Yesterday, was Teddy's 15th birthday. I really didn't think he was going to make the date, but he did. Bless him. Several months ago, having attended vets appointments and a heep of medication - I honestly thought 'game over'. And yet, he's plodded on.

I was never a dog-person. I never grew up with dogs. I only knew dogs from visiting other people's homes. There was Midge, the Jack Russell next door. Benji, the black poodle of a school friend and the beloved Sheba, a family friend's collie dog, who I remember from my primary school days. That was it. I didn't run towards dogs as other children did. They didn't come to me either so I suppose all was fair.

I was a cat person. I asked for a cat at the age of seven or eight and was told 'no'. I came from a no pets household, apart from two tortoises allowed to plod around the garden. I rectified that rule as soon as I had a home of my own. I moved out 1st July 1994  and by the September, I had two rescue kittens - true moggies from the Cats' Protection League. I was happy with my numerous cats until I reached 40. I then wanted a dog. 

I'll change that line: I needed a dog!

I knew nothing, so sat browsing the internet reading up on various breeds. Finally, I found a breed list that showed various aspects - the pros and cons for each breed. So me being me, I read through each with the intention of making a note of any breed that ticked all my life-style boxes: easy to train, intelligent, resilient health-wise, playful but calm and easy to groom. I sat for three hours reading through each breed - in my head I knew I loved the Dalmatian, the rough collie, the old English sheep dog ... even the St Bernard! But we hadn't the space for such a hefty dog - though I always make a point of fussing them when I spot one. After hours of reading through the breeds, I'd finished my homework. Task: done and dusted! I had just one breed written down - miniature poodle. I was as shocked as anyone. A poodle couldn't possibly be my match. Then I thought back to the nicest dog I knew as a teenager - Benji, the black miniature poodle. He was gorgeous. My search for a dog stayed there mainly, and I'll admit it, because of the haircut. That pom-pom puffy look was not my thing. I couldn't believe my list didn't contain a Dalmatian, the rough collie - not even my St. Bernard! 

My nan had poodles when I was a child, not that I remember them, though I do believe one jumped up and scratched my face, which you can see on my first school photograph. I couldn't see myself walking a poodle. Then reality kicked in. I was being prejudice based on a haircut. What if the haircut was different? What if, I could have all the elements of this breed without the bouffant! I started to watch Youtube, my trusted aide in life. There were plenty of other ways to cut a poodle's hair (they don't have fur) which eliminated my ick! That was it, once I'd seen the Teddy cut, the sweet-heart cut, the puppy cut - I was in. I did more homework over the weeks and eventually started searching the web for a breeder with pups. I found a breeder, in Stirchley, Birmingham and the rest, we shall say is history.

There have been many days in fifteen years, that despite there being some eight billion people on this planet - I've only wanted to spend my waking hours with Teddy, the poodle. Seriously. In fifteen years, this little dog has never once reacted negatively towards me, shown anything other than unconditional love and that tail has never stopped wagging - lord, knows what batteries he has fitted!

Yesterday, 26th April 2026 was a day I didn't think I'd be granted - so I made the most of it. We ... yes, we had cake for breakfast, we both had a McDonalds - his was a plain beef burger and we took the longest and slowest walk around a bluebell wood at Calke Abbey. The sun shined and we made memories despite his gammy joints, his deafness, his cataracts, his poorly heart and lungs. Whatever the next few months may bring, I'll take comfort in having celebrated his 15th birthday - this little dog has given me more pleasure and comfort than he'll ever know. I often say "if people had the hearts of dogs this would a truly wonderful world!" And, I mean it!

Followers will know that last year I had a garden that I'd known for twenty two years, this year I have a different garden. This year's garden belongs to an Edwardian terrace, so is tiny or 'bijou'. A miner's cottage after all, built to provide the basics for a family. The correct term for the garden would be a yard, so I have just enough space to home my plant pots on the lower paved section, a position that I can see from my writing room window. Though sadly, I can't see my bird table or bird bath. I have a potted tree that takes up a fair amount of space, which has sprung into life, yet again. But I make the most of everything I have, that is me!

The last few weeks has seen the transformation of a bare yard into a bright, happy space as my violas and bluebells have bloomed. On warm days, my three tortoises have plodded around their enclosure munching on dandelions and the dog has played ball, at every opportunity. This year's garden reminds me of my first garden back in 1994, when everything grew in a ceramic pot and was lovingly watered by me each night. As I write this, I can hear the birds chirping. Yesterday, I had a black bird and its scruffy youngster land on the fence panel right by my writing window - as if chastising me for slacking on my feeding duties! I immediately apologise and redeemed myself with a hunk of torn bread.

​I believe in C.S. Lewis' quote, though I would add animals to the list. Humans, not so much - sadly,  the majority have let me down in life but animals never have!  

You won't be surprised to hear that my garden extends into the house. I have a collection of aspidistras that I tend alongside my 30 year old, bird of paradise plant, which I showed you recently - when she bloomed. I have several smaller plants which fill the gaps, my peacock plant, my prayer plant and a jasmine plant - who is proving to be a complete diva, much like my peace lily! A recent addition to my collection, is a small Easter cactus called 'Simon', who was propagated from a huge specimen from Tamworth library, who sadly rotted after many, many years residing in the fiction section. Thankfully, one of the librarians was green-fingers enough to save and propagate sections of leaf - resulting in my tiny cactus, who is thriving. I believe all the youngsters have their parent's name, hence 'Simon' was a gift from the library. 

We all reside at the miner's cottage, quietly doing our thing each day. I write and teach, Teddy sleeps and plays while the plants, indoors or out, slowly bloom and offer beauty to my world.     

In recent weeks, I have been editing my current project. It is proving to be tough going for me. I dislike structural edits; I prefer the draft 1 writing and the imaginative flow. So, to sit, ponder then move entire scenes, paragraphs and amend timeline is not my bag! It is proving to be slow going. Some days, or nights, I dive into a session and am pleased with the outcome but other times I leave my desk feeling frustrated by my project. I keep plodding hoping that a happy moment occurs and all is well after that point but it is not happening for me. I’m finding it a slog, which it always is for me, but it seems to be more so on this project. I am fighting the urge ‘to shelve’ it but I know that I can’t … I need to finish this book. I must finish this book. I need to complete the project as I have a brand-new sparkly book-baby calling my name from 30th April. Please don’t remind me that the date is 17th – I can do without yet more reminders.
 
My plan of action is to continue to plod, obliterate the obstacles that keep snagging my time and refuse to fail (by shelving this project). 
I’ll continue to switch my ‘office’ between home and local coffee shops – each day brings me closer to the final ‘The end’ and a polished manuscript, of which I’ll be proud.

'If I ever have girls' by Daragh Fleming
 
If I ever have girls, 
they’ll be feared by weak men. 
But to everyone else they’ll be 
a consistent friend. 
They’ll never lack meaning. 
They’ll be gentle and kind, 
While breaking every glass ceiling.
They’ll take up space, 
And they’ll like what they like. 
They won’t be taught to reduce 
themselves or hide.
My girls will be feared by weak men.
They’ll demand respect because they
deserve it. 
They will always know love, 
Never feel they have to earn it. 
They’ll know their value is inherent, 
Nothing to do with their looks. 
They will be leaders, be healers, right 
wrongs, write books. 
They’ll be mothers one day if they so 
choose, but their value won’t be defined by 
the use of their wombs. 
They will be whatever lives in their 
hearts, 
And they will know dreams are there
to be chased from the start. 
My girls will know poetry and song,
And know I will listen when 
something feels wrong.
They’ll learn that ‘women are too emotional’ 
is an original lie, 
And they will not grow up with a 
father who refuses to cry. 
Yeah, my girls will make some weak
men shake in their knees. 
They won’t be the women society expects 
They’ll be the women society needs. 

Link: to listen to Daragh perform his poem



'If I ever have boys' by Daragh Fleming
 
If I ever have boys they’ll be dangerous men.
They’ll smile at dogs and children and be a tonic to friends.
They’ll send flowers to their mother just because and 
they’ll be a shoulder for many when the world is too much.
My boys will know that vulnerability is strength
They won’t bottle anger, they’ll learn how to express
They won’t let pride be the reason they hide, 
wearing masks while they’re hurting inside
My boys will be dangerous men
They won’t stay silent even when it’s uncomfortable for them
They’ll learn that their actions are more effective than words 
but they’ll use their voices to amplify the unheard
They’ll know that love isn’t something to perform
They’ll see beauty in all of its forms
My boys won’t grow learning to emotionally hide
They’ll reshape masculinity into something they like, make it softer to touch
They’ll know that who they are is more than enough
They’ll know that being a man doesn’t mean carrying the burden alone
They’ll learn that an emotional man is a man fully grown
They won’t settle everything with violent swings
They’ll live in truth even when that truth stings
So yeah, if I ever have boys they’ll be dangerous men
but the danger they’ll be, won’t be the one society meant.

Link: to listen to Daragh perform his poem

Today, I took a road trip to Hampshire to visit the grave of Florence Nightingale - one of my heroes in life. The visit has been on my 'Bucket list' for many years and finally, I managed it. It was a long drive but on arriving at the narrow country lane, which is literally the breadth of one car wide, I arrived at the church of St Margaret of Antioch, Wellow, Hampshire. 

I found a quaint graveyard, the grass was being cut whilst I visited, filled with bird song. I didn't need to search for the grave in question, as photos show, it stands out amongst the aged headstones. I knew what I'd find: four panels each detailing the immediate Nightingale family. Father, mother, sister and finally, the fourth panel which I found so humbling, inscribed with simple initials and dates

I remember leaning about Florence Nightingale in primary school, my interest has never waned. I've attended talks about her career, viewed the painting 'The Mission of Mercy: Florence Nightingale' in the National Gallery depicting her and even lived in Atherstone, Warwickshire, an area that she visited on several occasions to see her friends, Charles and Selina Bracebridge. The story goes that the towns' people were given the day off work to greet her at the train station, Nightingale was overwhelmed and taken aback by the crowd and brass band playing so, refused to leave the train carriage due to her shyness. Bless her. To honour her connections with the area, two streets were renamed Florence Close and Nightingale Way both near to bracebridge's original home in Holt Road.  

Walking around the impressive marble headstone, I did apologise to the aged grave that is situated beside theirs - it's obviously trampled upon as visitors gain their photographs. I also spotted my favourite flower, bluebells blooming early. 

Over the last twenty-five years, I've dug into the history of my family tree. I've used a commercial website to find snippets of information that have connected stories and facts that I heard as a child. One of the most endearing pieces of family history that I have realised involves a diamond ring. I was given this diamond ring, a three stone setting, a week and day before my fifteenth birthday back in 1986, by my paternal grandmother, Dorothy. 
 
Every Sunday, she used to be collected by my mum and join us for Sunday lunch, a read of the Sunday tabloid and its accompanying supplement and a return journey back to Burntwood, in Staffordshire. This particular Sunday, she called me over to her array of shopping bags and presented me with a diamond ring for my birthday present. Her manner wasn’t sentimental, but matter of fact, so she presented me with a ring with a tone of 'here, this is for you’. I was overwhelmed. 
 
A week and a day before my fifteenth birthday and I was being given a gorgeous diamond ring. My father looked on, my mother watched and I was flabbergasted. I remember saying 'thank you', over and over again. It was too much to take in. She explained that the ring hadn't been bought for her, but had belonged to a young woman who needed to take her children back to Ireland. The lady needed money so asked my nan for help and gave her the ring in exchange for cash, saying ‘I'll come back for the ring but if I don't you sell it and get your money back’. The lady left and never returned. My nan said she always hoped the lady and her children made it safely back to Ireland. I’ve worn that ring ever since, for 40 years apart from a two-week absence while it was resized and cleaned in the Jewellery Quarter, Birmingham.

Tonight, I have done a little more digging in to the family tree and have learnt that my nan's father, James Thomas was buried January 1935, a week and a day before her fifteenth birthday. I'm sitting here in shock. To think that she endured such loss a week before her 15th birthday yet, gave me the gift of diamonds, a week and day before mine. I hope my nan gained enjoyment and comfort knowing that my fifteenth birthday was so different to hers.