Continue reading “Reading Between the Tiles – One Liner”
When an upside down cast iron bath shoots out the front door like a bullet, clearly something is wrong.
Written words never made sense to dad as a child. Letters jumbled off the pages, morphed into shapes and pictures, became visualisations and plans for gadgets. At the age of 12 he built his own bike from bits and pieces, and the urge to fix and construct, rode away with him.Continue reading “Reading Between the Tiles – Cold Feet”
Continue reading “Reading Between the Tiles – The Gift”
A time-lapse portrait of an elderly couple reveals itself through the half-open doorway; each vertical slice shakily, achingly, shuffling to the next.
Continue reading “Why I Write Memoir”
I write because when I tilt my head the words fall out.
Continue reading “Photographing Elderly Parents, the ethics of”
Permission to take and use these photographs was essential from the outset. That required ensuring that my elderly parents understood how my images might be used – publicly on blogs and perhaps in print.
Continue reading “The Little Blue Boat”
‘Careful’ said mum, as the little blue boat rocked in my pudgy fingers. Great paddle of her hand scooped it up; beached it back on the shelf and left me adrift in a sea of sentiment.
Continue reading “Creature Comforts”
Sara* had come to live with us a few months prior. Arrived on our doorstep, hidden between layers of oversized black clothing, with downcast eyes and nowhere else to go.
So we invited her in.
Continue reading “The Lilac Timetable”
When I woke up Granny had grinned at me from the glass on the washbasin, now her teeth are wedged in a piece of marmalade toast. I know she won’t bite but am wary of this person who a week ago was a relative stranger.