me invaluable insight into their side of things. Who knows? Maybe I’ll ask some of them to do guest posts if they want?

Visiting Florida

But what’s going on in my life now? Well, I’m visiting my Mum, stepfather, and baby sis (Hannah) in Florida mid-this month.

I’ll be working from their house as I (luckily) have a remote editorial job. I get to work 5/6am to 1/2pm to align with my usual Europe time (which has to have some overlap with colleagues in Asia and the US), which I’m actually looking forward to as my Mum lives on a lake and it’ll be sunnier and warmer than England which is depressing and dark during winter – and after work, I plan to listen to lots of audiobooks whilst walking around the lake or writing or napping or all three. And then when my family return from their respective jobs, I’ll have time with them.

Michael isn’t going with me and I’ll miss him. As a postman, he has to deliver the Christmas post at this cold, dark, wet time of year (with the occasional breakthrough of a lovely wintry sunny day). All the more reason I cannot wait until we pay off the mortgage in four years so maybe he will decide he can retire at 50 to live his deam of becoming a hand model (which he jokes is his worst feature due to working in the elements – incidentally, I love his hands). 

Missing Michael aside, who also gets quality extended time with their parent(s) and sibling(s) anymore, especially when you become a late-thirty-something adult? I’m looking forward to celebrating my Mum turning 60 and just being there to enjoy her. And my reunion with Michael will be all the sweeter for time apart.

What does Michael think of my Substack?

With this Substack, I’ve had lots of people reach out with really kind feedback, saying they are enjoying it. Thank you! I have also had people say something along the lines of, “omg what does your husband think about this blog?” And its (sometimes) NSFW content. 

Well, he’s my first reader, my first editor, coming in with funny suggestions. Also saying, “how long is it?” often before I begin reading posts to him and then after half an hour of my reading and correcting things, he may remark, “I didn’t know it would be that long.” And then I go, “But did you like it?” And he always gives me honest feedback. 

I may have had more sexual (and kissing) partners than him but he’s had significant women in his life (even if he didn’t let them get close) and we have swapped stories. Most of these posts aren’t news to him – or at least the highlight’s reel. 

If he wasn’t okay with the content, I wouldn’t be publishing it as I’d never want to make him feel embarrassed or uncomfortable. Plus, it’s all very safely in my past. Most of this stuff happened over a decade ago and I’ve been with Michael for over seven years. And I never want that to change.

Michael isn’t the jealous type. He’s a lovely, happy, secure person in himself and even when I say to him oh “so and so got in touch” he knows that he is mine and I am his. He’s not threatened by my past because he knows he is the present and future.

When reading some posts, he says that he probably wouldn’t have dated past me. 

I said, “Do you see me being any of my past toxic bitch self?” 

He replied, “Actually, no, that’s one of your number one qualities.”

I countered, “What? That I’m not a toxic bitch?”

“Yep,” he said.

“Aww! Thank you.”

So, yes, a leopard can change her spots! Also, it shows how far I’ve come and how much I’ve learned over the years, which I hope you’ll see in my Substack journey as it continues. Heartbreak and rejection are formative, if it doesn’t break you, you see. (And maybe if you’re lucky enough to find your gem of a human like I am – and have a good therapist.)

So, where are all these (unique/weird/random/cool?) cover graphics coming from?

When/if my Substack makes regular money, I hope that A) I can pay for guest writers at a fair writing rate to share their dating journeys in a post or two and B) I can pay my amazing, talented nail lady, Carly – who also has an awesome skincare blog and is a brilliant writer (and hilarious storyteller) but who can do really cool graphic design – to design my cover images for me that are relevant to each post – and so they look way cuter and way less random. 

Until then, I’m using free-to-use images from Mohammad Hassan (thanks, Mo – really, I don’t know this man) from Pixabay.

I just love how cheesy stock art is. Some of it really is, like, wtf, but his images always appealed to me. Even if they aren’t super relevant to my posts, they’ll stay for now.

When I worked as a textbook and course materials editor with my amazing designer friends, Maureen and Claire, and fellow editor, Esther (thanks, Maureen and Esther, for teaching me everything and supporting me always), these graphics always appealed to me so I’d try and use them for our property law courses. So, sometimes I’d place the suggested images and Maureen and Claire would work their magic (figurative magic I tell you) on sprucing up everything to make it look so cool and beautifully designed. 

I thought absentmindedly all those years ago that if I ever started a blog, I’d use these as my hero images (as Tria Beauty UK’s delightful and talented marketing director, Emma, always calls them). 

Re finding images, it’s really hard work (re search terms) and, of course, at that old job, finding the image we were really looking for two weeks after we’d settled on one. We only had a limited budget for expensive fancy (and way better) iStock so we had to use it sparingly. 

I’m always amazed (and thankful) that Emma finds most of the imagery for the Tria blogs because the memories of image hunting in my days of working in a marketing agency finding images and when I had to do it for my textbook/course materials editor days are more like scars. Heh! 

To all the people I’ve written about…or will write about…

To those people whom I’ve written about (cringe), I hope there are no identifying details and thanks for reading. To those who hurt me, I forgive you; for those I hurt, I’m sorry. You were collateral damage in my messy life, on my journey to becoming a better, happier human.

I know many of you may feel the same, acted in ways that were out of character (or would later be out of character), acted in ways you weren’t proud of, acting in ways that hurt others and were selfish and self-serving. We can all forgive our twenties selves for being total see you next Tuesdays (maybe unless you actually stabbed someone in the heart – not just metaphorically stabbed them). 

For those of you who were less cunty in your twenties, well done. You’re probably super humans and maybe that’s because you got lucky and found your person (or purpose) early on. 

On Grammy’s big news

My 87-year-old Grammy (my mother’s mother) is moving house after 37 years in her beloved Leeds home (with her big garden and conservatory). She will be moving into a cute (much smaller) cottage close to Michael and I. It’s on the flat and she can walk to the park and the market and be more independent, especially when she no longer drives. 

Anyone who knows Grammy knows she’s still super sharp but she’s not getting any younger. 

It’s a huge deal to move at that age (at any age really) but I’m proud of her and all the prep she has done to move – and she’s already accomplished so much in her life – in that she has a Master’s degree which is rare for an octogenarian woman born in the 1930s. And after retirement, Grammy trained for three years to become a Reader in the Church of England. She’s also been learning and taking German courses for years after her year-long stint in Schwetzingen with her friend Sue Markham in 1957.

On a recent visit to Grammy, we were talking about domestic labour and feminism (and how she read Germaine Greer in uni) and Grammy quipped that “if your house is a mess, no one says, ‘What kind of a man leaves the house like this?’” I feel that on a deep level – but am also thankful that Michael does lots (almost all) of the domestic labour so it’s “shared.”

Grammy is a classic! 

Remembering Grandad Ted

I don’t want to post too much (as it’s not entirely my news) but we lost Michael’s grandfather (my mother-in-law’s father) a couple of weeks back and the funeral is this week. He was 96 and such a lovely man. He will be missed by all who were lucky to know him.

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