My eyes water. Wind, sharp and stinging, pushes my hood down and drives me back. I lean in, but not in a Sheryl Sandberg way. I've got 58 minutes and five tasks. Stocking fillers. A fancy gift box. A Secret Santa pick-up. Stamps. A book. Dark shapes huddle under hoods, rushing in all directions, maybe ...
We run along the path, glimpses of blue bobbing up and down in time with our steps. Down we go to the edge of the road, then we wait for the green man to stop the slow-moving but determined traffic. Across, and they keep running, but I stop for a moment, because there it is, stretching out ahead. ...
I promised myself (not just an in-the-air promise – an actual written down promise) that the next time I had a lull, I’d take a morning for myself. And here I am – almost all current deadlines met, book edits on the way but not here yet – doing just that. I’m getting my hair ...
Once upon a long ago, I used to get the Dart into work every now and then – back in the pre-kid, pre-crèche, pre-car-space days. It was not so much an adventure as a trial by fire back then, and as I wait now (12 minutes!) for my rush hour Dart to arrive, I wonder ...
The voice in my ear gives me the go ahead – I’ve completed my self-imposed time running on roads and forest paths, now Runkeeper says I can go onto the beach. I turn and run towards the gate. “Buongiorno,” says the security guard. “Buongiorno,” I reply, in my Irish accent. I keep my Italian accent for ...
We stand, then look back and see the others sitting. We exchange glances, we've been caught getting it wrong. Best we stick to the plan now - we stay on our feet. The front row do too, but maybe that's how it works. My eye is drawn yet again to the photo on the casket. I ...
We go off-road before we even start. Clara rushes across the grass, shrieking at the others to follow. They're going to climb a tree they say. We follow, a little behind. Watching three small figures running down the hill - I hear the opening bars of Little House on the Prairie in my head. I resist ...
The smell of one-sided toast with melted butter - it was always done on just one side under the grill, crisp and melty. Tea for the grown-ups, milk for us. Sitting by the fire that my grandmother had set when she got up at half six, as she did every morning. The smell of turf; ...
Driving along the coast road, the September sun is filtering through the white sky. Mixed weather is what the forecasters call it. Silence from the back; a Saturday football roundup on the radio. Tired after running all day, three small faces are watching but not watching. The sea stretches out beside us and the red and ...
Twenty-six years ago, my parents took the ferry to France and made their way down to St Jean de Monts, with four of us rattling around in the back-seat. The roof-rack that held our suitcases was covered in water-proof tarpaulin, secured with rope. My parents found their way by following a big, unwieldy map; cracked in ...