Being A Girl . Being A Mum . British Stuff . Cooking . My Father . My Mother
Other People’s Hams
On September 22, 2025 by Speranza
I’ve been a food enthusiast for most of my adult life and I have even been paid regularly to write about it. I enjoy reading about the history of food, what other people are eating and of course how to make it myself. It’s especially fascinating to me how many similarities, world-wide, there are. For example, every culture seems to have their own version of a “sandwich.” I’ll leave you to ponder examples for yourself.
The interesting thing is that as a child I was often branded as a “terribly picky eater” and it was widely hoped that being subjected to school dinners in the UK - a militaristic, character building ordeal - would be “the making of me” and presumably, would sort me out once and for all.
But first, let me offer my own defence and perspective.
British Stuff . My Father . My Mother . Self-Esteem
Shoes I Have Known
On May 3, 2026 by Speranza
Although I am not an introvert in the typical sense, I know that I am not a “joiner” either. I had a deep loathing for both Brownies and Girl Guides although I liked the accessories – who wouldn’t want that interlocking belt or that much coveted pencil on a retractable cord? But even though I kept forcing myself to join (book clubs, school committees, yoga) when the appointed night came around, I couldn’t bear the thought of going. Surprisingly then, it was unusual for me to attend not one, but three sessions of writing classes at our little library, where a wonderful writer – talented, gentle and quirky – was leading creative writing classes. One of the suggestions she offered for a daily writing warm-up was to choose any random word and write, stream of conscious style if we liked, about whatever drifted forward.
And to date, this method has never failed me.
Being A Girl . My Father . My Fiction . Writing
In Youth is Pleasure
On August 8, 2026 by SperanzaThe door has just slapped shut behind me and already I am shouting the news of my latest find, toeing off my shoes and undoing the paper parcel I’ve been carrying under my arm. My final sentence, delivered in breathless excitement is the price - only forty-five pence! My father however, looks up from his paper with the critical eye of a perfectionist and wants to know more before he will commit to an enthusiastic response: “Let’s have a look at that seam.”
It’s true. There is a thick, ugly smear of amber coloured resin which bisects the young girl and her cloak. It’s also tricky to guess what the original colour of the statue would be, since the overall effect is an oily grime and my hands still feel mealy just from handling her in the shop. The antique store owner, a Mr. Corrin, is a friend of mine if that is what you call the relationship between a fourteen year old girl and a 76 year old respectively. Mr.Corrin is tall, stately and wears a never ending series of silky cravats. His thick, wavy white hair is always combed straight back and he has recently confided to my mother (over a cup of tea in the shop, served in vintage china cups) that it was refreshing to see such a girl as myself, always polite, well spoken and genuinely interested in antiques. “Not like some of them around here,” he intoned darkly, patting his hair in place with an exaggerated shudder.
