Journalist and freelance writer
One day, after years interviewing strangers for work, I started wondering what it would be like to interview my friends. My husband, who is responsible for stopping me when I get a crazy idea, encouraged me to pursue it.
I decided to limit myself to one-hour interviews, and aim for twelve participants. I told them I’d change their names, but warned that because of their connection to me, some readers would still identify them.
There’s a superstition among knitters, called the “sweater curse”, that giving a hand-knitted jumper to a sweetheart will lead to a breakup. But my grandmother and mother could argue that the opposite is true: knitting can help stitch people together.
The first present my grandmother gave my grandfather, which he received in the post for his seventeenth birthday, was two knitted vests and a knitted cardigan. “The first thing I thought was: how long does it take to make three? Three!” Grandad recalls. He’s almost as astonished now as he was then.
(more…)My phone is set to silent when the message arrives. Later, when checking the time, I see it previewed on the screen. I forget all about the time.
It begins with a line of text, but what I notice first is the emojis: three lines of identical skulls. The text (“Have you heard of the black death. This is what it dose.”) would be threatening if it weren’t for the grammar and the spelling—reminders that its author, an earnest boy with a vast imagination, is only eight.
(more…)The house next door goes on the market within weeks and sells within days. The plum tree in the front yard ripens.
I think of Byron—white hair, blue eyes, a gardener’s skin, a gardener’s hands—who loved to share and hated waste; who offered us its fruit day after day.
(more…)I’m pregnant with our third child when I read Marlen Haushofer’s 1963 novel The Wall. It’s a terrifying thought experiment where the main character is confronted with the possibility she’s the last human being alive.
As she documents her fight for survival, I wonder if I’d have the will to carry on if everyone I knew was dead and I had no hope of ever seeing or loving another human again. I suspect every remaining joy in the world would suddenly lose its lustre. But why?
