Just Me And My Flip Flops

                                                               Dads Funny things aren't they? So many different feelings for them at so many different times of your life. Early years: eager for daddy to come home from work so you can tell him every detail of your school day, who pulled your hair, exactly how rank the liver and bacon was for lunch, having a full-on strop when he pretended to eat your last jelly baby. The teen years, the "wait till your father gets home" fear, the look that told you maybe no, you wouldnt be stepping out the front door "dressed like that", the sharing a love of music & '"educating" him on the genius of the Pet Shop Boys, Blondie & Adam Ant, the same as he educated you on the likes of Sinatra, Sammy & co. The lifts to here there and everywhere, the coming to get you in before yo...

It's not often that I'm reduced to tears in a supermarket. In fact, it's probably only happened two times before today. One of those was Christmas Eve Eve, 23 December, a couple of years ago, when our local Sainsbury's had run out of sprouts! My tears were not sad for the impending absence of miniature cabbages from my festive feast, but laughter induced tears from witnessing what appeared to be the end of the world for some fellow shoppers and their total disregard for the true meaning of the season, in their fight over the last few bags of those little green gasballs of delight. The second, some crazy shopping shenanigans with my Boo, my equally crazy daughter with whom I have a shared humour wavelength which is quite dangerous in certain scenarios, such as supermarket shopping. Again it was Sainsbury's and again they were tears of laughter. Today, however, was different. On more than one note. The store of choice was Lidl. Easter Saturday lunchtime, fairly...

I'm at the beach. It shall remain nameless so as to keep its anonymity. You see, I am the only European here. It appears yet to be discovered by tourists. At least for today. In fact I am the only person sat here on the actual beach itself. Just me and my flip flops. The water lapping at my feet. There are Mauritians here, lots. It would appear a 'troisieme age' (senior citizen) outing. At least one bus load, maybe two. Scattered in small groups under the cooling shade of the filao trees behind me. Occasionally they'll take stroll in the shallows, ladies in twos or threes, chatting. Or alone, lost in their own thoughts. All hoisting their sarees above the waves, but no higher than their knees. "Bonjour, ça va?" They ask as they pass. "Corec merci et vous?" I reply. The conversation has begun. Mauritians love to talk and of course assume by my brazen start that I am fluent in their local patois. I'm not. Despite understanding so much,...

I'm back in the country that stole my heart... 29 years and 1 month ago I first stepped foot on this island paradise - and saw that same view above - little did I know then what treasures it would behold. It was pure chance me ever coming here. My dad always told me life is a game of chance. I'm with him on that. It was chance because, despite working in the Reservations & Ticketing department at the World's Favourite Airline and travel geography being 'my thing' and despite knowing the IATA 3 letter code, how long the flight was as well as being able to tell you the cost of an off-peak super apex return fare and the dates you could travel on it, despite my love of my atlas, until that momentous October day way back in 1989 I had no idea where Mauritius was! 29*10'S 57*31'E the Republic of Mauritius is an island nation situated in the Indian Ocean, 1200 miles off the southwest coast off the African sub-continent. The next country to the west is...

Is fighting over the wishbone still a thing? Or is that yet another memory of yesteryear committed to the memoirs of those of us whose childhood straddled the 70s? Those of you aged under 40 are probably wondering "What the bloody hell is she wittering on about now?" But believe me, it really WAS a thing! Sunday roast done and dusted, I'd watch the chicken carcass  & its hidden wishbone treasure be popped in a pot to be boiled up with an assortment of root vegetables to make a soup for Monday. An hour later and mother had scraped every bone clean: the prized wishbone was put up high on the kitchen shelf, out of reach of desperate young hands, to dry out. Monday - and it's soup - came and went. The wishbone stayed put.  I knew that because if I stretched on tiptoes, I could see it. Just. As far out of reach as the fairy atop the Christmas tree. It just sat there. Silently. All wishboney. Tuesday. Home from school, "Is it ready yet mum?" ...

Do you ever wish life had a || button? You know, when you just need to stop. || Pause everything. It could be because everything is going so well: the perfect day, the perfect week. Sunshine, good health, good fortune, family, love, luck, a holiday, long hot summer days, happiness. We all have those moments when everything is spot on, life couldn't be any better than that moment right then, right now. You're skipping your way through life like Pippy Longstocking. Life. Is. Good!  So good that you just want to gently press that pause button, smile, let out a long sigh & take time to observe all the good things in your life. And you don't want that moment to end. You wish you could bottle it, store it away amongst the harvest of apples or homemade pickles for a time when life is less abundant of the good things. || Or it could be that life is doing its darnedest to break you right now and you just need some respite from all the nonsense & ch...

I've always had a fascination with maps. I think it started with my 1st childhood atlas. I'm not sure if it was a hand-me-down from the boys or my very own. It's history is irrelevant. I loved it. Yes, a book. I was obsessed with reading. This book, that book, any book, all books, cereal boxes! I loved to read. And I loved maps. So a book full of maps - bliss! A few years ago I stumbled upon a book written by Ben Fogle, he of that very early reality TV programme Castaway where a group of 30 odd strangers were cast away on the remote Scottish island of Taransay to live together and build a community. The first few pages of that book, The Teatime Islands could almost have been written about me rather than, as it was, Ben. Memories of laying front down on the floor Sunday teamtime, atlas open, fascinated by the far flung corners of the world and for him in particular, the British Overseas Territories. We'll come back to that a bit later. The world always looked so sm...