Dear Never



Dearest Never,

I’m writing this to you from a time and place where you seem impossible. But a time and place where I think of you endlessly all the same.

I daydream about your existence and wonder when and where you are (or whether you will even read this). Because I just can’t help but utter your name.

You are all of the things I dare not see; my fears, my dreams. You embody them all. And yet I cannot face you. The mere prospect of you plunges me in to the depths of despair. You are too much for me. But I realise that facing you is inevitable none the less.

And I know that when I do it will break my heart. I know that I will not be able to hide the broken parts any more. That my fears and my dreams will finally join us there and transform themselves in to so, so many regrets. It kills me to think of it.

So, for now, I will continue to take your name in vain. To use it to negate all that I am and all that I will ever be.

As always.



A distant dream…


I twitch and I am awake.

There is no blinking back to come around from a dream before rooting myself in reality because I know exactly where I am.

Flickering light half illuminates the room as a long forgotten film plays, almost silently, from the bookshelf opposite the bed.

It’s gone four am and I shouldn’t be here.

Your warmth radiates through the duvet and pulls me back, closer still. You are also awake but you don’t say a word. We both know what you should say. We both know I wouldn’t listen if you did. So, instead, I stay.

You smile. You sit up and turn on the bedside lamp before rearranging the cover to accommodate your new position. I shift my stance and sit up too. The bedside clock tells me that time is ticking by but still, not a word. We won’t be rushed. I take a sip of last night’s wine.

An eclectic selection of books are scattered on the floor amongst day old t-shirts and half drunk cups of sugary tea. Words read together that seemed to seal our fate. Shoes wait alongside an empty wine bottle, watched over by the shut door. The air is stale; stuffy and still, the stench of cigarettes and too much time hiding away.

You kiss me and I know this means I will have to go. You are right. You often were.

I close my sleepy eyes once more in a desperate attempt to cling to the night. A time when the world would stand still and all there would be, all that would matter, is you and I.

Things I have never finished (and those I simply failed to do)


I confess to being a little in love with Pintrest. However, only a little.

You see, I don’t really need it. My head has always been some kind of scrapbook; a collection of quotes, a montage of things to make-and-do, outfit inspirations, projects to pursue, tips and other things I might try and, somewhere, I’m sure, if you searched hard enough, even the odd recipe or two. Ideas don’t seem to be the issue.

But implementation all too often impedes me. I’m a dreamer not a doer. And, alas, here I am with a thousand or so things unfinished…

A painting of a boy


Have you ever been so head-over
-heels in love that the colours of the world come alive? Of course you have, haven’t we all? Well, I tried to capture them. And his features. Tried and failed of course. A blue canvas boxed away in a room at my parents house for ten years.

A haunted house

A project my childhood self embarked upon one summer holiday. I now have no idea why I was making it and, seeing as I failed to complete it, I am drawn to conclude that its only real purpose in the world was to kill my time

A diary


Every year I start at least one. My record is somewhere in the middle of March. That adds up to a lot of months missed.

A letter to my boyfriend the time he broke my heart

I am a letter lover. I get it from my mum. And when things go wrong (or sometimes right) I find my feelings best expressed when poured out on a page. He will claim my heart was never broken. He is probably right. He will stress it wasn’t his doing. Right again. But at the time I though that if I was able to write a letter that phrased my feelings in the perfect way he would change his mind. However, writing it took so long that I changed instead.

A map of my world

I have always wanted to plot the places that mean something to me. To mark milestones and make a record of the memories that that I know inside out. To me, there is something missing about the information a map should share. However, making one is a lot harder than it looks.

A decorated home


I never dreamt I would live in a house with white walls. And I don’t, they are beige. But empty, vacant, all the same. You see it simply seems too much to commit to any one of the oh-so-many schemes or themes our homes might be. Instead I carry unframed art work in the boot of my car. And now the prospect of a new home, another blank canvas…

A baby book

When I was pregnant it all looked so promising. I was so obsessed with that mystery growing inside me that I dedicated all my time to it. Then I gave birth and realised what a lot of time I once had!

The 30 day abs challenge


So simple in principle. So easy at first. So very, very dull.

An application to London School of Arts

A bid to break away from where I found myself and follow my dream. A dream I wasn’t brave enough to chase the first time. Maybe not even my dream at all.

Knitted toys


I had enough sticking power for one. It cost me a lot of tears (and very nearly my relationship!) but my daughter is the proud owner of a knitted bear. However, my promise to recreate this as a first gift for all of my pregnant friends has undoubtedly been broken. Sorry girls!

…The list could go on. And here I am with all of these fragments of unfinished things floating around. Some filling up cupboards, occasionally reminding me of their existence as I search out something more pressing whilst others simply drift through my mind and seek me out in the most unlikely of places. However, as diverse as they may be, the effect upon finding them is always the unwelcome common factor.

I feel a failure. I lack a sense of achievement. Why is my focus? My drive?

And, in turn, I dwell on this. I walk the aisles of the supermarket and search for a reason I failed rather than the soup I have been sent to get. I distract myself with what I might have done differently as I drive to work. I lose myself in planning for the next project as I pack my bag for the day ahead.

A dreamer who should be doing the day to day.

What might happen if you dare to dream?


Once upon a time there was a little girl who lived in a dolls house. It was only big enough for her, which was fortunate because that was all she had. And anyway, at the time, it almost felt too much as she sought solace from the big bad world she had been roaming through, wild and free. She found a place for everything and everything in its place. And bit by bit, day by day, the chaos of the world around calmed and she learnt to tame herself too. And then she taught herself how to dream…

But what happens when you get everything you’ve ever dreamt of? Are you happy? Does something feel missing? Or do you dare to dream of more?

This week I stood inside a house: a dream house. A house that the little girl never imagined might be hers. A board outside read sold because that dream house might just be mine.

But dare I dream? Dare I let go of fear and trust in faith? Dare I let my imagination turn impossibilities into hopes and wishes and watch my heart soar?

Because dreams don’t always come true. You hear about it everyday.

I think about that little girl. How she felt. How she behaved. The lessons she taught herself. I remember.

I quietly whisper to my heart and hold on tightly to my hopes with faith…


Beauty and truth

Art, Uncategorized

When I was a little girl I wanted to be an artist.

I would draw and colour and cut and stick and create… My first commissions were requests from friends to ‘do the people’ in their classroom projects. I took pride in my equipment; a well stocked pencil case with pin prick sharp colouring pencils and pens that I only ever lent to people who could swear on their life to colour with in the same direction. Summers were spent transforming rubbish rejected by the rest of the house into anything and everything else.


As a teen, photography was my medium. Never without my camera, I would observe my changing world from behind a lens. Documenting each day with snaps that, in the days before digital, I would wait patiently for before devouring. My bedroom became my gallery: ceiling to floor images spoke of my life, love and everything else.


Obviously, art became my favourite subject. Guided by my trusting teacher and in fierce competition with my close friend, I would experiment and explore. A setting of stacks of dated newspapers, the tinny sound of cheap speakers and the oh-so-lovely smell of white spirit became my sanctuary. I would lose myself in books and galleries as inspiration struck.


But it just didn’t stick.

From there I wandered. Lost my focus. Not quite falling out of love but I was certainly playing away. And then, scared to commit, I gave up on my childish dream.

But here I am now hooked on something else. Words flow and I realise, even without my dream, I’ve never broken that habit. Never mind what medium, art is just an outlet for searching for something in our own lives.


Something that is beautiful because it is true and greater than ourselves. Something that resembles our dreams.

The importance of sleep


Waking up in the wrong bed is always weird. There are those few seconds where you blink open your eyes and, somewhere between sleep and reality, you have to find your way. You feel strange sheets. You are aware of the light. You listen to unfamiliar noises and wait for your consciousness to catch up with you. And it feels difficult.

Because there is something important about a bed. It’s a place for vulnerability and rejuvenation and intimacy and privacy… After all, it’s where we go to dream.


I have always loved the work of Tracey Emin. I love the honesty. I love the openness. I love the beauty. I love the reflections. I love the strength. I love the words. And something about her work speaks to me personally. Like a shared secret.


In her work I see the importance of that space. That space between two words; dreams and reality. And I see the possibility of being reborn.

I am one of those people who needs sleep. Needs to go to bed early (the earlier the better I say), in my own bed, and sleep through without interruptions to awake feeling refreshed. I’m terrible if I am tired. And maybe that is why. Maybe each day to me is a fresh start, a new life and a chance to get things right.

I haven’t slept well this week. Too many things in my head. And, last night, this unfamiliar bed.



I’m looking for my dream home. Correction, we are.

After a day spent on Rightmove, endless phone calls to agents, visits to hopeful sellers and then follow up emails all whilst navigating my way around the Hertfordshire countryside on an iPhone with a rapidly dying battery and with the company of a grizzly nearly two year old, I am shattered. And I have come to the conclusion that dream homes don’t exist.

Except in your dreams.

My partner/the father of my child/the boy I live with (we aren’t married and I cannot help but struggle to find a name that fits!) wants a big garden, an en suit or second bathroom, at least three bedrooms, open plan living spaces and off street parking in a rural location. And he has been making sensible decisions and investing all he has in to property since the age of 21. So how can I compromise his dreams?

But the silly thing is I don’t care about any of this. Because this is his dream, not mine.

My dream is a feeling. A feeling that no estate agent can conjure up with deceptively well-shot photographs and strategic showings.

And then I know than I am prone to invest too much in feelings. And that I can be fickle. How will I know when I have found what I am looking for? What if I have already found it? What if I never do? If I find it, will it be enough?

But, in the meantime, we still need somewhere to live…