There was a fragility that morning.

The mist that seeped slowly across the ground and touched the water with its silken fingers was fine and gentle. The slightest breath of wind would send it scurrying back from whence it came.

Birds wheeled in the sky. Their plaintive cries echoing in the still warm air as they turned and danced with their brethren.

I recall the coolness of wood beneath my feet as I tiptoed to the bow and took my place, watching as the backwaters slowly shrugged off the night and arose to a new and beautiful day.

Images emerged. People, once ghostly shadows in the pale dawn light, now real and human in the replenishing sun, emerged and set about their working day. Fishermen in their long shallow craft, Mothers in bright saris encouraging recalcitrant children to run along to school along the narrow banks that lined the canals.

The cup of tea.

Gently sipping it, watching as others, fellow travellers, shook off the sleepy eyed look to view, with fresh wonder, gods own country.

This was paradise.

This was peace.

Memories are all I have; all we have. But my god they’re so real and so vivid. I feel the sun, I hear the birds, I see the children.

My memories.

To be cherished.

Better times

Better times

Oh how I dream of better times,

Soft white sand,

Palm trees playfully dancing in the breeze,

That sense of freedom,

That all is somehow right with the world,

An escape from the darkness,

Those drab days of home,

Grey mood matching grey skies,

That feeling of abandonment,

Solitary confinement,

Both within and without,

An escape,

Golden light at end of darkest tunnel,

Sunlight, refreshing sea air,

Exotic scent of the orient,

The mysterious East,

Far from the conflicted West,

A place of hope,

A place I can be me again,

Better times,

May they come soon.

For all of us.


At the end

I’m tired.

Just been one of those weeks.

One of those weeks where you have to stop, albeit briefly and say enough enough.

I don’t like being ill, never have and never will. It’s frustrating and annoying and scary and when you’re Autistic it’s really disconcerting to be ill with something that you can’t quite identify.

I think, in my case, I’m just run down. I’ve just logged into work for the…I’ve lost count…63rd successive day?. They all blur into one if I’m honest.

I’m very tired. Physically because Fibromyalgia is such an insufferable illness to have, very wearing, very painful, very frustrating. I’m not sleeping apart from the odd couple of hours here and there. I’m worrying constantly about work and keeping up with things and my diets truly dreadful. I’m diabetic yet can’t eat healthily because my body simply won’t tolerate the kinds of foods I should be eating.

The idea of eating certain veg and fruit and not having carbs or sweet things throws me into a panic.

I feel trapped. Stifled, suffocated. Unable to move on, to plan, to look forward. I’m uncertain, anxious and nervous and I can barely look after myself these days.

I just survive.

I hope next week will be better. I hope for something good.

But I’ll still be tired.

So we’re ‘open’ again

4th July.

Some hairdressers have been open since midnight and I’ve already seen the pictures of long queues outside barber shops.


I despair of humanity. I despair because we lack common sense. The sun comes out and we dash to our cars and drive hundreds of miles so we can pile in with everyone else on a stretch of beach, frustrated that thousands have had the same idea as us and too lazy to take our rubbish home.

We add insult to injury because, rather than turn around and head home realising it was a darn fool idea in the first place, we just add to a bad situation whilst berating others for doing the same thing that we have.

Sure my hairs a bit longer but I can last a few more weeks. Yeah my eyes need testing but that’s in August as I’m not rushing to do that either.

I don’t drink so pubs hold zero appeal but people’s thirst for alcohol, which has been available in the shops during lock down, must be down to an attraction for a locally brewed cask ale, hitherto unavailable in said shops.

I just don’t get people. This selfish attitude that seems to be in complete contrast to our generosity when times are bad. This ‘me’ attitude that the world revolves around me and woe betide anyone who has the same idea.

I dread the fact we’re open again. Dread it. Just the sheer prospect of people, more people, being out and about.

I’d ask for restraint but, a bit like Black Friday, desperation has set in and what Jim wants, Jim will get and darn the next man!.

I’d ask people to be sensible but, I have my doubts they will be. I fear for overworked NHS and emergency services staff who have to deal with the drunks and the disorder that almost inevitably will follow.

Yes we are open again.

But I wish the door was ajar. Just enough for a glimpse, a controlled view, a sensible and reasoned approach.

But people need a haircut at midnight. And people need alcohol at 6.00am.


I don’t get it, never will.

Not even you

The clocks a ticking on the wall,

Counting down my life,

Witness to unhappiness,

Onlooker at strife.

The walls, I feel them closing in,

A solid, concrete vice,

How far I now have fallen,

From the days of Sugar Mice.

Confusion is at times the best,

My life has got to offer,

Devoid of gold and treasure,

I view the empty coffer.

My mind it fights a silent war,

Externally no sound,

No escape from inner hate,

For to it, I’m bound.

None can see the turmoil,

Fewer still would care,

For it would remind them,

Of a place they would not dare,

To go, for similarity,

Brings only further pain,

Sharing all afflictions,

Lessens, brings no gain.

My silent watcher taunts me,

It’s face, two handed sneer,

It cares not for my fate,

Or if my end be near.

I beat myself, I hurt myself,

It’s all I do deserve,

My strength in fighting back is gone,

In truth, I’ve lost my nerve.

I’m slipping slowly through the cracks,

To disappear from view,

And nobody could save me,

My love, not even you.