When I was a kid I used to write novels.

Well. Let’s be honest here, I used to create ill-thought-out chapters of novels that I fantasised would magically turn into full blown books.

I crafted plays in my mind, and forced my obliging parents to watch my one woman shows (oh the joys of being an only child).

I even remember one point my father created a ‘word of the day’ game for me. A chart in which he tried to increase my feeble vocabulary in an effort to nurture my young passion for the English language. (Side note; My dad is an ambitious man, and I strongly recall words like ‘Disestablishmentarianism’ featuring …when I was eight.)

Words used to be my play toys, and I’m not sure when I lost them. But I did.


Maybe it was when they became associated with grades and big red scribbles (usually around my poor understanding of the difference between there, their and they’re). Or perhaps it was when the books I read became tarnished with judgement, with guilt of what I should be reading rather than what I took pure pleasure from.

No matter the reason, I’m here to claim them back. And in-turn (hopefully) bring back this blog.

It’s been dormant under layers of life. Under the age-old tale of ‘too busy’. But in a world of working late, crack-of-dawn exercise classes and more to do’s than I can fathom, I need a play thing to stop me drowning in a vat of self pity. (A play thing and a glass or Merlot.)

I need to make time to dabble in the dreams of an eight year old kid, and rediscover my words.

You never know, maybe my dad can bring back the word chart for me to devour daily too. Although I should probably master my there, their and they’re before that.


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