Jenny Burrell

There are two kinds of people in this world. There are those who stroll cheerfully into a dentist’s waiting room, flick idly through a three year old magazine and emerge, twenty minutes later, with a brighter smile and a complimentary toothbrush.

And then there are people like me.

For us a dentist’s appointment begins about three weeks beforehand. Every possible outcome is researched. I prepare myself for all eventualities, similar to someone having open heart surgery! The receptionist greets me with a cheery smile. She knows I’m a very anxious patient and insists that there’s nothing to worry about! Lovely sentiment! Completely unsupported by any evidence!

My latest adventure involved replacing the crowns on my two front teeth. Such an innocent sentence, like just popping out to have my two front teeth rebuilt. Back in a jiffy! But I knew what this was going to entail. Drills, suction hoses and a chair that reclined so far back that the odds of me choking to death would be one to ten on.

The dentist explained everything with calm professionalism. I nodded despite hearing little of what she was saying. Dentists have a wonderful ability to use reassuring phrases like ‘you might feel a little burning sensation when I inject into the top of your gum. I’ll do it slowly so that it’s not too uncomfortable’. She also mentioned that I might ‘feel a little pressure when I remove the old crowns’. If I felt any pain or discomfort I was to raise my hand. What she should have said was ‘we’re about to recreate the construction of the Channel Tunnel inside your mouth!’

The first challenge was the mould. Apparently they needed one for the temporary crowns so that I didn’t walk around for two weeks looking like Countess Dracula. This involved something resembling industrial bathroom sealant getting wedged firmly into my mouth. Not only was it enormous but also determined to squeeze itself into every crevice. I had to sit perfectly still, breathe calmly and resist the impulse to gag while the material set. My lips stretched into a startled goldfish impression. When it was finally removed and parted company with my teeth the noise sounded like pulling a wellie out of deep mud.

Once the chair had reclined sufficiently for my head to be almost touching the floor, a paper bib was tied around my neck and, as I clutched the chair handles tightly with both hands, the dentist asked, what for her was a perfectly reasonable question. ‘Are you comfortable?’ This was at the same time that my mouth contained three instruments, two gloved hands and what felt like a small garden rake!

Then came the drilling.

I know that dentists no longer use medieval torture devices, but, if they did, I’m sure they would have sounded exactly the same! The moment the drill burst into action my two forty year old crowns dug their heels in with the determination of two elderly tenants who’d been informed that their building was about to be demolished! They had no intention of leaving quietly. After four decades of loyal service they’d clearly decided that they were staying put until the bailiffs arrived!

The dentist remained calm. ‘I just have to persuade these crowns to come off’ she told me.

Persuade?

That wasn’t a gentle persuasion! It was full scale eviction! It came in the form of drilling, tugging and strategic wiggling. Every now and then she’d pause to inspect her handiwork while I lay there wondering whether she was removing two crowns or excavating an archeological site.

Suddenly there was the unmistakeable smell of burning. Perfectly normal if grilling a sausage, considerably less so when the smell was emanating from somewhere deep inside my mouth!

Now let me tell you about the water. There was an astonishing quantity of it! The suction tube was doing its very best but, with my legs up in the air and my head near the floor, it felt as if someone was spraying a garden hose directly into my face. Every few seconds another torrent would arrive and soon I became convinced that my chances of drowning had definitely overtaken my chances of winning the lottery! Every few seconds I was expected to swallow, breathe and remain still! I could picture the newspaper headline.

‘A local woman survives forty years with the same crowns only to perish in six inches of dental irrigation!’

You’re doing brilliantly, the dentist informed me, oblivious of the drama unfolding within my vivid imagination. What felt like hours later the atmosphere in the surgery subtly changed.

‘Aha’ said the dentist. One of my crowns had finally surrended! Its companion, clearly impressed and inspired by its partner’s heroic resistance, put up an equally spirited fight. There followed more drilling, more mysterious scraping, gallons more water and the ominous burning smell before the second veteran finally gave up the battle.

With the old crowns out of the way I made the fatal mistake of thinking that the worst was over.

It wasn’t.

There followed the delicate business of reshaping what was left of my teeth. I’d imagined neat little pegs had emerged from beneath the two crowns. Apparently not. The dentist explained that she needed to carefully contour them so that they would fit snuggly inside the temporary and permanent crowns. Contour turned out to be one of those innocent words that has a multitude of meanings. The drilling started again, followed by the deluge of water. I didn’t realise that dentistry was so precise because the contouring felt surprisingly intricate and took a long time!

The dentist appeared to be studying the stumps from every conceivable angle with the concentration of a master sculptor. Michaelangelo had David. My dentist had my incisor stumps! By this stage I was wondering if there would be anything left. I was sure that my two teeth had been reduced to a pair of vampire fangs. For forty years they had successfully anchored two crowns without even so much as a murmur!

Before the temporary crowns could be fitted there was the final mould required for the bespoke, made to measure, exceptionally highly skilled creation of my new Rolls Royce front teeth!

At last my temporary crowns were fitted and would be in place for two weeks. They came with a health warning. If I don’t want two orange front teeth I had to avoid tea, coffee, red wine, curry or any other food or drink which might discolour them.

As I wandered out clutching my post operative instructions and wearing my temporary smile, I decided that I had survived the ordeal rather well! I now faced a fortnight living on a diet chosen for its colour and not for its flavour or health benefits. It would also be comforting to know that my new crowns would have a brighter future than the rest of my body!👠

I always thought that most unfinished tasks were temporary. Little jobs waiting patiently for a spare afternoon and or a burst of motivation. One of the greatest myths of retirement is that I would finally have the time to tackle these little ‘domestic challenges’ I had put off for years! It’s a lovely theory but definitely impractical because these little annoying ‘challenges’ are remarkably adaptable creatures. Given more time and unsupervised they are prolific breeders!

I have, on numerous occasions, written ‘to do’ lists. Currently I don’t just have one, I have a few. I’ve categorised them, in the hope that this will help. There’s the ‘waiting for perfect weather conditions’ list, and ‘it’ll only take five minutes’ list, the ‘one thing could potentially lead to another’ list, the ‘can be adapted if necessary’ list and the ‘urgent’ and ‘non urgent list’. I even have a special note book so that they are all in one place. Somehow, by writing these lists, it feels like I’m making progress and am in control. Unfortunately these lists assume a stable universe. They also assume that one glorious day every box will be ticked. But the reality is anything but stable or glorious!

Every item on my list starts life as a single task. Left untouched some get promoted to a ‘project’ or even eventually reclassified as a commitment with a ‘to be completed’ date. Reading through my notebook I could call it a collection of domestic adventures. Perhaps that would inspire me? It’s actually closer to a catalogue of postponed good intentions!

I have also created a list for my husband. It wasn’t an unreasonable one, just a few jobs that have been quietly aging around the house like a fine cheese. He studied it carefully, nodded thoughtfully and then lost it! Now you can’t ignore a list that no longer exists. There was, however, one, brief, glorious moment when the list resurfaced. We gathered around it like archaeologists discovering an ancient scroll. He then, bizarrely, added another couple of jobs to the list before putting it somewhere ‘safe’. When I’ve enquired as to its whereabouts I’m told that he’s not sure but he’ll find it. With the passing of time he now has even more jobs to complete but no actual list. It’s the domestic equivalent of increasing the national debt while shredding the accounts!

The most well read and scruffiest page in my note book is the ‘five minute’ list. Number one is to sort out the drawer that won’t close. I’ve just moved it to the newly created ‘ten minute’ list because I need to go through the drawer and ruthlessly throw out scarves not used for a number of years. I love scarves. I’m loathe to throw any out!

Number two on the list is gluing back the arm of a china doll. This is a classic example of a five minute job with a caveat. First of all I have to remember where I put the arm. The super glue tube’s lid had welded itself permanently shut. I finally remembered to put a tube of glue on the shopping list but the supermarket had sold out. This job has celebrated its first birthday, seen a Christmas and now been transferred to at least three other lists.

Then there are the slightly longer jobs which require optimism on an heroic scale! The loft needs sorting out. I can’t climb into the loft myself. Actually that’s not true. I can get in but I can’t get out! The leap from the loft to the top rung of the rickety ladder petrifies me. My husband has to climb into the loft and pass the boxes down to me. It’s on his ‘to do’ list which is probably wherever old chargers, obsolete instruction manuals and single socks go to retire.

I need to delete thousands of old emails. I should be able to do this in half hourly chunks. On a number of occasions I have sat down with my phone and good intentions to start this onerous task. I spend half an hour reading conversations I’d completely forgotten about as I trawl back to 2014, which is where I ended my last clear out. Before long I’m laughing at office gossip, reminiscing about people I haven’t seen in years and wondering whatever happened to Sybil from HR. She always insisted that meetings would only take five minutes! Two hours later we’d shuffle out of the meeting room wondering what it was all about! Needless to say, I’m still in 2014!

On some dull grey days I sit in my office and glance over at the dreaded book lying on my desk. I start paging through it trying to find the tiniest bit of motivation. Perhaps I could sew the button on that shirt before the button gets lost. I do really need to make a start on the photographs before my husband and I shuffle off our mortal coils and no one else in the family would be able to identify anyone.

So, I’ve decided to make peace with my ‘to do’ list. It’s becoming less about unfinished tasks and more about the comfort of a long term relationship. We have our ups and downs. Sometimes I tick something off just to keep its spirits up, but it often retaliates by sprouting more new jobs! Some items have been carried forward for so many years that it would feel disloyal to complete them now!

Some people leave behind a legacy. I’ll leave behind my notebook. I’ll write its eulogy on the cover.

‘This book is not a record of failure, it’s an archive of optimism. I’m sorry we never got to the end of our journey together but you served me nobly, grew enthusiastically and steadfastly refused to give up. I thank you for your patience and am sorry that we never did complete our journey together.’

But currently there is a new addition to the list which has a ‘complete by’ date so if you’ll excuse me I really must ‘finish the blog about my ‘to do’ list’ before Monday the 6th July 2026!👠

If asked what humanity has achieved over the years, most people would point out magnificent cathedrals, great works of art, medical breakthroughs, moon landings or engineering marvels. Of course, these feats all deserve recognition but I think that history has overlooked some really important facts.

I have a confession to make. Museums usually bore me! I know this is not something I should share as it makes me appear empty headed, but there, I’ve said it! I cannot understand how people can spend hours gazing in awe at pottery fragments, ceremonial weapons or the remains of some poor soul who died around the invention of the wheel.

I have visited a lot of museums. My husband finds them fascinating. For me, they have become boring. There are only so many rusty swords, faded paintings, bits of broken jewellery or prehistoric bones that I can admire! I start going from exhibition to exhibition, nodding thoughtfully before secretly wandering if the cafe sells gluten free cakes. There is only a finite amount of time that I can pretend to admire an earthenware vessel circa 400BC.

At my last visit to a museum in Lima a couple of months ago, it struck me that, perhaps museums should expand their collections. Why only preserve antiquated artefacts from kings, emperors and brave warriors when we have fascinating objects that people live with every day. That’s where I came up with the idea of a ‘Museum of Ordinary Things’!

The first exhibit might contain remote controls. There would be hundreds of them, all shapes and sizes, held together with sticky tape, missing battery covers, or even just fragments circa the 1970s. Visitors would be invited to an interactive section where they would be presented with a television and a comfortable sofa. The challenge would be simple: find the remote. Visitors could spend hours trapped in a cycle of hope and despair. They might find lost coins, reading glasses and even dust to knit a small jumper. Very few would find the remote, a humbling reminder of humanity’s limitations!

The next exhibit could hold the ‘National Collection of Plastic Bags’. This is where plastic bags are carefully stored within other plastic bags. Scientists believe this nesting arrangement dates back many generations and remains a sacred tradition in British households. Nobody knows why they keep them but they dare not throw them away!

A particularly popular exhibit would be the ‘Drawer of Mystery’. Inside would be old batteries of an uncertain vintage, keys that fit no known lock, instruction manuals for appliances long since deceased, a screw that once belonged to something very important and many other exciting artefacts dating back to the late 1800s. It could, once more, be interactive where children could try and find keys to fit padlocks. Men could gleefully recognise miscellaneous tools and read through riveting instruction manuals recognising appliances popular before they were even born.

Women would move hastily on to the ‘Hall of Missing Socks’. This poignant exhibition could highlight poor, bereaved twins of a vanished sibling, condemned to spend eternity torn apart by fate, the solitary survivor, haunted by the empty space beside it. They would be carefully laid out in a drawer, on top and underneath a bed and on the floor. Comments by leading scientists would have studied this bizarre phenomenon for many years. Current theories would include wormholes or alien abduction. Washing machines and tumble driers would share some of the blame but remain innocent until proven guilty. This exhibition would be a tragic reminder that even the closest of twins could be cruelly separated, never to share another spin cycle together again. Like all devoted twins they would have hoped to grow old together, their partnership ending only when time wore them both thin, not by a cruel disappearance in their prime!

The list is endless. You could have the ‘National Archive of Takeaway Menus’, The Tupperware Lid Collection’, The Drawer of Greeting Cards’ and ‘The Shelf of Decorative Candles’. Another interactive exhibit could be ‘The Museum Cafe Queue Experience’.

The most emotional exhibition, which would come with a warning, could be called the ‘Mobile Phone Graveyard’. Held securely within glass cabinets, dozens of these ancient mobiles were once considered cutting edge technology. There would be a notice for those under thirty not to mistake them for archeological finds. The notice would also urge visitors not to laugh at these exhibits as their owners once believed that they proudly owned the very pinnacle of human achievement! These devices were designed in a time when phones were made for calls, texts were changed by the character and nobody expected it to communicate with a refrigerator or take a photograph. Particular notice should be taken of the Nokia phone, a device so indestructible that scientists of the time believed that it would outlive several civilisations and even the earth itself.

The penultimate room would house the British ‘Just in Case’ collection. This would consist of pieces of string, buttons, rubber bands, drawing pins, paper clips, reading glasses, chargers, etc. Visitors would be asked to allow extra time for this exhibit as most will be so excited to discover that they definitely had ‘one of those’!

This would bring us to the museum’s most valuable treasure, displayed under bullet proof glass and illuminated by a single spotlight, ‘The Indestructible Ballpoint Pen’. It could be found in a kitchen drawer circa 1980. It would apparently have survived house moves, office clear outs and at least three changes of governments. It would have been dropped, chewed and accidentally sat upon. It could even have survived the washing machine experience, yet it could still write with unwavering confidence. Experts who examined the pen would be dumbfounded that the ink hadn’t run out and would be convinced that, should the last computer give up, that tiny plastic monument to the remarkable durability of ordinary things, would faithfully continue filling out forms and signing important documents. It would be a survivor. A true legend. Few of us have owned a bronze helmet but we’ve all owned a good ballpoint pen!

Most museums preserve history. There is a place for them and I understand why they would be appreciated by a large section of our society. However, the ‘Museum of Ordinary Things’ with its humble exhibits, preserves memories. While kings, battles and empires have shaped the world, it’s the everyday objects of ordinary lives that continue to shape ours.

Walking down its wide, tree-lined avenues it’s not hard to see why Buenos Aires has been described as the Paris of South America! Some of the city’s buildings are a study in Art Deco elegance running alongside grand, airy boulevards and lush green plazas and parks. Classical architecture is the dominant feature in Recoleta and Bohemian San Telmo, with its cobbled streets, showcase the faded grandeur of once impressive European-style buildings.

Our expert, friendly guide took us to the centre of the city, past the emblematic Obelisk and into the Plaza de Mayo, the home to so many revolutions and protests over the years! From there we visited the Metropolitan Cathedral of Buenos Aires. San Martin is revered across much of South America as the great liberator who helped free Argentina, Chile and Peru from Spanish rule in the early 1800’s. In fact, in Argentina he occupies an almost mythical status, rather like the combination of George Washington and Wellington!

The mausoleum itself is striking and unexpectedly dramatic! A large black sarcophagus contains San Martin’s remains which are permanently guarded by the regiment he founded, the famous Granaderos. Their stillness and ceremonial uniforms add a real sense of gravity and reverence. Around the tomb are symbolic female statues representing Argentina, Chile and Peru. The atmosphere inside was hushed, a contrast when stepping in from the traffic and energy of the Plaza de Mayo. Not having any links to South America, I still found the mausoleum unexpectedly moving!

The government building, the Casa Rosada House, or the Pink House, flanked the Plaza. Yes, it’s actually painted pink! It’s Argentina’s presidential palace and one of the defining landmarks of the city. One of the most iconic images associated with this grandiose building is that of Eva Peron standing on the balcony addressing huge crowds alongside Juan Peron in the 1940’s and ‘50’s!

We then headed, by car, to a non-salubrious area called La Boca, meaning ‘The Mouth’, referring to the mouth of the Riochuela River. Many centuries ago early settlers and ships arrived at a rough dockside district which became populated by poor Genoese Italian immigrants. These immigrants built simple corrugated-metal houses from shipyard materials and painted them with leftover marine paint. This created a famous patchwork explosion of reds, blues, yellows and greens that still define La Boca to this day! It felt, on the one hand and depending where you were, wonderfully alive yet slightly absurd because someone dressed like Diego Maradona (yes, they’re football crazy) is trying to convince you to take a photograph of him and pay for it!

I wasn’t comfortable walking around the couple of streets our guide told us would be safe for tourists. It felt rough and, sitting in a bar having a drink in a secluded garden, made me feel uncomfortable. Not only was it over-touristy but also had a threatening vibe. I was glad when we met up with our guide and could get out! Alas, that afternoon, one of our rare free times, my husband decided to go back, close to this non-salubrious part of the city, to visit a train museum. I’m here to tell the tale so we obviously survived!

Our last night was spent having dinner and being entertained at the Rojo Tango Show, apparently the most luxurious and theatrical tango dinner experience in Buenos Aires. It’s situated in a hotel in the redeveloped docklands area of Puerto Madero, ultra stylish and very modern. It was intimate rather than enormous with dim lighting, mirrored walls and dancers appearing almost inches from our table. Never been to an old Parisian cabaret club I could imagine the likeness when comparisons were made.

We sat in front of the band, not ideal, but still found the show thoroughly enjoyable and not too loud! The choreography was dramatic and sensual, which is what the tango is all about! There is an eternal Buenos Aires tango debate questioning whether these dances are authentic or just sophisticated tourist theatre. I’m personally not bothered! Not an expert by any means I just soaked up the glamour, atmosphere and the drama. A memorable night out!

Buenos Aires has stayed with me, albeit I only spent three days there. It was beautiful with its grand avenues, faded mansions and wonderful purple jacaranda trees. A city of elegance worn slightly thin around the edges! I remember that graffiti, a lot of it, the battered taxis, old busses and the constant noise, especially in the Plaza de Mayo. There definitely was glamour here once as traces still remain. It’s just that now it’s got mixed up with graffiti, inflation, exhaust fumes, a lot of political unrest and stubborn pride!

I’ve left with memories of imperfect yet spectacular landmarks, the grandeur inside San Martin’s mausoleum, the Pink Palace and the edginess of La Boca. I really enjoyed the visually stunning and highly entertaining night at the tango show. Buenos Aires has got under my skin. I’d love to go back !

There is no relationship more complicated, emotionally charged or deeply committed than the one between the British public and the weather. During the long winter months we become weather martyrs. Every conversation begins with the same exhausted, dis-gruntled sigh.

‘It’s a bit grim today, isn’t it?’

The skies are grey for so long that we forget colours exist. We have to look at photographs to remind ourselves that we have seen a blue sky, once, in our garden, a long time ago! We shuffle around wrapped in umpteen layers like deformed onions. We complain about damp socks, black ice and the exhorbitant heating bill.

By February the entire nation has developed the complexion of an unbaked scone. The sky has settled over us like a damp woollen blanket that we can’t find the energy to shake off. Entire weeks have passed where the sky has never fully committed to daylight. You go to work in the dark and come home in the dark. If you’re lucky you’ve looked out of a window and briefly caught a glimpse of the sun reflected in a puddle!

Everything has become wet. Not dramatically wet, like a tropical storm. No, winter produces a far more debilitating form of moisture. It’s a permanent dampness that seeps gradually into coats, carpets, gloves and bones.

Washing never dries properly. Radiators become crowded exhibition spaces for socks and slightly sour-smelling thick jumpers. Windows develop condensations thick enough to write despairing messages like, ‘Get me out of here!’

By the end of February the British longing for summer becomes almost spiritual in nature. We fantasise about heat. The mere possibility of sunshine almost transforms our mood. We dream of sitting outside in garden chairs, the smell of cut grass and stand next to the radiator to imagine feeling sunlight warming our bones. Summer isn’t just the weather, it’s freedom, happiness and proof that life in Britain is worth enduring!

And then we have a few days in Spring when temperatures rise as high as 30C! What we have so ardently wished for has actually happened! Are we happy?

Alas, the fantasy of our perfect English summer begins to collapse almost immediately! The air now feels thick and oppressive. It feels as if the entire country has been sealed inside a greenhouse. British homes, lovingly engineered to trap every last molecule of heat during winter, suddenly become brick ovens. Conservatories reach temperatures suitable for baking bread. Upstairs bedrooms turn hostile by mid afternoon and remain unbearable until dawn. We wander through shops purely for the air conditioning. The brilliant blue of the sky and the excitement of the sun warming our frozen aching bones, has mutated into a state of sweaty exhaustion and vocal irritation.

And then begins the complaints. This is the same nation that spent six months yearning for summer, desperate for heat, fantasising about relaxing in their gardens watching butterflies and bumble bees flitting around carefully nurtured flowerbeds. We now feel betrayed. We didn’t ask for this! We didn’t imagine being too hot to sleep. Every small movement becomes too onerous. It’s too hot inside. It’s blistering hot outside! Even furniture seems to radiate warmth. Clothes cling, hair sticks to the back of necks and every slight movement produces a layer of perspiration that leaves you feeling permanently unclean! Oh to feel cool again!

The elderly dramatically announce that they can’t remember heat like this! It’s got to be ‘global warming’. During a particularly cold spell a couple of months ago it was ‘climate change’! News presenters stand beside glowing red weather maps and the government issues warnings to keep cool and stay hydrated.

Sleep becomes the greatest casualty. Lack of sleep, heat exhaustion, extreme discomfort, all combine to make this heatwave ‘unbearable’! Conversations now revolve around when this heat wave will break and if we’ll have a thunderstorm to bring respite!

Yet there is a comfort in this shared misery. Perhaps this is the real magic of the British weather. We’re all in it together! Deep down we don’t actually want perfect weather! Perfect weather would rob us of our favourite national pastime: collectively suffering through whatever the sky decides to throw at us next!

One morning, early in March, we left a drizzly, cold English day and headed off on the first leg of our South American expedition. It was meant to be a holiday but, looking at the itinerary, it was going to be anything but!

Many hours and no sleep later, after losing six hours along the way, we landed in Sao Paolo. We were collected by our personal guide and driven to our hotel. His name was Marco and his English was excellent.

Bright and early the next morning, after a delicious breakfast, our guide and driver were waiting to take us on the first leg of our journey to the Iguazu falls. We crossed the Tancredo Neves bridge over the Iguazu river which forms the border between Brazil and Argentina and entered Argentina.

Here there are three sections of the falls, the Upper Circuit, Lower Circuit and the Devil’s Throat situated in the Iguazu National Park, which is enormous. Elevated metal walkways, naturals jungle paths and ecological trains carry visitors deep into the jungle. What makes the Argentinian side of the falls special is that it offers a variety of perspectives. You can become immersed in the falls rather than just simply observe them!

The Upper Circuit was easy walking, offering spectacular panoramic views across the river to Brazil. The sense of scale from the lip of the falls was extraordinary. Peering down over the edges where the water gathered speed, you realised that the river was not just one waterfall. It was hundreds of channels, islands and cascades spreading for miles.

The Lower Circuit was more dramatic and physical. There were more stairs to climb and the humidity and spray became more noticeable. Here the magnificent waterfalls towered above us, filling our vision and drowning out any conversation. You coukd feel the vibration through the railings. The pathways curved through thick vegetation and emerged at astonishing viewpoints almost directly beside the cascades.

The Devil’s Throat was the emotional climax of the Park. You reached it via a long walkway. At first the river was deceptively calm and you saw fish gliding peacefully beneath the platforms. Then gradually the noise of the falls grew louder. Mist began to rise. The flow of the river became stronger. By the time you reached the final platform you were suspended over an immense boiling void of white water and spray with everything disappearing into a dense mist. This magnificence and sheer primeval power of nature took your breath away.

While around 80% of the falls are on the Argentinian side, Brazil reveals the entire stage. We saw the jungle, cliffs, mist, river and hundreds of cascades unfolding into one sweeping panorama. Our guide and driver took us through the subtropical forest in Brazil and on to the main trail, our first view across the canyon.

It was also the start of my severe irritation with selfish egotistical visitors, mainly young girls, taking photographs and waving their selfie sticks with gay abandon! Where some of us were trying to actually look at the view and absorb the moment, these idiots were continually capturing themselves in it! The walkways were often narrow with small platforms overlooking parts of the falls. Singles or larger groups would suddenly stop for selfies or photos and traffic would grind to a halt. We were forced into awkward shuffling queues, often having to miss the views altogether.

I really feel that travelling today has become performative! It’s not about sightseeing but more about proving that you were there! Watching these endless self-obsessed photo-taking gimps consumed by social media, was as irritating as it was sad. The beauty and natural wonder of the Iguazu Falls had been demoted to a mere backdrop. For them no one else existed. Queues were invisible. Blocking the entire platform was perfectly reasonable and the laws of spacial awareness ceased to exist! Instead of ‘Look at this extraordinary view’ it became ‘Look at me, with my wind-swept hair, great lighting, pretending-that-I’m-not-posing and false laughter,’ while one of the greatest spectacles of nature was roaring behind them! Unfortunately it was contagious! One elaborate selfie session encouraged another. Soon the entire viewing platform resembled a photographic studio! Mainly young girls, pouting, backing into strangers, shouting instructions, rotating and demanding retakes, totally obstructing the majestic, amazing, breathtakingly wonderful view of the glorious Devil’s Throat.

Rant over😂

Unfortunately and sadly, that’s my memory of the Iguazu Falls in Brazil. The highlight of the viewing platform extended towards the Devil’s Throat. It was unforgettable, but not in the way that I would have hoped. Instead of walking to the end, looking out across the river, seeing the waterfalls crashing down on every side and watching in awe as torrents of water poured into the Devil’s Throat, I stood drenched and stuck behind an immovable human shield!

I believe I should have been able to visually understand the scale of the falls, marvel at how the river breaks around forested islands before plunging over basalt cliffs. It should have felt less like a single waterfall and more like an entire landscape collapsing into space. Thanks ChatGPT!

And all selfie sticks and mobile phones should be banned!

There are few places where the true character of a nation is revealed more starkly than in a queue. Not in Parliament or a football match, but in the slow, cold stone purgatory of a post office at 11:00 am on a wet Tuesday morning.

The British queue is special. It’s not loud and it doesn’t riot. It doesn’t brandish placards. Instead, it tightens its jaw and soldiers on. But sometimes a figure will appear in the periphery, performing a curious half hover. They’re not quite in the queue but neither are they not in it. They might glance down at their phone with a studied air of distraction. And then, suddenly, with breathtaking audacity disguised as innocence, they glide forward, positioning themselves fractionally ahead.

The whole queue stiffens. No one says a word. A look travels down the line like a silent telegram of outrage and disbelief. A handbag is moved from one shoulder to the other, with meaning. A foot plants itself down more firmly. Somewhere a throat is cleared with surgical precision. Justice will be served, not confrontational, but felt.

A British queue is based on a strict moral code. It’s invisible, sacred and enforced entirely through passive aggression. Level one is the ‘look’ which serves as a warning. This could escalate to level two, which is the ‘audible sigh’. Then, in extreme circumstances, there is the comment, not delivered to the offender, but into the air. The offender will always know. Reputations are formed and destroyed in the subtle choreography of foot shuffling, and handbag adjusting.

As a nation we endure perpetual drizzle, bus replacements and mild constitutional crises with no complaint. But let someone dare attempt to barge in front of us with a ‘can I just quickly ask something’ at the counter, they’ll feel it! They will feel that tightening of polite fury humming like static!

And yet, for all its suppressed indignation, the queue remains one of our finest achievements. We would not have it any other way. The British queue is our quiet masterpiece, our triumph of patience and principle. It is democracy at its most profound. First come, first served.

Let me say this, firmly, kindly and without the faintest tremor of irony. Civilisation does not rest upon grand speeches or sweeping reforms but on the quiet integrity of standing where you are meant to stand! We don’t wait our turn because we are timid, but because we are principled. We would never surge, we advance with discipline.

In the end the British queue is our silent creed. Greatness lies not in surging ahead, but in waiting with patience, respect and just the faintest hint of moral superiority.

Winter in Cheshire is not so much a season as a state of moisture. It could sometimes be an instagram photo of snow dusted rooftops and rosy cheeks but it’s usually more committed to drizzle rather than drama.

We have a different kind of cold here. It seeps into scarves, gloves and clothes. Even if the temperature isn’t freezing, the dampness of a winter’s day gets into your bones. It’s difficult to feel properly warm. Looking out at the garden, those parts not submerged in water or ice, it’s stopped trying to impress, just given up. The bright greens and floral shades of summer have been replaced by a palette of browns and greys. The back lawn, once confidently green, has retreated into squelchy, wet, moss filled resignation.

But mud has become the dominant feature. Cheshire mud is special. It’s not aggressive, it’s patient. It lies in wait until you step in it, then it clings to your boots and travels home with you, determined to become part of the household. Paths edges have become blurred and walks turn into negotiations between progress and dignity. Wellies are the footwear of choice as fashion waits in the wings for the mud, ice and snow to make way for a warmer, drier climate.

The sky has lowered itself, not dramatically, just enough to feel like its forehead is pressing against yours. Rain has become less of an event and more of a background condition! It’s usually a fine, needling drizzle that floats sideways so using an umbrella is a waste of time.

Winter in Cheshire slows you down whether you want it to or not! It’s difficult to power walk through mizzle. It’s more of a shuffle in footwear that gets heavier with each step and puddles that grow wider and deeper to navigate. Life seems to get smaller as outings stay closer to home in case the sky decides to open properly. Occasionally it gets tired of a drizzle or a polite shower and sends thick sheets of water to hit the ground with force. The drops are large and relentless falling in vertical, dense curtains. It often arrives suddenly, as if a tap has been fully turned on.

Winter in Cheshire requires endurance. It teaches us to find warmth through thick socks, boots and layers of clothing which we peel off when we get back inside. But there is humour in it too in the way some pretend that it’s not ‘that cold’! The weather is the common talking point that brings us together. Conversations almost exclusively revolve around how wet and cold it is now compared to the old days. In winter the blame moves from global warming to climate change. But, occasionally, the sun will appear for a few minutes or even a whole day, causing widespread excitement and mild disbelief.

Underneath the jokes there’s something quietly poignant about a Cheshire winter. It strips things back. The year exhales. You notice what’s still out there when everything else has been washed into shades of brown and grey. It’s not pretty but it’s honest. This is how life is going to be for a while so just put up with it!

Spring will come. It always does. Fields and gardens will turn green again and the sky will lift. But for now we must muddle through the damp and the cold.We’ll wrap up warm and take comfort in knowing that we’ve been here before and survived. Our winter is so predictable. By the time it settles in properly we know the routine.

It will do its usual thing and we’ll do ours. Before we know it, Spring will be here. Snowdrops are already out and bulbs have burst through the muddy soil. Winter will drift off and Cheshire we love will emerge. Bright and Green and Perfect. 👠

2026, for me, isn’t a year that needed announcing. I haven’t wanted a trumpet blast and I didn’t want reinvention. I just wanted a soft, realistic continuation of 2025.

We spent New Year’s Eve with our dear friends and saw in 2026 watching the amazing fireworks display in London. We sat in the comfort of our sitting room, relaxed, and mellow. We drank champagne and chatted into the early hours. That was all the excitement I needed. When Big Ben had struck midnight the New Year had arrived, just another day! Perfect!

January the 1st slipped in under low skies with the little bit of sunlight pacing itself to last as long as possible! I have made no resolutions, no dramatic declarations, no overt gestures! This isn’t me being pessimistic. I’ve become more discerning! I want less noise and more listening, a quiet gratitude, a calm stepping forward into another year rather than a giant leap into failed resolutions and unrealistic expectations.

I want the arrival of 2026 to be about contentment. I’m more confident that life doesn’t have to be filled with enforced enthusiasm, remaining forever hopeful that the next year will be better. Is this maturity or have I become a cynic? Perhaps it’s an age thing, but not an old age thing! Just able to reap the rewards of a long, fulfilled life. Right?

Time alone will tell.

The New Year has brought with it a cold arctic blast. We’ve had snow and minus temperatures for the last few days. The lane at the bottom of our garden is an ice rink so can’t do my usual daily walks. But I am snug and warm, gazing into a fire burning brightly.

The fire has settled, flames folding and unfolding, all soft gold and amber at the edges, white hot at its heart. It burns with a quiet assurance and an unhurried rhythm. As I sit, mesmerised, the fire suddenly gathers itself and flares up with a sharp intake of breath before sending licks of flames shooting upwards. The hearth is crowned with bright light, the flames brushing the stones as if testing its limits before settling back into a steady glow.

Outside the window snow lies thick and soundless, muting the world with its shades of grey and white, almost theatrical, waiting for the audience applause. Inside the warmth gathers pace, creeping in politely, not rushing. It unfurls into the room, seeping into walls, furniture, floorboards, all those nooks and crannies that hold onto the cold. Gradually I feel my shoulders relaxing as my body yields to the unarguable comfort of it all. The crackle and sighs of the flames work like a lullaby. Thoughts lose their sharp edges and become less demanding. The room grows heavy with heat and calm. My eyelids thicken. Staying awake has begun to feel like an act of mild defiance rather than intentional.

Choosing a smooth crossing from 2025 into 2026, with no forced optimism and no self motivated speeches, feels right. It was never about standing still, avoiding the New Year, just welcoming it in sensibly, not with a bang, but a nod, which feels entirely appropriate. 👠

Christmas is the time for spending money, the time shops rub their hands in glee and credit cards get maxed out! It’s also the time of year when products which don’t exist all year, make their appearance. They hypnotise us into thinking that, without buying them, Christmas can’t be celebrated.

I’ll start with Panettone. For some reason this bread / fruit cake is only available during the Christmas season. It hails from Milan but is readily available in many parts of the world. Not everyone knows what to do with it, me included! The pyramid shape causes a slicing issue for a start. The next challenge is how to serve it. Is it with tea, like a cake, or toast, like bread? I’ve bought it once and, by the end of January, only one slice had been taken. That was one of my many carb based monuments to an impulse buy!

Then there are those giant luxury shortbread biscuit tins that weigh a ton! To open the tin you need two weight lifter’s arms and an ultra supportive core! It’s my own fault that I struggle with them each year! They go a small way to alleviate feelings of inadequacy for not being a good housewife and baking them myself!

Mulled wine. That’s another thing that makes its annual appearance. It makes the kitchen smell like Christmases, past, present and future, it’s so pungent! Cheap red wine is poured into a pot. Cinnamon sticks, star anise, sugar and an orange, studded with cloves gets added to the simmering cauldron. Last comes nutmeg, sprinkled with gay abandon and brandy, rum or Cointreau. Rarely can I have more than one small glass. It’s either too sweet, too spicy or too much like warm Ribena. A seasonal witchcraft performance in the name of a Christmas ritual!

Christmas pudding is also a once-a-year tradition. When my mother in law was alive she would make her three sons a Christmas pudding each year. We’d not eat the new one but bring out last year’s delight which had been liberally doctored with brandy. The fumes alone would take you over the driving limit! I loved the smell of Christmas puddings boiling merrily on her hob. The kitchen windows would steam up and the whole house smell of treacle and spice. One of my favourite memories when moving to England! In South Africa we seldom had a traditional Christmas dinner and the puddings were either bought or non existent.

My mother in law used to also bake us our annual Christmas cake. She remains sorely missed but my husband has been known to use her recipe and make his own. Alas, he didn’t marry a domestic goddess! Baking is something that I simply cannot get excited about but it does make me feel a bit of a failure at this time of year! Baking requires patience, precision and a willingness to follow instructions. All I can offer is a distinct lack of enthusiasm and a wish that I could be doing something more enjoyable somewhere else! Thankfully shops do exist that offer delicious cakes far better than any I could produce. Perhaps I should consider buying them not as a sign of weakness, but skilful delegation and damage control!

So, as we embark on another Christmas and the shops begin stock-piling their annual delicacies, I’ve started my own Christmas tradition. I’ve bought a few tins of Quality Street chocolates before they rocket up in price. Instead of mulled wine we prefer champagne so have a few bottles in readiness for the festive season. My husband has started his annual fix of mince pies which will continue for as long as they’re available in supermarkets. Something else that I could bake but don’t!

Living in England I do celebrate a traditional Christmas, either at home or with close family. We have turkey or goose with all the trimmings. Pigs in blankets, cranberry sauce, brandy butter, the delicious cheeseboard and, of course, an outsourced Christmas pudding and cake! I can highly recommend certain supermarkets, butchers and bakeries for their excellent culinary delights.

If you are lucky enough to have been brought up in a home where the Christmas traditions were imbedded into your family from generations past, I’m sure you enjoy this special time. Recipes might be written on yellowing paper with butter stains and splashes of brandy. It’s those feelings of continuity, the quiet reassurance that, even though there has been monumental change over the years, some things will always remain the same.

When the Christmas pudding is presented in a ball of fire after the delicious roast has been enjoyed, I look around the table and feel very grateful. This is the unmistakeable flavour of love and belonging. It’s the true taste of Christmas. 👠