I contemplate the stick of celery in my hand; hesitate to put it into the juicer along with the apples, carrot, lemon, ginger and pineapple. It’s too early. I never thought I’d say this but there is definitely a time of day when it is just too early for celery. I’ve just found the title of my next poem, though – Too Early for Celery!

Swollen knees refusing to descend stairs are a painful reminder that mind and body are no longer the same age.

16h3- … a boy. 16h31 a man. How time flies.

‘I’m really stuck on this maths problem. I can’t work out whether I should double this figure or multiply it by two!’ Sometimes, just one observation from a tired teenager can make one’s day!

As part of the build-up to the Olympics, Rebecca informs me that she would very much like to see some ‘sophisticated’ swimming!

Early morning run. It’s pitch black. With each step I hope the ground remains in front of me. Relief every time my heel finds the tarmac. Running with blind faith. I must run through life like this more often.

Beautiful and humbling words adorning the blank greetings card fill my soul with blessings for a wonderful friend and heart-warming pride. Are  those words really meant for me?

Frozen hands cling to hat and hood, fighting for relief from driving rain as feet slash through puddles, pounding the ground to the mindful beat of I can I can I can

Tormented winds plead their case, beg for understanding; stained glass catches their tears; solid wooden doors refuse to listen.

There’s a sense of organised bedlam in the kitchen. The smoke stampedes out of the oven and heads for the fire alarm. I pull out the tray to access the sizzling fare. A teenager laughs from across the room, comments ‘Wow! Look at that row of sausages!’ It’s pretty impressive, actually – thirty-four sausages plus bacon plus … I’m smiling through the chaos, doing well, catering for an unexpected extra four hungry kids for New Year’s Day brunch. Brunch...