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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The Reluctant Grandmother

I have never been especially keen on the idea of being a grandmother.

Periodically my children would threaten me with it just for fun. I’m way too young, I’d say. Turns out I’m not as young as I thought. Or as immune to the lure of a newborn: first born of my firstborn, unwitting trailblazer of a new generation of my family, tiny repository of untold hopes and dreams.

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Photo by Janko Ferlič on Unsplash

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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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You can thank me later: How diywoman selected her own funeral music and saved her children hours of work

‘I’ve found this guy who turns CDs into vinyl.’

I came across this sentence the other day while looking up material for my ‘gap year’ memoir. It was in an email I had sent to a friend in February 2015. I didn’t know it then, but it marked the start of  my career as an occasional compiler of funeral music. Occasional as in ‘infrequent’. Funeral music is always ‘occasional’ in the other sense.

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