Movin' on up, movin' on out

Hi there fact-fans,
If you're reading this, you've come for another slice of Grief Cake, and why wouldn't you?!

Well, spoiler-alert: I have moved to another domain.  Sorry Blogger, you have been a great launch-pad, but like any first relationship, there comes a time when you realise that, well, "It's me, not you" and all that shiz.  So I have packed my bags, and am here to give you a amicable kiss on the cheek, and wish you all the best.  If I pass you in the street, I'll be sure to give you a salutary nod of the head.

It's been a blast, but for all things Griefy, you can now catch me at

http://iwatchthesunrise.co.uk/


As ever, on the flipside.
Mx


Comments

Post a Comment

Thanks for reading my blog! Feel free to comment below:

Popular posts from this blog

Ma

Image
;+   Ma with my oldest sister, circa 1975 I quit my job recently. A cumulative result of life as a full-time teacher and full-time parent (read mammy) to two boys. In lots of ways it was an easy decision to make. I spent most of last year on maternity leave, and thoroughly embraced my role as a stay-at-home parent. I took pleasure in those tasks that so many working parents find stressful. Instead of hassling my son through his morning routine (breakfast, teeth, uniform: out), I made a point of walking him to school come rain or shine, buggy at the hip. On our journeys we marvelled at the orange morning skies, trudged through the wet sleet and kicked through the May blossom, practising counting in 2s, 5s and 10s as we went. And at the school gates I passed the time with fellow mums. At first, I felt like I was back at school myself. In playground full of adults, it can be hard to know where to place yourself. But through a combination of the children's party ci...
Read more

37

Image
Dad during his school days, in the late 1950s I spoke to my niece a few weeks ago. She has just started Year 12 (lower sixth to those of us born north of 1990), and she needed a copy of The Tempest for her A level Lit course. Rather you than me , I thought.  As the resident English teacher, I was more than willing to plunder the dusty store rooms of my school's almost redundant department store cupboards (so-narrow is our choice of texts, thanks to Mr Gove). Personally, I have never warmed to Shakes's supernatural-come-comedic shipwreck; the so-called comic relief that Trinculo and Stephano are meant to provide amongst the motley brigade of castaways has never done it for me.  Give me the maudlin tale of a son and his murderous uncle, or the shallow megalomaniac celtic king and his bloody endeavours any day of the week. It was 8.30 at night when I called my 16 ...
Read more