A Note From Your Mum

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But once in a while, I get that same feeling I used to get before a gym class. That sinking-stomach nausea. That anticipation and dread. I just. Don’t. Wan’t. To. Do. It … And I don’t want to do whatever it is, really badly!

My New Name

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I’ve spent the last few days luxuriating in the possibilities of a name change. All the things it could mean to me.

Integrity

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… as the broad-minded 22-year-old that I was, I had recently decided I was going to increase my engagement with people by asking important questions. Very clever. In a casual, yes-I-am-this-deep sort of tone I asked Justin what he saw as his biggest challenge at the time. He reflected for a moment then smiled a wry but gentle smile. “Integrity” he said.

The Ready Cycle

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It always started the same way: I walked into a huge party. The party was in my honour. Of course it was. And I looked AMAZING. Of course I did. And as I flitted around the room being generally fabulous, I caught snippets of people’s conversation as I walked by. Every single chat revolved around me, and how gorgeous I looked, and how well I was doing, and how much everyone adored me. Of course they did.

Mustn’t Grumble

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There is a generation to which I clearly do not belong. A generation that is about to be lost to us. I have a lovely girlfriend who is a doctor and as part of her training she worked on a geriatric ward with people of the age I’m talking about. This story is one she told me recently, and I like to remind myself of it often – as a shot-of-reality, if you like.

The Dinner Party

This dinner party is full of questions. None of them answered. And it’s been going on forever. I would have liked to have gone to bed hours ago. At least.

The question of Why? is sitting in the corner on it’s own, ignored by the other guests who seem to skirt around it like a barnyard dance step. The question of How-Many? is already totally plastered and sprawled, legs-akimbo, under the drinks table. The question of Are-You-Doing-It-Right? has been at my side and in my ear since the gathering began.

No One Saw!

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Every day they can be seen shuffling down the main street, arm in arm. The ladies! Two women who could be in their mid-eighties, but could also be one hundred. Always laughing and talking at top volume to each other. Yelling at each other over their inadequate hearing aids. Arm in arm.

Worth Writing Home About

A good friend of mine wrote to me last week about how he had finally reached a stage in his career where he feels accomplished. He has, to some extent at least, mastered his craft. Before I closed the email, I marveled for a moment at the awesomeness of being able to say that you’ve mastered your craft. As I returned to work on the images for this month’s column I thought, “yeah … same!”

I Am Not, A Puppet

As I cast a spectacled eye around the waiting crowd I saw that each little bundle of perfection was doing something. One was practicing pirouettes, one was playing violin, one was rehearsing acrobatic tumbles, one was singing … I felt a sturdy ball of dread lodge itself in my throat.

Wright

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He stood in front of this class and he said “Playwright, dear friends, is spelled p-l-a-y-w-r-i-g-h-t … that’s ‘w-r-i-g-h-t’ not ‘w-r-i-t-e’ … you see, a play is not written … it is wrought!”. As soon as the words had left his mouth and its corners began to rise in a knowing smile, I was captivated. It felt like the most profoundly correct statement I had ever heard. It was a fundamental realization. It was right. Wright!