Today it is 1,000 days since Steve died. It feels right to acknowledge this somehow, at least by writing something. I don’t feel inclined to go and spend time by his grave, unlike at the more ancient markers of time, when the seasons turn at the solstices; I’m always drawn

  Photo credit: Rachel Wallace Photography Day 271. Almost nine months into this new existence. The last couple of weeks have been difficult. I’ve been feeling unwell, symptoms of a bad cold which are, apparently, also symptoms of someone double vaccinated who has contracted the Delta variant. A lateral flow

    Love writ large. That’s something I heard a passer-by say quietly as they walked along Albert Embankment this week. They were walking along the National Covid Memorial Wall, with tears running down their cheeks. Thousands and thousands of others have walked the 500m length of the wall of

Years ago, in 2008, I was crew on the Spirit of Fairbridge for the Tall Ships race. Spirit was a beautiful 92’ schooner dedicated to giving disadvantaged young people new opportunities in life and being part of her crew was a huge privilege – and an unforgettable experience. I was

  We couldn’t have children at Steve’s funeral ceremony. Covid restrictions on numbers meant that we had to be ruthless in paring down the people allowed to be present, and there were so many whose connections with Steve went back years, we made the judgement call that they had to

‘Communitree’ – artwork created by young offenders at HMP Cookham Wood Steve and I came across an exhibition of work by young offenders while we were in Anglesey in 2018 and this piece caught my eye. One of the things that has surprised me the most over the last months is

In amongst all the swirling newness of life without Steve, there is also an extraordinary amount of stuff that sits silently waiting to be attended to. The stuff that he accumulated in his life. Mostly, it’s his clothes. Clothes are hard. Clothes are memories, of where they were bought and

A personal story of grief There is a beautiful little book by Baptist minister Richard Littledale, called Postcards from the Land of Grief which my friend Clare mentioned to me a few weeks after Steve died. I recognise that description, with a jolt of familiarity – ‘the land of grief’.