David Bowie

David Bowie

Let’s scroll back in time to early 1983 where I am twenty one, in my final year at London University and holding a Saturday job at a small, exclusive bridal and ball gown shop on the Fulham Road to help make ends meet. It’s late February and for once I am unusually early for work. Graham the boss has yet to arrive, so I am standing on the doorstep, looking out down the peacefully quiet, deserted road. A man turns the corner. Even though he is a long way off, I can tell that this is no ordinary man. He is a vision – with a shock of perfectly platinum blonde hair and a very expensive, long navy coat. Even at this distance I can tell that the coat is superlative because of the way it hangs and flows around him as he walks, almost in slow motion...

Being human

Being human

  Harry the Rabbit is seven years old. He was bought as a present for our eight year old daughter. You know the story. She simply HAD TO HAVE HIM. Until, of course, his novelty wore off. Which was about six days. Then I assumed the onerous task of being Harry’s guardian. Harry spent the first three miserable years of his life staring at the garden shed, being pelted by rain and with only the prospect of a furtive hand inserting a carrot and gruel into his cage every day by way of entertainment. Unsurprisingly, he was quickly at Death’s Door, shivering, glass-eyed and listless. The vet pronounced him ‘beyond help’ and suggested that we take him home as the cheapest and kindest option. Nature would take its course. For two days Harry...

What’s happening?

What’s happening?

A lot of my friends are seeing their children off to university at the moment. Packing bags, loading cars, emptying cupboards. Trying to remember all the good advice they promised themselves they would give to their kids and mentally checking off whether they have done so. A frenetic burst of final activity all squashed into a matter of days – or hours. Then nothing. Silence. Wandering around the house listlessly, looking for something to do. Returning to their bedrooms to survey the devastation. Hoping that they’ll return. Knowing that when they do it’ll be different. They’ll be different. The dynamics will have changed. Everything will have changed. It’s my turn next year and I’m dreading it already. But in some ways...