I’m finding the time to write every day.  Not much time.  30-45 minutes of brain dump as my mother does some faffing or other and the children succumb to their jet lag in the afternoon.

It’s brilliant though.

Words are delicious to me.  Putting letters and phrases together to tell a story is magic that makes my heart pitter patter and skip beats.  I fall into a proper puddle at the thought of people reading my meanderings.  Further to that, people actually responding to it sends me all a flutter and makes me wish I could just stop the world and write day and night.  

Although, I already do that on social to be fair.  You’ll find me frequently on most of the platforms (except twitter, I never did get the hang of Twitter) spilling and spouting this and that.  There’s a mighty big gap in my social media behaviours lately though, because someone I spoke to nearly every day won’t be able to respond as he’s recently shaken the mortal coil and left us in a state of shock and grief that no amount of reaching out and bad jokes or silly comments can cure.  I miss him.  He was my friend.  My real friend.  And I wish I could tell him about the adventures I am on and he’d be cheerful and kind and full of knowledge about everything and anything the way he always was.

When another friend, with the same name, passed away I was 18 years old.  He was a first Love of sorts and accepted me despite my already well-established crazy.  His death broke me, and so I high-tailed it back to Alberta for 6 of the best (and blurriest) months in my entire life.  I am still great friends with my roommate from that adventure, and the Calgary cousins I stayed with are closer to me than most of the family I grew up with now.  Life’s strange.  Loving people and losing them hurts.  And the empty that is left by some people’s departure will never be filled, only softened with time and the ability to trade tears for happiness when thinking about whatever time you had with them.

So here I am in London.  Grieving for my husband’s childhood father figure (who passed away last Saturday) and my very clever, chatty, uplifting friend.  Writing yet another blog as my rolly polly little mother waddles off to the laundry to drop off our clothes so we can be ready for the next leg of the journey in Iceland soon.  We’ve laughed a lot and fought much less than I’d anticipated we would.  I genuinely wonder if this isn’t owing on some level to divine intervention of one kind or another.

Mom at High Tea

The boys and Mom on the way to the Runnymede Memorial

Last night after finally waking my two sleeping beauty boys from jet lag induced coma sleeps, I went to see my friends Christine and Lochmar and their two pathologically overachieving children.  I adore Christine.  She’s the kind of woman I’d have been totally intimidated by a few years ago and never thought to engage in a friendship with, as she’s so very far out of my league.  I can’t begin to say how glad I am to have gotten over that, and to have the luxury of choosing amazing, kind, intelligent, hilarious, beautiful women to be my friends now.

So Lochmar and Christine fed my sons and I.  He’s a great cook, and a vegan who occasionally eats fish for the nutritional values (I believe that’s the same diet the former President Bill Clinton follows) and he made carnivorous for the children and vegan option spaghetti and meatballs for us.  They were perfection.  So was his hummus.

I was sat in their home not too long ago, as I tend to nip through London about twice a year these days.  Their house feels perfect.  They are a family who all read the same book and have lively discussions about it over dinner while they all sit down together.  The fact they not only tolerate me but seem to look forward to my/our visits is a great honour.  Christine’s staff are also great and I relish the quick catch ups and cuddles I get when I whip through the office in Windsor.

Today my mother and I brought the children through Windsor Castle.  A busy place.  James was faffing about on my lap and fell on the hard stone floor in the Albert chapel, and Adam flat out refused to use his inside voice for most of the day.  I think he gets that from me.

When we got to the Queen Mary doll’s house and stately apartments part of the tour we were told to ditch the stroller at the cloak room.  No problem.  James was, however, only in his socked feet at this point as he had lost one of his green boots earlier that day.  Apparently, this is a problem as we were told half a dozen times to put shoes on him.  Being the chilled out Kiwis that we have become, we thought this was quite ridiculous, especially in a carpeted area like we were entering.  AND HE IS THREE.  Seriously, chill the fuck out please.

We also noticed that people looked at us quite strangely a few times.  The conclusion for the rudeness was that some people may have thought my mother and I were actually lovers, not mother and daughter on vacation together as we actually are.  I did say to mom that she was totally punching well above her weight because I am super hot and rich.  Mom laughed.  It was a good moment.

Later in the tour I stopped to rest my aching feet while my mother took the boys around the corner to see a guard on duty in the red jacket and bear hat thing that they wear.  So she wheeled off James and Adam flew and fluttered in zig zags around her as they went over to another corner of the courtyard.

Shortly after she left one very tall guard, flanked by three seemingly very small guards came stomping through in the same direction that mom and the kids had just gone.  I found out upon my mother’s return that the stompy guard guys headed over to the other stompy guard guy to ask him if he needed a pee break.  They also got to see James fall out of his pram as mom reeled to get out of their way as they stomped by.  Comical.  

We walked back toward the exits by my favourite bit of the entire castle.  A waterfall that runs into a little pond down some steps behind a walled garden.  I like gardens.  And I really like waterfalls and ponds too.  I do not super like the aristocracy, but the history, architecture, and art are a marvel and I eat marvellous for breakfast.

The stompy guards then returned, probably after asking if some other stompy guard needed to pee, and I walked over to mom as they stomped past us and said, “You know, I think I totally need a boyfriend with that level of self control.” to which my darling mother responded with a loud snort and belly laugh.  She looked at me with an earnest stare and patted my arm and said: “Oh my, someone with that much self control would never be interested in you darling.”  I laughed.  She’s right.  I’m not exactly a magnet for the pious or stern.  And that’s just fucking fine by me.

The last stop today was the war memorial in Runnymede.  Adam was still awake at this point, and James had well and truly already crashed for the day.  We got there and explained to him where we were and what it meant.

“Should I get down on my knees and pray?” asked my middle son with earnest.

“If that is what you feel like doing, you should absolutely do it.” I responded.

Then Adam ran out onto the grass, 500 metres away from the entrance of the memorial and dropped to his knees and started to pray.  We called him back and said that this wasn’t the place.

“Oh, I shouldn’t have prayed there then.” He said in a playfully sheepish way. “No, no,  no.” I interjected.  “You should pray and/or meditate whenever or wherever you are moved to do so.” I said.  “And you don’t have to call or imagine that is like a traditional God, you can call it whoever and whatever the fuck you want when you are moved to pray honey.”  My mother snort laughed again.  It was a good moment.

So I’ll leave it there. Today was good.  We just paid 25 quid to get our laundry done, and now I need to wake up the children and roll them downstairs to grab a bite to eat.

Thank you for reading.  There’s not much point to this one I know, I am just really enjoying writing.

XXOO

Dee

I need to start by explaining the play on words in the title.  To the manor born means aristocratic or of high birth ranking in British society.  There was a program that ran from 1979-1981 entitled “To the Manor Born” that was a kind of meshed up romance/comedy that was incredibly British and had characters called posh names like Penelope and Daphne.  I don’t think I have ever watched more than five minutes of any episode, but I’d know it if I saw it.

British class system and manners are things that don’t sit too well with a peasant such as myself.  I’ve got crazy notions about life, society, and equality that lean far more to meritocracy than aristocracy.

I am also incredibly crass and swear a lot and would fail almost any etiquette guidelines that might be thrown at me.  I Love that about me.  A heart the size of a planet and I still drop the C bomb with reckless abandon.  I’m not Eliza Doolittle, I am more like Estelle, salt of the earth and completely comfortable with the fact.

So I have arrived in London with the kids and my mother and we are staying at a charming manor house that backs onto the grounds of Windsor Castle.  What is interesting about this, is that I get to stay in comfortable suites in places like this all the time.  These are the kind of places, that as a child, my mother would take my brother and I for a cup of tea and a sandwich and we’d be urged to lie about our age so we could be spared the entrance fee to sit in such grandeur for a moment or two.

Now, I frequently stay at castles, mansions, manor houses, and even old monasteries.  The staff are always nice, and I rarely mingle with other guests at these places.  And there’s always a part of me that knows I am an interloper.

The place we are staying right now is quite lovely.  It backs onto the Thames river and has its own resident ghost stories.  Today is crisp and beautiful.  The spring air on the banks of the Thames smells just like I remember it smelling when I lived in the UK when I was a child of 5.  Today is basically the opposite of yesterday on the hectic scale, and I feel at peace with the world, and utterly out of place.

Everyone in New Zealand is asleep so I am waiting for the evening here so I can ping home and see how the kids are and how far back down the island my husband has made it after being at the Northern-most tip of Cape Reinga yesterday.

So I’ll wrap it with some pictures of my day so far.

And I will sit back and watch the breeze kiss the branches of a weeping willow on the banks of the Thames, and I will know the whole time I sit in this opulence that the world is not yet fair or just or safe for far too many, perhaps most, people.  The water and the air are not clean enough to sustain us into the future, and the people sat on the terrace with their beer and their cellphones may or may not give a fuck about any of it.

Life is a sequence of moments and choices and boils down into memories that we carry with us in good and bad times as we carry on to our inevitable end.

I’ll just breath in this sequence of moments, and hope that somehow the peace of this moment will sustain me when I am faced with all the things that break my heart and force me into battles of one sort or another.

Thank you for Reading.

Everything costs something.

There are countless quotes to this effect ranging from pithy to pragmatic.  We can all have what we want if we are prepared to pay for it.  Problem with that being, we often do not know what things will cost until we find that they are far too expensive.

Travel is a fickle mistress,  I am deeply and eternally in Love with her in all her fucked up, unpredictable glory.  The costs of being on the move all the time aren’t merely the strain on one’s purse strings, but also a long and ongoing struggle to nurture relationships or throw down roots and watch things grow.  There’s also a shitload of stress involved.  Customs, baggage, flights, cancelations, accommodation, strange foods, a myriad of phrase books and awkward conversations using Google translate.  It can be hard on your system, your brain, and your heart.

It’s absolutely worth it though.

I’ve recently come to the conclusion that the planet is pretty fucked.  Like royally.  Like, I don’t have the ability to do much in the face of the catastrophic failure and reboot that is soon going to be upon us.  I feel like the bartender at the start of Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy asking “well, should I put a paper bag over my head or something?” and then unceremoniously being obliterated by a Vogon ship.  Without even being able to hear some of their fantastic Vogon poetry.  I digress.

Being that I figure we are pretty royally fucked and our chances to recover have come and gone so many times that our luck as a species could well be running out, I have decided to act in the following ways (which I genuinely feel are staggeringly appropriate):

1. Keep trying to bail out this Titanic sized disaster with the little itty bitty teaspoon I have at my disposal.  Ima keep on fighting till we hit absolute rock bottom kids.  Day and fucking night bringing that fight.
2. Do things.  Feel things.  See things.  Preferably with the people I Love the most.  Most obviously on the top of that list of course, is my long suffering husband Phteven.  Talking to him more than I do when we are in the same country, and while it is totally yummy to miss him, I’d much rather just be able to kiss him. Luckily next week I can.
3. See the world, meet new people, Love the absolute shit out of as much stuff as I can get by hands and heart on.
4. Tell and show people I adore them (unless I don’t because then I won’t) because our lives and time are precious, and saying a sincere thank you costs nothing but pays the recipient as well as the person paying it forward in dividends.

Today was a fairly interesting example of crossing shit off this list.  My mom and I both managed to not understand that our flight to London was yesterday, and when we got to my good friend Krissy’s house just before we were due to catch the plane, we realized that we should have been on the flight yesterday.  Not super fucking ideal really.

Small but mighty freak out commenced.  Phone call to AirNZ to plead absolute stupidity and throw myself at their mercy was initiated.  Through the entire ordeal, Krissy was as cool as a cucumber and made me laugh.  Her 18 year old daughter Xanthe had a fairly reasonable chuckle at our expense and bonded with my mom a bit in the kitchen while I got to know a woman named Judi at the air New Zealand reservations desk really REALLY well.

Do not miss your flight.  If at all possible, do not do this thing as it is a pain in the ass and requires calm and will send you on a phenomenal roller coaster of emotions.

This trip is done on the cheap.  The flights were booked a very long time ago during one of those short lived sales that our national carrier often has.  Therefore, the terms and conditions of the flight meant that a no-show would render the entire onwards journey as null and void.

Hearing this news, we were ready just to pack up and go the fuck home.

But after much begging, apologizing and some incredibly well-timed jokes (that was me, I am actually hilarious under pressure) we managed to sort the whole mess out with only a change of ticket fee attached to the situation.

So here I am.  Tired as a tired thing.  Having said goodbye to my dear friend after a brief but brilliant catch up, then onto the airport to check in, and then cruising past the long and languishing goodbye hugs, kisses and lovers embraces at the customs gate, I am sat here with two sleeping boys and a tired Granny bear at the wrong end of the fucking airport.  Our flight departs from gate 31 and we are at gate one.  Because, that’s the kind of fucking day this has been.

We’re off to see more friends and do more things.  New adventures in Iceland where I have not yet been are sending my thoughts all a flutter.  Seeing my soulmate in the greyest city on earth (Berlin) at the Hubject conference and then carrying on to collect the kids and bring them back to New Zealand with only my own two hands and stunning intellect and strength to get the three of us safely to the other side of the planet, well, it is all an amazing privilege and incredible adventure.

There’s more eating me up at the moment.  Loss, grief, stress… But between tearful outbursts I get to people watch and connect with strangers and new and old friends.

So what am I trying to say here?  Simple really… Travel is a fucking nightmare.  It is stressful, it is expensive, it is often too hot or too cold, you feel like you’ve been gone to long or not long enough.  It can be awesome, it can be awful, and always unexpected and frequently truly magical.

Now I get to wake two incredibly sleepy boys up and march their tired asses to the other end of the terminal.  Tomorrow I will be in London with friends.

Today was a total clusterfuck, but I’ll take 20 more just like it if it means I get to keep chasing the magic.

Goodnight.  Thank you for reading.

XXOO

It seems like most travelling Kiwis have been to or through Hong Kong for work or pleasure at some point.  This could be because it is on the way to places (China and Europe for example) or it could be that they are a relatively close neighbour.

At any rate.  It is a place where a lot of people I know have been, and most of the reviews I have gotten from people say that they really enjoyed it here.

I’m not so enamoured. We are staying in an incredibly nice hotel with harbour views in Kowloon.  The population density here is some of the tightest packed on the planet.  A couple of ferry rides around the corner is a green island-like oasis where my friend Krissy lives with her three fabulous kids.

My kids have been watching the old Hong Kong Phooey cartoons as my mother packed them up especially for them knowing we would be here in Hong Kong.  She’s good with shit like that.  I am proper blessed to have a mother and friend as engaged and adventurous as my rolly polly little mamma bear.

So.  Hong Kong.  What can I say.

I don’t hate it here, and to be fair to Hong Kong, I am in a fairly fed up state of mind already thanks to a string of bad news and a couple of recent (and somewhat sudden) deaths.  I won’t get into any of that, except to say the grief almost certainly plays a part in tainting the lens I am looking at Hong Kong through.

Where do I start.

I am here with my mom and two youngest children Adam (nearly 7) and James (3).  It is actually incredibly kid friendly here.

Fun fact while I am on the subject of kid friendly.  Our hotel is just around the corner from ChunKing Mansions, where all the drug trafficking and other such excitement occurs.  If you get asked if you want to buy a watch here, they are trying to sell you hash.  They will also be brazen enough to just say: “Hey, lady, you wanna buy some hashish!?” And the answer is a resounding no.  No I do not, but thank you so much for assuming I might have a desire to partake in such activities at 2:00pm on a Monday afternoon.  And the offers for watches and drugs so not wane when I am pushing a pram or holding a baby while I walk by.  Strange but not overly intrusive, so I just thought I’d take a moment to mention this anomaly for those traveling to Kowloon who may or may not be interested in such activities.

There’s a large Indian population in Kowloon, and I ventured through some of the back allies and into some of the Indian markets where I was regarded as a bit of a curiosity as I think it is mainly locals that frequent these fragrant locations.  The smell of curries and the sound of bartering made me smile, which confused some of the merchants into stopping and doing a double take as I walked by, I assume because smiling like an idiot is not the sort of thing that the locals do much.

Kowloon also has the museums and tourist trap areas contained in its relatively slim border.  This is not a huge area.  No-one of the islands and territories are all that large, and they build UP not out so they pack a lot in to a very small area.  There are no cars on some of the islands and in some of the territories, only busses and trains and ferries and areas designed for people to enjoy, with parks and ponds and walks and hikes.  The footprint of the buildings where these people live is not much larger than my single family dwelling (bear in mind I am a douche and live in a huge house) and contains thousands of people in an efficient and effective space.

In Hong Kong they seem to Love and respect greenery in a way we could learn from. Small market garden plots are all over the place, and trees are given pride of place even in the most crowded areas.  They also have recycling programs that are impressive, and discourage single use plastics and don’t look at you strangely when you refuse a straw or a bag.  The carbon footprints here must be relatively small all things considered.

Oh, and EV.  Tesla are basically ubiquitous here.  You can’t step out onto the street without nearly getting run over by one. There are incentives for EV ownership and there’s a shit tonne of money in and around these islands, so it is a rich breeding ground for the fertile foundations of luxury EV ownership that Tesla has established.

Public transport is great.

The light show is great (and free).

People are friendly and almost everyone speaks english.

I think that under normal circumstances I’d absolutely adore this city, but seeing as I am feeling quite sad and lonely and nursing wounds of grief, loss and separation, this magical island has not endeared itself to me.

Hong Kong is an assault on the senses from the very first moment you step off the plane.  It is a mild-mannered and well behaved assault, but an assault none the less.  crowds are HUGE here and personal space is non existent.  Peoples’ idea of personal space is basically the opposite of what you would find in Scandinavia, which is where we are going soon.

Well, there’s a lot more to be said about these beautiful islands, and I may do that another day.  For now though, I am going to pack up and head over to the big Buddha for some meditation and prayer.  It has been a week that calls for just such a thing.

Thank you for reading.

Yesterday was large. Every day is large. The balls to the wall busy that is currently my self imposed cross to bear is getting a bit tedious.

Life is getting real, and my notoriously fragile mental health is weighing in the balance, so I’ve identified some priorities (family, marriage, friends, passions, work… in that order) and let go of some things (trying to please everyone, people who don’t “get” or appreciate me, and this term’s papers for my masters degree)

One of the most important things is a commitment to seeing people more, and putting my screens down and closing my laptop so I can be fully present. The second part of this commitment is to see at least three people (who I do not work with) I Love every single week. I exceeded my goals this week.

First there was an early morning catch up with my old BNI chapter president JP. He’s a straight talking teddy bear with a brain the size of a planet. The rest of that day was spent with my GM James who is one of my closest friends, by virtue of the amount of time we spend together, and also by virtue of the fact we share a very similar energy and are incredibly passionate about justice, sustainability and spinning a good yarn. I work with James though, so that doesn’t count.

I guess seeing Rebekah (who has been my friend since our undergraduate degree) to receive my birthday present also doesn’t count… But it ought to because my pressies were very cool. Especially the sunglasses!

The next day was equally packed full and there is one story in particular I need to expand upon.

My friend Steph is also my optician. She’s a stunningly attractive, beautifully vulnerable, incredibly adventurous woman who I took an immediate shine to.

I left one pair of her yummy glasses at the Quest hotel in Nelson, and another in a Sheraton in Vancouver. So I needed to make good on my promise to visit so she could rush through getting me a new set before I fly out to Iceland on Saturday.

I am so glad I did. The fact is, we’ve both been feeling a bit fucking over it and snowed under. Life has gotten on top of us and it’s sometimes hard to breath. So we had a huge healing hug, and a good woman to woman cry.

After make-up was restored we headed to her local café for a cuppa.

Everyone. Knew. Her. It was like walking into Central Perk as one of the FRIENDS crew in the 1990’s. The barista got my order wrong, so the very attractive owner/manager popped over to our table to explain.

“I have bad news,” He said looking at me with deep brown eyes, his perfectly quaffed salt and pepper hair shining in the afternoon light. I put my hand on his had with feigned fear and urgency as it lay on the table. “You can tell me. I can take it.” I said with mock mellow drama playing obviously across my face. “We used real milk not soy milk for your Chai, and also the last of the spicy syrup… so now we only have sweet left.” He mirrored my mellow drama like a fucking ROCK STAR! “Oh, I think I can handle a bit more sweetness in my life anyway.” I said and he carried on back behind the counter.

As we waited for my drink to be remade, Steph told me a story.

“This is Margaret’s table.” She said about the corner table for two facing the glass wall that looked out onto the street. “She comes here every day for breakfast. Everyone knows her, and she’s always full of sweetness and joy. She was a dancer, and she still does cartwheels in her yard.” Steph continued. “She’s 92.”

“Holy shit!” was an appropriate response as far as I was concerned.

Steph continued with details about Margaret. How much her second husband adored her, how resilient and full of joy she was after a busy and sometimes difficult life journey.

I looked at my beautiful friend and thought how lucky the world is to have her in it. Wanting to know and care about people as she does, well, it is impossible not to Love that. I felt very lucky in that moment to know this woman.

That moment, the café owner popped over. He gave us a slice of plum pie.

“What is that for?” I inquired. “For being so nice about our stuff up.” He responded.

So we ate our pie. We talked about life. We talked about a friend she knows who had walked by outside the window who was deeply in Love with another of her friends, but had three nasty divorces and had closed his heart. The two star-crossed lovers were and remain passionate about one another, and they cannot be together and cannot stay away from each other either. I. Love. That kind of shit… Tragic romance makes me proper fucking giddy and melty and swoony and stuff.

I left Steph after another long and nourishing cuddle and headed to pick up the film crew and head home to my beautiful children.

I danced around the house with the kids for a bit. Ordered pizza and watched a terrible Disney style movie starring the Rock because Adam gets to pick the movies we watch if he’s good. He’s been pretty fucking good.

Then I handed my children over to the Actress and the Viking and headed into town to meet my friends Max and Shawn at a Karaoke bar.

We had great chats, I sang landslide, and I got a marriage proposal from a nice man named Steven who is a master builder. I told him I couldn’t marry him as I am currently quite firmly married to my husband Phteven, but we could be Facebook friends. Further conversation shed light on Phteve’s financial situation, and the builder changed his mind and said he’d rather marry him instead. If I had a dollar for every time that happened!

The crowd grew, I saw Oliver the left-wing stand up comic whom I adore and his girlfriend, and some tall statuesque Adonis-like millennial with a wry smile and a deliciously arid sense of humour. My face began to hurt from smiling as the night wore on but we opted to leave at around 10:15.

So here’s the moral.

Get off your fucking devices and BE with the people you Love sometimes. Have a coffee and a slice of plum pie, and if it is appropriate to, have a good, cleansing cry.

There is no virtual cake. You have to be there to taste it.

Thank you for reading.

I am not upset about aging. Quite the opposite infact, I am embracing it and looking forward to the next stages that are just around the corner.

It helps that I have a vast number of friends already in their 50s, 60s and beyond who live a life of adventure, creativity and impact.  Mother in law is 80 now and one of my best friends and closest allies (and harshest critics to be fair) so shout out to my squad – you know who you are and that I Love the fuck right outta ya!

It also helps that as the years pass, the fucks I give decrease in quantity but vastly increase in quality.

I no longer give a fuck about what is traditional, and I no longer give a fuck about people thinking I am nuts or crass or awful. That particular boat sailed long ago.

What I do still care deeply about, is Love, family, learning, laughter and meaningfulness.

So this year, I laid down some new guidelines for life, in my home, my professional life, as a mother, a friend and a wife.

I am taking a study leave. I am demanding more from Phteven and the children at dinner time and strictly enforcing a no electronics from 4:00pm to Bedtime in our home. This is going to be much harder on the parents than the kids, as our jobs have traditionally stayed pretty busy through till midnight and beyond. Closing it down will take willpower.

The coolest shit is happening only a few days into these adventures though. The kids ate their dinner last night. They helped clean up this morning. They engaged with each other and their mother without too much bickering or whining (once the shock of having their YouTube and Instagram taken away had subsided). And Steph stopped and looked at me in that haughty Steph way, and said: “You know mummy, this is just like back in the days when you stayed at home with us, only you don’t drink wine every day.” And she’s correct. Striking the balance between mother, wife, friend, boss, colleague, trustee, volunteer, student and human fucking being keeps me busy enough to manage my well-documented binge drinking tendencies. Still hitting it plenty hard at conferences and events unfortunately. But I am working on my, so try not to be too fucking judgmental 😉

So the word has come back from the Prof who I adore that I am good to take this term off and still go to Melbourne, Singapore, London and MAYBE still make it home in time for a conference that I would be off the planet chuffed to attend.

I am cooking a hearty meal for our offspring and have texted or spoken to my husband dozens of times because I am LOST without him. Phteven and I have scarecely ever in our relationship been so happy together or at peace with our journey or our relationship. It is nice, and I know that spanners in the works will arise, but it is being able to bottle up this past couple of months in my heart and memory that will remind me that he is mine and I am his and that’s pretty much one of the most urgent things in my life to fight for. Him, our kids, and the planet we inhabit. And social justice. And Feminism. And mental health… And a few other things that are fabulously beautiful and important.

So that’s me pretty much sorted. I’ve also made a pact with myself to see people I Love (from outside of the EV community) three times a week. So far so good! I saw JP this morning, video chat with Jen and Chris, and tomorrow night is KARAOKE with my ginger ninja and miracle Max!

I am going to live whatever life I have remaining on my own fucking terms. I am going to Love the shit out of everything and I am going to say no, even to things I would like to be involved in, because I am going to be truer to the priorities I have set out than ever before.

Today felt good.

Not every day will. But today fucking did so I am sharing it with you and I’ll be back to share when I fall flat on my face and want to chuck it all in, as that’s a thing that happens when you rush headlong through life as I do.

Thanks for reading.

XXOO