Crushed raspberry moments: Giving yourself permission to shine

The last time I was house sitting in this rural pocket of Normandy, it was three years ago in the height of summer.

The raspberry canes in the vegetable patch yielded masses of delicious berries from July through to September. I would come up from the garden with my mouth and fingers stained deep crimson – ‘crushed raspberry’ – and my bowl full to overflowing with garden produce.

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Time out: Fitting your own oxygen mask before assisting others

I’m sitting in a cafe in Montmartre.

From my table at the window I look out at a Sunday market in the tiny Place Lino Ventura. A full length mirror is placed outside a clothes stall directly in my line of vision. A middle aged woman trying on a leopardskin coat transforms before my eyes. She swings it this way and that, coming alive in front of the looking glass. She isn’t thinking about the shopping, the cooking or the week ahead. She is suddenly radiant in the light Parisian drizzle, imagining  where such a coat might take her.

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Coffee: the weak, the white and the extra hot

My father used to like his hot drinks hot and his cold drinks cold.

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Photo by Dave Michuda on Unsplash

He preferred his soup to be at palate-blistering temperatures well beyond normal human tolerance. But that was the way he liked it and that was the way it was served up to him. No skin off anyone’s nose – the roof of Dad’s mouth was the only potential victim here.

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Speaking up

No matter the size of a family, the role of each of its members will be unique.

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If the firstborn is a dictator, the second will be something else. Once a job description has been filled, another must be created. One might be the high achiever, the next might be the peace-maker and so on. I was the third of five children; the good girl; the little sister who knew her place; the older sister who indulged her younger brothers; the good student who wanted to do well. Let’s face it – I was the pleaser. My twin desires to do well and to please instilled in me a rather suspect work ethic. Combined with my ‘look at moy’ attitude, I must have driven my school friends crazy.

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Passion in life is reward enough: success is optional

The past two years have been the best I can remember.

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I have consummated my passion for France and my passion for writing in one 24 month period. First I ran away to France for six months. Then I applied for the professional writing course of my dreams. Then I got in! I’m more than halfway through and I never want it to end. This story was first published in the February/March issue of The Victorian WriterDavid Brooks, columnist for The New York Times, once said:

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Ocean swim at Lorne Pier-to-Pub an unlikely cure

A classic DIY tale of fixing something that’s been broken.

An edited version of this story first appeared as ‘Not Drowning, Waving’ in The Big Issue in December 2016.

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On the second Saturday of every new year, the waters around Lorne heave and churn like a deep fryer of boiling oil with a wire basket-load of chips tossed onto its surface. People pay money to be one of those chips.

The Lorne Pier-to-Pub is the world’s biggest ocean swim race with entries now capped at 5000.

The race has been going for thirty-six years. Organisers introduced a ballot system after 2008, when all available places sold out on the first day of registration.

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