Six of us are sitting round a table at an annual charity quiz. This local charity is an admirable one and, obviously we all applaud the good work it does but, once we’ve got the raffle tickets over with, things start to shake down a bit.
I’m on a three-day course on writing short stories in London.
I'm sitting in my garden on a sunny bank holiday, drinking a cup of nice strong coffee and talking to a friend on my mobile phone.
I’m not brilliant at remembering what temperature different things should be, which is why, if my husband takes a thermometer out of his mouth, shivers violently, wipes the sweat from his brow and says “aaah… 40.3 ….” he might as well be reciting limericks in Urdu for all the sense it makes to me.
I’m just six weeks away from a brief holiday in warmer climes, and the cushion – nay, small armchair – of fat around my midriff shows no signs of melting in the spring weather.
Doesn’t time fly when you’re enjoying yourself? I think, when I hear that our coalition government is already one year old.
“If you pass me the bin bags,” says my husband leaning in at the back door, “I’ll do your bins for you.”
I’m sitting in a bar in a small town in Romania with a handful of journalists who have come to report on an emerging tourist destination.
I’m on a short business trip to Germany with a bunch of strangers, and we’re between flights, sitting in an executive lounge in Munich airport, courtesy of our hosts.
It might be a sign of advancing age or retreating patience, but I’ve reached the point where my deepest held convictions have sunk without trace.
